๋ ࣭ ⭑ㅤ 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 . . . ellie creates a fake facebook account to mess with her best friend, dina. then you add her. she has quietly liked you for years, yet never had the courage to talk to you in class. when you start messaging her, ellie panics. you think you’re talking to a boy. she knows you’re straight, but telling the truth feels like the fastest way to lose the only version of you that ever chose her first.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ ㅤ𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . catfish, wlw shit.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ ㅤ𝒂/𝒏 . . . this is not a continuation or a prequel to my other ellie is away (in case you wanna read it). reblogs and feedback are super appreciated <𝟑 ++ please make sure you wait for the divider to load completely before each chapter—it indicates which month the chapter is set in. every two chapters, there’s a one-month time skip, so keep that in mind. pls and thank you :p
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ellie with the cuddliest gf of all time. like she cannot sleep unless ellie is touching her in SOME WAY. eyes will fly open the moment her asleep brain registers ellie’s hand leaving her body. with that, gf feels so cozy and safe with ellie that literally two min of cuddling and gf will be KNOCKEDDD out dead asleep.
ellie having to wake up and get out of bed for early patrols is actual hell
omg this is literally jst me, i'm the cuddliest gf of all time :(
♡₊˚ ──── headcanons for ellie with an extra cuddly gf <3 no warnings just lots of fluffy cuddles, some suggestive stuff ( minors & ageless blogs dni !!!! ) and a few mentions of nightmares n being scared 🧸
౨ৎ ⋆。˚ ellie wasn't used to this behaviour in a relationship until you. she and cat were definitely not like this — not clingy, not touchy, definitely not into any pda. after the initial excitement of the relationship fell away, ellie would have preferred being stuck on farm duty shovelling cow shit than hold hands with cat where someone could see. for a first official relationship, it definitely wasn't the most intimate one. sex? they'd both roll over and fall asleep straight after. the closest thing to cuddling that'd happen would be their thighs touching while sitting together at a get together with friends, maybe ellie would put her arm around cat's shoulder if she loosened up with a high first.
ending that, and now coming into a relationship with a girl whose love language is physical touch, she's actually quite awkward about it at first.
you feed into physical affection like it's a drug. and what the fuck, her pretty freckles are dusted over in pink all the time because she can't fathom a girl wanting her that bad !!! especially because it didn't wear off after some time like it did with cat. your neediness was here to stay.
౨ৎ ⋆。˚ at first, ellie acted like you were some kind of never-seen-before once-in-a-lifetime scientific phenomenon, like you needed to be observed beneath a microscope, to figure out why you were so needy.
well, it didn't take long to learn what was up — you were anxious. often.
between your shy comments about feeling so safe with her and the way you dote on her before/after patrol, it became a bit clearer.
and at first it was scary, even a bit overwhelming for her, but ellie didn't treat it like some kind of relationship ending bomb. instead, she just had to teach herself to get used to it.
get used to it, or fumble the cutest girl in town, is what dina and jesse said.
౨ৎ ⋆。˚ but it's actually much more rewarding than she thought it would be. after getting over herself and deciding to stop acting dumb about you desiring her, she's started basking in the idea of you needing her. because when you give her the fuck-me eyes or there's a little pout on your lips waiting to be kissed away or you beg her to protect you with a cuddle in the middle of watching a scary movie, it's incredibly rewarding.
if she wraps her hand around yours in public, she can feel the tension melting out of your body. if she gives you a kiss on the cheek before leaving for patrol, you're less likely to be stressed silly about her safety by the time she gets home. it all makes plenty of sense, she just never thought about it that way until now.
౨ৎ ⋆。˚ but even still, your penchant for snuggling was hard to get used to. it's definitely not normal, but that doesn't bother ellie. who even is normal in this world anymore, right? everyone's seen or been through something they shouldn't have, and wanting to keep your beloved a little closer at night is definitely fair.
but the first few times you had started sleeping at her place, she was amazed at how quickly you could nod off next to her, with her silently rubbing your side. each time she was certain you were asleep, she'd stop and try to do something else, like write a journal entry or even draw you — she'd think, don't fucking move, stay like that, i gotta capture this.
and then you'd stir. instantly.
"wh— . . . ellie?" your disoriented voice would tremble, half-lidded eyes locking onto her.
"oh." she was so dumb about her responses, just blinking at you in shock. she couldn't even stop touching you for five seconds? "s'like i've got a magic touch to put you to sleep or something, huh?"
౨ৎ ⋆。˚ it's especially great on a winter night. that garage gets cold, and actually ellie's quite happy to warm her hands up your shirt and hold you against her chest. it's so adorable the way that your fists ball up into her hoodie, squishing the fabric tight enough for your knuckles to lighten.
but summertime? literally, ick. she doesn't even pull the covers up anymore because she knows she'll be kicking them off in no time, it's too much when you're both sweating, but you still have to be held, or you'll struggle to sleep :(
౨ৎ ⋆。˚ another thing ellie learned, is that it's really nice when her eyes shoot open from another terrible dream, a grisly flashback or something, and she's already being held. she's already got a life-sized teddy bear in her arms to squeeze, she can sniffle into your hair, she can match her ragged breathing to your soft, even pace <3
౨ৎ ⋆。˚ "i'm sorry, babe, i have to." her five o'clock start in the mornings before patrol is absolutely the hardest thing about having a cuddle monster for a girlfriend. you won't even let go of her legs. "you can keep sleeping, you know, you don't have to get up when i do."
"no i caaaaan't," you whine, face smushing up against her bare thigh. "five more minutes, i'm so sleepy . . ."
"nope, not today, i'm sorry baby girl but jesse's gonna give me shit if i'm late for the third patrol in a row."
now instead of her thigh, it's your pillow that you're burying your face into and muffling whines with.
and you will do the whole thing all over again when she gets home in the afternoon. the kissing until you run out of breath, then the movie marathon in her lap, and then the luxurious sleep in her arms until morning.
warning: engaging with this post may cause her to appear unannounced. she knows where you sleep.
✶ part one ⋮ 18+ ⋮ desperately, pussy achingly in need of a feralwife!ellie who:
౨ৎ mumbles shit like “you’re such a good girl” under her breath while you’re doing regular domestic shit. could be folding towels, loading the dishwasher, or even watering the little succulents on the windowsill. the art of watering plants. yup, she finds that shit attractive.
౨ৎ gets all twitchy when a toddler hands her a flower. claims, “i don’t like kids,” but keeps the flower in her sketchbook like it’s a signed autograph from caitlin clark.
౨ৎ holds a baby once at a family function, and the second it stops crying in her arms, she won’t shut up about it for the next week. “d’you see that? she liked me. babies fuckin’ like me, babe.”
౨ৎ gets awfully quiet whenever she sees you holding someone else’s baby.
౨ৎ gets all weird when she sees a my first pride onesie at the thrift store and shoves it in your face aggressively. “hah. imagine. that’d be... gay as fuck.”
౨ৎ starts picking baby names out of nowhere, like, you’re in the middle of grocery shopping and she goes, “that’d be a sick name if we ever had a kid,” then refuses to explain further. “not sayin’ we should. just sayin’... plus, s’not like i’d be a bad mom, right?” then crashes face-first into the doritos aisle when you actually agree.
౨ৎ suddenly starts leaving her sketchbook out, hoping you’ll find the little doodles she’s been doing of you. ones where you’re asleep with your hand on a pregnant belly you don’t even have, or you holding a baby she hasn’t told you about yet, as a silent “if you’d ever want one, i’d want one, too” she doesn’t have the heart to utter, mostly out of fear. because what if you don’t want it? even though you said a long time ago that you were open to it, things change, and so do people. that’s enough to scare her into silence. unbeknownst to her, she’s been knocking on a door that’s already pretty much unlocked.
౨ৎ floats subtle ideas like getting a dog, casually throwing out a shy, “just to see if we’d survive having a creature that needs us, like, a test run! a baby but with less trauma, y’know?” or testing the waters with offhand comments “you’d be such a good mom,” pretending she hasn’t been carrying that shit in her chest this whole time. but eventually, she grows a pair.
౨ৎ blurts out “would you ever wanna… y’know. do the baby thing? with me?” mid-makeout, while you’re straddling her, cheeks of a deep cherry-red as if she just asked you to try out a new position (you lowk have tried them all by now, but that’s besides the point.)
౨ৎ reads all the parenting articles you send her after saying yes. she’s got whole tabs open on her ipad titled “gentle parenting for anxious people” and “how to not fuck up your kid when you’re gay and traumatized.” #ipadkidcore
౨ৎ talks with you for hours about the different options, like real adults and real partners, because she’s serious about this and wants to be ready. timelines, genetics, your job, her job, who would carry, health considerations, etc. all of it etched right next to a half-completed drawing of you in an unfairly serene slumber.
౨ৎ nods to every word that comes out of the doctor’s mouth on your first appointment. he’s explaining how reciprocal IVF works and ellie’s can’t shut the fuck up for more than 6 seconds (you were keeping track.) you think her questions are silly, but to her, they are highly significant and totally life-altering.
“can she still eat gas station sushi, or is that a bad mindset for implantation?”
“does stress really lower fertility because she gets stressed when she looks for parking—” you smack the shit outta her.
౨ৎ cries as soon as you walk out. her legs feel so weak that she has to lean against a wall, eyes all glassy, trembling hands braced on her knees. you even start to worry, already convinced she’s about to backtrack and change her mind after dropping three grand, just like that one time she impulse-bought wonder woman curtains from tiktok shop because ‘they matched the living room vibe’ and regretted it instantly. typical ellie behavior.
“ellie? what’s wrong?”
“it’s just— the idea of… you carrying something that’s half me?” she sniffles, looking away ashamed, “i didn’t think i’d ever get something that good.” only option, really, is to kiss her dumb. what else could you do?
౨ৎ suddenly develops a huge breeding kink out of nowhere. 6 inches in and she goes, “fuck, yeah. just like that. takin’ me so good. my girl’s gonna get full off me, huh? gonna carry our baby.” you try to remind her how insemination really works and all you get is a defensive, “shut up. it’s my fantasy.”
౨ৎ slaps your ass around the house every time you bend over. “that’s a breeding ass, babe.”
౨ৎ takes the donor selection process way too seriously. at first, at least. the intention is there: notebook draped over her laptop keyboard, highlighter cap clenched between her teeth type of serious. she writes things down, circles relevant stuff; even makes a pros and cons list like it’s a fucking job interview.
but no one’s good enough. she’s actively roasting these dudes like they personally disrespected her entire bloodline. “his name is braxton,” she reads out loud, squinting at you sideways. “nope. immediate red flag. he absolutely says ‘epic’ unironically. instant pass.” click. “liam. i just know he got arrested for tax evasion and called his mom to cry about it.” click again, without even giving you time to react. “why does his smile look like he knows what crypto is.” click. “babe, i swear i’ve seen this one dude on the dark web before,” she stabs at the screen of her laptop with her finger. click. “absolutely fucking not.”
she’s scrolling fast now, flicking through profiles like she’s on tinder with way too much repressed rage, commenting it all—height, hair color, childhood photo, medical history tabs she pretends not to care about while still reading every single one with a judgmental heart.
the clicking eventually comes to a stop. “what. the. fuck.”
your eyes land on the name and you can’t help but snort. “who the fuck names their kid… elliot jackscum?”
click. click again. then goes back and clicks on the profile.
“…why does he lowkey look like me though.” you both frown, exchanging looks, “that’s me in the upside-down.”
now you’re both dead silent, fully locked in, reading every detail that actually matters. the medical history is clean, genetic screening clear. education is something arts-related, a personality similar to ellie’s (not that that holds much importance, in your opinion.)
you sigh, studying her face before murmuring a “we should pick him, shouldn’t we.” less a question, more a i know that look.
ellie sinks into the couch, blowing out a resigned breath through her nose as a calloused palm drags down her face. “god fucking damn it.”
“…yeah.”
“jackscum wins.”
౨ৎ starts hormone injections for egg retrieval and instantly becomes the most disgusting, horniest version of herself.
౨ৎ shrugs it off at first, saying it’s whatever, that she’ll get used to it. but it doesn’t level out; if anything, it escalates. gradually, but surely. suddenly she’s spooning you tighter at night, her hands wandering way more than usual, past the waistband of your underwear, up your shirt, cupping your breasts, kissing the back of your neck like you’re the dinner she didn’t get to eat because she got sent to bed early, grounded and starving.
the sex dreams start happening almost every night. sometimes she even moans in her sleep. all you know is you’ve caught her humping her pillow more times than you care to count. you bend over for half a second to pick something up, and she’s there, fake banging you from behind like a dog in heat—except she very clearly wishes it wasn’t fake at all. then she starts begging. for neck kisses. for head. always pulling you into her lap or groping your ass at the most random times. sometimes all while dirty talking to you in a low rasp, her mouth at your neck, her breath caressing your baby hairs deliciously. it makes your head spin.
౨ৎ starts with hints before she actively starts begging. you’ll be eating and she’ll just stare at your mouth and go, “you could do something else with that mouth.” or “how bout you kiss my thighs and see where it goes?” still, not so subtle, but at least she’s cute about it.
౨ৎ other times she straight up whines about it, every time using the same old excuse when you dare call her out. “you don’t understand. i feel like a greek fertility goddess right now. it’s a medical thing—what happened to feminism anyway? girls having each other’s back and all that shit.” does she make any sense? absolutely not, but you hold her hand through it and keep her thighs open when needed, mouth where it matters, patience in your praises and your tongue on her swollen clit. <3
౨ৎ wakes you up in the middle of the night to announce how unwell she’s feeling.
you feel her shaking you like a cocktail while you’re chasing some distant, juicy slumber of your own just to whisper, nearly panicked, “babe. emergency.”
“what,” you mumble, half asleep, half groan, half annoyed.
“i had a dream you ate me out while i was crying and then gave me a juice box. and i woke up horny and thirsty. it’s a sign. please.” she shakes you again, more urgently this time.
“mkay…” you don’t fully register any of it. your half-conscious brain assumes she’s hungry or something, she’s woken you up for less. “go drink water,” you reach for her blindly, eyes still closed, meaning to pat her on the shoulder, except your hand lands right on her tit and her breath stutters like you just hit a wounded nerve.
“it’s not the same,” she sighs, pouting a little at the ceiling.
౨ৎ jokes about dying if you don’t suck her tits and moans way too loud when you actually do.
from there, things derail fast, because somehow you end up between her thighs, slurping on a clit that’s never throbbed so angrily against your tongue. she’s so wet you almost feel bad. between the constant horniness, the random mood swings, the cramps, the snapping, you figure your girl genuinely needs the extra attention.
except she’s greedy about it.
she yanks at your hair harshly, sucking in a breath, moaning like a pornstar. freckles scattered over pink skin, growing impatient beneath you, looking so fucking pretty it physically hurts. “babe… please,” she begs in a voice so feeble, so high-pitched, “please, please—fingers, please.” seconds away from a full mental breakdown even as you’re eating her out.
it’s never enough for ellie. doesn’t matter if she’s going to bed with an orgasm count of five or thirteen.
you pull away with the filthiest smooch, lips abandoning her completely. “doctor said no internal stimulation.” your huff lands directly on her cunt, making her shiver. “you’re lucky i’m even doing this.”
of course, she argues. “i’m literally not gonna die from one knuckle—”
“ellie.” you glare at her through your lashes and she swears she’s gonna squirt just from that.
“this is the worst oppression i’ve ever experienced—oh my god, keep going, keep—oooh fuck, fuuck!—” she comes gasping into the crook of her elbow, all whiny and twitchy, actively trying to argue even as she rides it out on your tongue.
“you still gonna complain? i’m fucking you to sleep at this point.”
“i’ll give it a six… could’ve been better with your fingers.”
you wipe your mouth and snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t call the doctor mid-orgasm and tell him exactly what you were asking me for, you little bitch.”
౨ৎ wakes you up the next morning with breakfast in bed: a cute, wooden tray with a japanese cherry blossom tree painted on it (by her), heart-shaped pancakes, chocolate-dipped strawberries and a tulip very obviously stolen from someone’s garden two blocks away—plus… a thick envelope?
still blurry-eyed and half unconscious, you press a lazy peck to her lips, mumbling a sleepy thanks as you squint at the envelope. not that ellie isn’t a love-letter type of girl, but this is… not that.
“NOTICE OF NOISE COMPLAINT – UNIT 3C” written across it in threatening red sharpie, you frown. “huh… what’s this?”
you shift the tray over your thighs and tear the envelope open, barely looking at her as you pull the letter out. the mattress dips when she climbs back into bed, knee knocking into yours under the covers. you grab a chocolate-drenched strawberry, take a big bite and unfold the paper one-handed.
“looks like we got our first official citation,” she says casually with a slight bounce of her shoulders. “we’re on record.”
your eyes skim the page, the words making your frown deepen, “ellie… this is not… a good thing.” a masterpiece of overly formal language explaining that someone yelling “oh fuck, faster—” at ungodly hours has apparently disrupted the recycling schedule.
“the old lady next door told building management that unit 3c films amateur porn at ungodly hours and traumatized her grandkids. she kept tabs on us too… even submitted a whole report with timestamps. timestamps, babe.”
the pride in her voice makes you look back at her in disbelief. not because of the notice itself, but because she isn’t even a little ashamed that half the building now has a rough estimate of how many times a week she comes. “what. the. fuck.”
the concern is unmatched, she’s beaming by this point. “i know, right? you’re that skilled with your tongue. we should frame it and put it in the living room,” she lifts her hands to frame an imaginary golden plaque in the air, eyes all dreamy. “bachelor of arts in making your wife scream.” bumps your shoulder with hers. you snort, barely. more amused than anything. genuinely just shocked it didn’t happen sooner, back to when she used to fuck you stupid with her beloved strap every night before bed, period or not, because “your body didn’t get to cockblock her like that.” her words.
“should be fucking proud, babe. not even kat—”
your eyes narrow at the mention of her ex. “say that name again and you’re out of the fucking house.”
౨ৎ sits through the egg retrieval process like a real champ. all cocky in the car, all “guess i’m donating to the cause, huh?” but the second she gets in the gown and hears “you’ll feel a little pressure” she asks the nurse for “just a minute” at least five times before anyone gets to lay a finger on her.
౨ৎ something in her sick brain rewires the second she learns her eggs are fertilized. “that’s it, this pussy’s full of me already—ride me like you wanna make another.” science sure is an opinion to her.
౨ৎ goes fucking insane when the clinic clears you for a natural transfer cycle—which means no suppression, no medicated estrogen protocol, just monitoring, timing and a whole lot of hope. they explain to you that transfers are usually more controlled, with generous doses of estrogen and progesterone scheduled down to the hour, but your stubborn ass wanted to try option b instead. what they don’t explain is that this would apparently include ellie tracking your ovulation on THREE different apps and bothering you about it. constantly. and that’s on you, really.
“hydrate, mama. cervical mucus loves hydration.”
you could be brushing your teeth and she’s leaning against the doorway, “so… how’s the mucus lookin’ today?”
or it’s her prophecies. “according to clue, you ovulate in 15 days. according to flo? 14. but babe my gut says 13.5. trust.”
౨ৎ wakes you up every morning with fertility facts she studied the night before, after lying awake next to your snoring ass. the moment you open your eyes, the first thing you hear is shit like, “mornin’... apparently, when you sleep well, implantation chances go up.”
“I HAVEN’T EVEN OVULATED YET.”
“yeah, but you will soon… my perfect little incubator.”
౨ৎ checks the cervical mucus so seriously it becomes scary. you drop your underwear to pee and she’s already leaning over your shoulder to take a peek. “hmm. fertile window approaching.”
“ELLIE WILLIAMS. GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM.”
“just saying, babe. it looks… promising.”
the craziest thing is that all her guesses weren’t even half wrong. the clinic confirms everything with ultrasounds and blood tests.
౨ৎ comes home after a long day of work and instead of greeting you with bouquets of flowers like she used to, she’s always carrying something that could benefit your health. vitamins, teas, supplements, all bought in ridiculous amounts. she even leaves little notes on them, the kind that used to come tucked between baby blue roses, baby’s breath and lavender.
✉︎ “𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘦 ˙ᵕ˙ 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥.”
౨ৎ holds your hand through the entire embryo transfer, somehow more anxious than you are. the nurses nearly kick her out for interfering too much. she keeps stopping the doctor with stupid questions, insisting he double-check everything, even get another doctor in the room, just in case. she finally behaves after a few very firm warnings. (no pegging for a week.)
౨ৎ treats you like a fragile little fawn for the next two weeks. you’re not allowed to lift anything heavier than a bobby pin. “my wife’s got a belly to grow.”
౨ৎ constantly tucks blankets around you, shoving her own pillow under your legs, sleeping like a starfish without one ‘cause “science says gravity helps.” if you dare suggest she’s making that shit up, or that reddit isn’t reliable, “science IS reddit.”
౨ৎ sits on the bathroom floor two weeks later, shaking like a wet chihuahua while you take a pregnancy test. after peeing gracefully on the stick, you place it on the counter face-down. “please… please… please…” two minutes in, “why’s this shit takin’ so long? oh my fucking god.” four minutes in, “swear to god, if she gets pregnant i’ll go to church every sunday.” spoiler: she lied. she’s not even religious.
౨ৎ when the pregnancy test finally comes back positive, she doesn’t react like a normal person. sure, she kisses you hard and gets a little emotional, but she’s mostly praising herself.
“I DID THAT. I KNEW I NUT GOOD.”
“you didn’t even nut.”
“emotionally i was balls deep. let me have this.” + endless kisses to your nonexistent bump<3
౨ৎ is a nervous wreck the day she has to tell your family. and her dad.
it’s a sunny sunday, barbecue smoke filtering lazily through the open windows, the neighbors’ kids are shrieking outside, their laughter piercing straight through your skull. a dog down the street barks furiously at bees hovering over its bowl, while the grumpy man across the road yells at the kids for kicking a ball across his precious patch of grass.
and ellie is absolutely shitting her pants. quite literally. she’s excused herself to pee at least three times in a row. she always gets like this when she’s anxious. by the time she comes back the fourth time, your mom is setting a cherry pie down in the middle of the table.
ellie refuses to sit, impulsively blurting it out, “i got her pregnant.”
the crust of pie lodges straight in your throat as you launch into a coughing fit, hand pounding the table. “y—yes,” you manage between coughs. why is she like this. why does she have to make it weird. “a doctor got me pregnant,” you quickly correct her.
ellie turns to you, offended, waving it off. “my egg. her womb. our baby.” she finishes with a small shrug and a smug grin, “jackpot.” claiming it’s all thanks to her because she ‘manifested that shit.’
౨ৎ orders a mug that says ‘world’s best breeder’ that she claims is “a joke” but uses it every fucking day.
౨ৎ stares at your belly when it really pops and ellie looks like she’s just seen a leprechaun. “i gotta process this. it’s happening. you’re big. (you’re not) i did that. i did that. holy fuck.”
౨ৎ starts giving you weird ass pet names, “my little transport truck full of baby” or “my stacked fridge.”
౨ৎ immediately leaves a positive review on the clinic google page “$14,000 to breed my wife. money well spent!!!”
౨ৎ won’t let you walk anywhere alone. you don’t get privacy or independence, not anymore. you stand up to get water and she’s like “nonono—sit down. i’ll get it for you.” you sneeze once and she’s looking up: “can sneezing effect early pregnancy??” you lay on your stomach and she gets anxious about it, “what if you pop a tit?? will the baby feel it?”
౨ৎ has absolutely no idea how to act when she’s horny anymore. like, yeah, she’s still wildly attracted (obviously), but she’s also scared as fuck. she’ll kiss your belly, trail her mouth down your neck, press slow kisses to the inside of your thighs, then freeze like she’s committing a felony, two seconds away from an actual panic attack. “is it okay if i—? wait. is that safe? are you comfortable? tell me if you’re uncomfortable. actually… no sex tonight. nope. abort mission. i need to research.” she lasts exactly three hours before she’s straddling you again, phone carelessly tossed somewhere in the sheets, eyes gleaming in the dark like a cat’s. “okay,” she grins sheepishly, “i researched. turns out we can. can i ride your thigh now or no.” all that unnecessary stress just for her to end up leaving snail trails on your thigh. disappointing to say the least.
౨ৎ turns aggressively protective and insists on coming with you for every errand.
grocery store? someone bumps your cart with theirs and ellie’s already stepping in front of you like she’s shielding the president. “watch where you’re going, for fuck’s sake,” she snaps so loud your face burns and you suddenly become a stranger three aisles away. “can’t you see she’s pregnant?” she gestures toward you like a crazy woman. you’re barely a few weeks in, nothing is visible yet, not even a hint. you honestly don’t even blame the guy for looking at your wife like she’s insane as he quietly wheels his cart away, terrified. little does she know, next time he’s bringing his wife with him because women terrify him.
your first checkup? she nearly starts a riot in the waiting room because no one offers you a seat. again—absolutely no one can tell you’re pregnant. but ellie insists she can feel your shoulders tensing, your poor spine straining and your body working overtime.”
౨ৎ treats you like actual royalty. she brings you snacks but won’t make eye contact while doing it, drops them off all awkward, without mumbling a single word (loser ellie nghh)
౨ৎ kisses your bump goodnight and gets shy if she catches you watching her.
౨ৎ sticks little anxious reminders on your nightstand on mornings she has to leave early for work.
“𝘱𝘭𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳!!! 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘵!!!”
“𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴 >:(”
“𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 + 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘺𝘰 ♡”
౨ৎ narrates everything to the baby. you eat strawberries and she talks directly to your stomach, rubbing it gently, “hear that? mama’s feeding you antioxidants.” later, you’re watching zootropolis together, a fox plush tucked against your side and she adds, “see, kiddo? absolute cinema.” like the baby can actually see through your eyes. she’s convinced it can.
౨ৎ thanks you out of nowhere, because not only you’ve chosen her as your forever partner like swans do, but you’re also building a family with her. “hey, thanks for doing this with me.” then she kisses your shoulder and immediately pretends she didn’t just get emotional, stomping away before you can catch her tearing up like a way-too-chalant lesbian she swears she’s not.
౨ৎ cries over baby clothes, you’ll be walking in walmart and other places and she’ll be crying as if she’s the one pregnant and a walking ball of stubborn, unpredictable hormones. “babe it’s so fucking small—look—wait, hold it against your belly again—oh my god—that’s OUR kid—”
you swat her hand away. “kid? ellie, it’s barely an embryo.”
“bite your tongue. that’s our fucking heir.” she’ll promptly hiss every time you remind her. swear to god she’ll make you apologize like you just said the worst thing imaginable.
౨ৎ checks your pregnancy app every morning before she even pees. you wake up to her perched in bed with her glasses on, “holy shit… the baby’s a blueberry today.” then she turns to you, grinning like a dork, “babe. you’re a blueberry mom.”
౨ৎ will clock that you’re sick before you even admit it.
౨ৎ cancels plans without even telling you because if her girl needs her, everything else can die. the world could literally collapse and crumble to the core of the underworld and she wouldn’t budge. you don’t even ask for her presence, ‘cause she’s already there like a sickening little parasite.
౨ৎ feels genuinely guilty when the morning sickness gets worse. you rush to the bathroom and somehow she beats you there. already kneeling behind you, holding your hair in a gentle fist and shielding your forehead from stubborn strands while you puke your soul out. rubs reassuring circles into your back with her palm, “’m sorry, baby… i’m so sorry you feel like this…” and she means that shit with her whole heart, like it’s her fault. “you’re doing so good. your body’s doing so much right now… i know it sucks ass, i know…” and the one that melts your insides every time, “my poor girls.”
౨ৎ goes down a rabbit hole about acupressure after reading somewhere in a facebook article dina sent her that it can help with nausea. the next morning you’re hunched over the sink complaining that you feel sick again and she’s already reaching for your wrist, “hold on, hold on, don’t move.” she presses her thumb on your wrist, right between your tendons, squinting back at you for any sign of improvement. “internet said this one’s for nausea.” when you tell her it actually helped a little, she sits back on the toilet lid looking waaay too proud of herself. “see? basically a doctor now.”
౨ৎ turns into a doberman about smells. you hate garlic, vinegar, anything sharp or fermented, so now she goes around sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “what the fuck is that? i said. no. funyuns. i told you the smell makes her gag. what the fuck is wrong with you?” and just like that, your friends are forever banned from your house.
౨ৎ sleeps lighter than ever when you’re feeling off. if you so much as shift or groan, she jolts awake like she’s just fallen into a void. “hey, hey… i’m here. what do you need?” even if what you need is just to complain.
౨ৎ refuses to complain herself, even when she’s exhausted, even when you keep her up all night because the nausea won’t leave you alone. she doesn’t say a word, doesn’t blame you, doesn’t take her stress out on you. even with dark circles under her eyes and all, she still rubs your shoulders, still makes you food, still reassures you. if you dare apologize, she shakes her head, shutting you up instantly. “don’t. you’re growing our baby and you’re sick. bare minimum. least i can do.”
౨ৎ cannot stand when men so much as glance at your bump or say anything remotely sweet to you. “that’s how it starts. smiling. then asking what school the kid goes to. next thing you know, he’s trying to be the father that steps up. not on my fucking watch.”
౨ৎ cries at your first ultrasound because the baby has her nose. honestly, you were glad. but then she says weird shit, “look at that shrimp spine. head’s huge as fuck, babe! definitely got my brain in there. my swimmers were built different.” the nurse looks at her weird.
౨ৎ prints out an image of your ultrasound, laminates it and keeps it inside the back of her phone case just to peek at it when she’s having a bad day :(
౨ৎ has a completely blank sketchbook she plans to fill only with baby drawings.
౨ৎ spoons you extra gentle at night, with one hand over your bump and her mouth in the curve of your neck, “you smell different,” when you ask her to elaborate, you feel her shrug behind you, “like… mom energy. sweeter. ripe. i dunno.”
౨ৎ is suffocatingly obsessive the entire pregnancy—waking you up at 3am to make sure you feel okay or if you need to pee. sometimes, you have to sleep on the couch just to get away from her. when you wake up, she’s passed out on the carpet right beside you. you even accidentally step on her the first time. arghh.
౨ৎ starts rearranging the entire house in the middle of the night to make sure the closets are neat and everything even remotely dangerous for a baby shoved out of the way (despite the fact that you’re barely a few months in).
౨ৎ keeps calling the baby “big sister” as if having this one in the incubator somehow means you’re already open to more kids.
“babe, she’s not even born yet.” (utterly irrelevant to ellie)
“doesn’t matter. mentally preparing her. she’s gotta know she’s not gonna be an only child.” she’s so excited it physically pains you to demolish that delusion of hers. “also i ordered matching onesies that say ‘1st round’ and ‘2nd round’—” and the cherry on top, “fuck it, let’s go full lesbian duggar family.”
“ah hell naww. i’m divorcing you.”
౨ৎ lowkey gets horny when hormones start fucking you up hard. you don’t cry, you’re just mean as fuck… to ellie it’s foreplay. she blushes and her pussy starts throbbing in about 0.34 seconds. immediate reaction.
“i said no fucking pulp.” you narrow your eyes, pissed as fuck. all because she got you the wrong type of juice. “fucking useless piece of shit.”
she wishes you were like this 24/7. snapping, mean, reminding her how stupid and pathetic and useless her existence is.
she doesn’t argue. can’t. actually, you catch that fucking loser stifling a groan—maybe a moan, you’re not entirely sure. all you know is she’s drooling between her legs. “right. yeah. i’m so sorry… wanna spank me? i deserve it, ma’am.”
౨ৎ the mornings are consistently tragic. she wakes up, unfortunately—that’s her first mistake. the rambling starts before her eyes are even open, words spilling out as her legs swing off the bed like her brain never truly powered down overnight.
you’re at the table, swirling your cereal, already soggy and sinking depressingly to the bottom of the bowl. she won’t stop pacing, won’t stop fucking talking. you check the clock more than once. ten full minutes of this and you’re at your limit.
“—in addition to that, i was reading that hedgehogs—”
your spoon clinks sharply against the porcelain. “oh. my. fucking. god.” she blinks, genuinely startled, thinking she’s missed a cue you never gave her. confusion seems to shut her up, granting you a sacred moment of momentary peace. your irritation, however, keeps growing. “do you ever shut the fuck up?” you snap, “do you have a switch? or did you wake up with an eminem up your fucking ass?”
ellie has always known that the normal response would be to get offended. to shut down, perhaps. cry. maybe even to snap back. only she knows how many times she’s wished that she could be normal about this. because unpredictability gets under her skin in the worst ways and she never knows which version of you she’s waking up to. way to keep the marriage alive!
౨ৎ spends actual hours tracing your stretch marks with her tongue before head time, “fuckin’ marked by me” like she’s proud of leaving permanent scars on your temple of a body (which is every other night because she claims orgasms keep the baby healthy.)
౨ৎ fucks you with a strap when you’re in the second trimester and gets anxious as hell. it starts before even getting you naked. you’re doing chores and randomly huff, frustrated, telling her you need her inside.
“oh! okay. yup. happening. bedroom. now. careful—let me hold you—no, don’t walk that fast—babe slow down—BABE YOU’RE PREGNANT.”
when she gets on top of you it’s even worse. she’s rocking the strap into you at the pace of a fucking snail. no cocky shit, no dirty talk, just a super focused look on her face like she’s scared of giving you an abortion with her strap.
you wrap your legs around her hips, the heel of your foot pressing into her butt as some type of encouragement. “ellie... faster.”
she tries to mask the nervousness with cockiness. doesn’t work. “…yeah?”
“yes. faster. please.” you pant, restless and impatient and worked up, watching her through a blur as she hesitates and deliberately keeps the same pace, dragging the slow strokes out like it’s a punishment. “are you—” you claw at her shoulder, visibly losing it. “what the hell is this? you fuck me slower than the wifi at my grandma’s.”
she’s offended, maybe even tries to defend herself, “i’m—m’not slow.”
“it’s awful. i’m pregnant, not a fabergé egg.”
“‘m just… savoring it, y’know?”
“oh my god,” you smack her hand off your tit, “you’re scared you’re gonna hurt the baby.”
she legit freezes mid-thrust. “…no?”
“ellie, the baby is in my uterus, not hanging out in the hallway waiting to get hit.”
still doesn’t speed up, stubbornly sabotaging your orgasm. “yeah, but… what if she’s, like, right here?” her hand drifts to the underside of your stomach.
you actually laugh at that and smack her hand away once again. “right where? in my fucking cervix? do you seriously think your strap has prenatal combat abilities?”
“i just don’t wanna bonk her in the head or somethin’.”
you cover your face with both hands, in disbelief. you aren’t sure if you find this hot or embarrassing. “ellie,” longest sigh she’s ever heard from you, “i am so close to flipping us over and doing this myself.” you threaten.
“oh my god. are you seriously pissed at me for protecting our child?”
“from silicone?!”
“from reckless parenting!—fetus cost me over ten thousand dollars, ma. think i’m about to knock it loose ‘cause you’re horny?” all of it punctuated by yet another slow thrust, “no thanks.”
“that’s not even how–”
“gotta protect the investment, bro.”
“call me bro again and you’re dead.”
in the end, you flip her over and grind down slow and deep. you don’t stop, not even after you’ve already come, not even when her fingers clutch at your hips in an anxious attempt to stop you. you had to. next time, you’re tying her to the headboard so you can fuck her properly.
౨ৎ keeps a tally on the fridge called “times she let me touch the belly” when you start getting self-conscious about the stretch marks on your body, about how different you feel in your own skin. some days you can’t even bear to let her rest a hand there, let alone kiss it. you erase the tally every time you see it, feeling embarrassed and completely overwhelmed. but she’s more stubborn, more determined. she starts it over every single time, even adding smiley faces to the days you let her kiss it, repeating every day “you’re even prettier like this” without fail, until it finally absorbs.
౨ৎ doesn’t ask questions when you’re upset or crying, because she’s aware hormones don’t always make sense, like that one time you sobbed over giraffes not having proper shelter during storms. she’ll disappear for a minute and come back with one of those microwaveable lavender plushies because she’s read somewhere—deep in a reddit thread full of other pregnant women swearing by it—that lavender and chamomile help calm the nervous system. aromatherapy. figured it was worth a shot. ever since that precious discovery, the routine’s been the same. she settles behind you in bed, tucking the warm plush against your chest and wrapping herself around you like a safe blanket. no talking, no trying to cheer you up at all costs, just warm lavender filling your nostrils and quiet reassurance. if you start crying anyway, she rubs slow circles into your arm, “yeah, i know, baby. hormones are evil.”
౨ৎ screams when your water breaks, not a cute gasp, not an excited “oh my god,” but something ugly. high-pitched, even. straight out of a horror movie. she even notices before you do. she’s mid-sentence when her eyes drop to your lap and goes dead silent for half a second before it dawns on her. “uh.” her breath stutters, “uh.” the scream that follows makes you flinch. “IT’S HAPPENING.”
you’re still processing, barely feeling any pain, and she’s already sprinting down the hallway like the house is on fire. drawers are slamming, cabinets are opening, she’s grabbing the hospital bag she packed three weeks ago at 2am, your phone charger, her wallet, your pillow(??) and somehow a random framed photo from the nightstand. as if you’ll need it. as if that’ll make the pain more tolerable.
౨ৎ keeps dropping things because her hands are shaking so bad. the keys hit the floor several times, the suitcase tips over at least twice. she tries to carry all of it at once and looks like a raccoon stumbling out of a 7-eleven, caught stealing whiskey.
you waddle after her, annoyed and contracting at the same time, clutching at your belly. “ellie. calm. down.”
“CALM DOWN?” she shrieks, “WE TRAINED FOR THIS!”
she barrels toward the front door, flings it open with way too much force and makes it halfway down the stairs before you realize something. “ELLIE YOUR FUCKIN’ SHOES. PUT YOUR SHOES ON!”
she freezes mid-step, looks down at her star wars socks, then looks back at you. “FUCK. FUCK. SHOES!” she glitches in place, like a badly programmed 2000s npc lacking any real sense of awareness, turning left, then right. “WHERE ARE MY— I HAD THEM— I—” she runs back inside, collides with the wall, then trips over the edge of the carpet, moving too fast for her own coordination. she yanks her converse on without untying them, nearly falling again as she tries to shove her heel in, hopping around on one foot like a deranged baby chimp.
౨ৎ has absolutely zero skills under pressure. she backs out of the driveway without checking the mirrors, knocking over your lined-up trash cans and the neighbors’. she honks at a random pedestrian who was literally just walking, screaming, “HOLY SHIT— THE BABY— THE BABY—” she nearly runs a red light and kills you both.
౨ৎ tries so hard to be supportive in the delivery room, letting you demolish her hand, stroking your sweaty hair, kissing your feverish forehead… until she makes the mistake of looking directly between your legs mid-push. she goes pale in 000.11 seconds, “oh my god—s’that—s’that supposed to— oh, fuck— OH—” and then she collapses to the floor.
౨ৎ wakes up and tries to pretend she didn’t faint even with a confused medical student fanning her, sitting up like, “i’m fine, i’m fine.” gets up again, pushes the nurse out of the way, “keep going, ‘m so proud of-” looks between your thighs again and… lights out.
౨ৎ fully wakes up at last, when the baby is already out of you, crying on your chest. she’s missed the entire thing and will forever hate herself for it.
౨ৎ follows you around like an anxious golden retriever every time your daughter makes any noise, “babe???? is that normal? do they always breathe like that??”
౨ৎ insists on taking the night shift so you can sleep, rocking the baby in the dim lit living room, “hey, baby girl… mommy’s tired. let her rest, ’kay? i gotchu, i gotchu…” when the baby finally drifts off, she tiptoes back into the bedroom and tucks the blanket around you with the same dedicated care.
౨ৎ always makes sure the bathroom cabinets stay stocked with extra diapers for the baby and extra postpartum pads for you.
౨ৎ becomes so domestic in the most adorable way your heart aches, doing everything she can to make postpartum easier, even if she looks like she’s two seconds away from passing out every day. she washes bottles, folds tiny onesies with crazy precision, brings you snacks and water without being asked, and holds the baby while you shower. sometimes she’s the one passing out on the couch from exhaustion, and you have to tuck her into bed again :( poor baby.
౨ৎ is understanding at first when, after birth, your body and its healing process don’t really leave space for intimacy. she’s supportive, loving, so patient it almost hurts, “you’ve been through so much, babe. just rest. i got you.” she gives you extra love and attention, takes care of you, makes you food when you forget to eat, rubs your legs when they ache from walking back and forth to the bassinet, and your tummy when you get cramps. because she loves you.
౨ৎ starts to get grumpy once you’re cleared to have sex and actually try to initiate it, only to get cockblocked by your own daughter. like, extremely bitchy. she folds laundry with too much force, cabinet doors no longer experience gentle closing. you swear you even hear her mutter “fuckin’ blue-balled in my own house” under her breath while warming a bottle.
౨ৎ the first time you ride her again after birth, she’s laid out flat on the bed, arms limp at her sides, eyes a little dazed like she still thinks she’s dreaming. it happens after the baby has finally fallen asleep in her crib (handmade by joel), you close the bedroom door like you’re planning a louvre heist.
“you’ve got fifteen minutes before she wakes up again,” you’d said and ellie makes it her side quest.
no strap this time, claiming she needs to feel the warmth she’s been missing for so long. she’s too overwhelmed just watching you hover over her, your tits bigger, fuller, your hips rolling slowly against hers, your stomach soft with loose skin and marked with lines she loves so much it makes her dizzy.
she just lies there with her mouth slack while you ride her slick cunt, so slippery you nearly struggle to anchor yourself against her. the wet sounds are louder than they should be in a quiet house. at one point, you lean over her, moaning into her mouth as your tits bounce and one leaks directly onto her throat. an accident that makes her whole body jerk like she’s been tased, clawing at your hips. she doesn’t think, doesn’t speak, just breathes heavily, letting out a strangled, wet “uhnngh—” that sounds like her soul leaving her body and something else taking over—a succubus, perhaps.
she’s already close when you grope your own chest, milk spilling over your fingers as it drips slowly down your wrist. that’s what truly breaks her. she whimpers like a kicked dog, rocking up into you, desperate, mindless rolls of jerky hips while she pants through a red face and damp mouth, “fuck—baby, you’re dripping. m’gonna cum—don’t stop—keep making a mess, fuckfuckfuck—”
౨ৎ googles “is it safe to breastfeed your wife” after accidentally licking your nipple clean earlier with the brightness all the way down. blueprint forever ruined.
౨ৎ genuinely starts tweaking when your tits leak through shirts and tank tops. even buries her face between them, motorboating you, greedy hands everywhere, mouth trailing down between your thighs, not giving two shits if you’re moaning into the baby monitor or how many times you try to push her head away. “she won’t remember this. shut up and take it.”
౨ৎ conveniently starts wearing a strap under her clothes like it’s a uniform. when the baby is finally out cold, she sneaks up behind you and starts palming you real slow, intentions clear in the greediness of her palms. “could just slide it in real quick. five minutes, tops—two if you’re loud.” if you try to protest, she has her answer ready. “hey, m’not tryna force it, baby, just sayin’. you’re dripping. math is mathing again.”
౨ৎ sends you texts from across the room while your family is over to see the baby.
“your tits look heavy. come sit on my face after they leave.”
“leak on me and i’ll build you another kid.”
when you look at her, she’s pretending to listen to whatever your aunt is saying about swaddling techniques, nodding and smiling all politely, while your phone lights up again in your lap like she’s not two feet away, acting completely normal.
౨ৎ gets ridiculously turned on when you whine “my tits hurt,” pacing around the house in one of her tanks while it slowly soaks through at the nipple. eyeing you from the couch, manspreading, she offers to help relieve the pressure with her mouth like it’s a public service, hoping the throbbing in her sweats will disappear if she lets her intrusive thoughts win. “that sucks, babe… do you want… me to, uhh… do something about it…?”
౨ৎ starts pulling little tricks. it always begins with an innocent shoulder massage, hands working the knots out of your tense muscles before her fingers disappear under the hem of your shirt when you’re most distracted. “i just wanna feel you,” she’ll claim before pulling your nursing bra down in one quick tug, pretending to be shocked when you leak. “oh nooo. oops.” the proud little smirk that follows genuinely makes you want to split her skull in half.
౨ৎ you find a folder on her phone named “ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏᴍɪʟᴋᴇʀs” and it’s just videos of you leaking through your shirts or nipple play.
her search history is worse, though.
⌕ “lactation kink + pornhub”
⌕ “is it normal to nut from taste of breastmilk reddit”
⌕ “wifey boob.fullplease help”
⌕ “www.betterhelp.com”
the kinkshaming goes crazy. “the fuck are you on. it’s not a kink, it’s just objectively hot. and you leaked on me last night, so that’s on you.” she’s just devoted like that. how dare you kinkshame your wife for worshipping you.
౨ৎ drags you into the backseat after grocery shopping and fucks you there with the diaper bag half-open beside you, its contents spilling out haphazardly. in broad daylight, in a walmart parking lot. the two car window sunshades barely hiding your naked lower half, your pants bunched around your ankles, shoes still firmly in place like shackles. her fingers plunging deep into your dripping pussy, her mouth stealing every moan from you. all because she couldn’t wait until nightfall, when the baby would finally surrender to a sweet slumber.
౨ৎ can’t sleep unless her hand is under your shirt and cupping one leaking tit. tries to be chill about it but whimpers a little every time you shift away ;((
౨ৎ goes through real grief when you stop lactating, wandering around the house sighing like a tormented spirit that never found the light, “miss ’em heavy.” she’s mourning</3
౨ৎ talks to your daughter like she’s an adult who just happens to be gnome-sized.
౨ৎ lets her “help” with everything, even if it makes the task ten times longer. even if it includes your kid handing her socks one by one while she’s folding laundry. even if your baby is just standing on a chair stirring absolutely nothing in her bowl. ellie never rushes her nor complains ‘cause—“we’re doing it together, that’s the whole point.”
౨ৎ never misses bedtime routine. she reads the same damn book every single night because your daughter insists and ellie reads the same lines she read the night before with the same excitement in her tone, switching between all the voices anyway, even when she’s exhausted. and if you dare suggest skipping a page or skipping reading before bed, ellie gives you a look, as if you’d just suggested abandoning your child in the woods with no water, no food, no caretakers. she’s a dedicated mom and you couldn’t be more proud.
౨ৎ lets your kid sit on the counter while she cooks. “this is garlic… it smells insane—don’t touch it,” she warns gently as the toddler’s finger wanders toward it, eager to poke it. when she touches it, ellie simply sighs but doesn’t get mad. “okay. now you know.”
౨ৎ tries to get the kid to say “mah-mah” again, but the first word that comes out of her mouth is a very firm “noh.” ellie bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh in the baby’s face. “strong boundaries. we love to see it.” later on, she tries again, crouching in front of the little gremlin and tapping her own chest. “say… love you. loh-ve you,” the kid squints, thinking very hard, then proudly produces a clumsy “wah-yoo.” ellie grins like she just won the lottery, her heart practically bursting. “yeah. wah-yoo too, kiddo.”
౨ৎ becomes the kid’s personal elevator. every five minutes, the toddler waddles up to her on unsure feet, arms stretched straight up, bouncing like a little spring because she barely knows how to walk yet. “UHP! EH-YEE!” (a gibberish version of her name) ellie sighs like she’s completely exhausted with the life she chose, but bends down to scoop her up anyway. “yeah yeah, uhp. i gotchu, bug.”
౨ৎ accidentally teaches her sarcasm before manners. you’ll hear your toddler drop her toy and dramatically exclaim, “oh great!” ellie grins proudly at you from across the kitchen. “what? she used it correctly.” she’s ellie’s daughter.
౨ৎ is weirdly gentle about scraped knees. you’ve never seen her panic over your daughter tripping or getting small cuts. instead, she’ll crouch down, inspect it like a professional and blow on it after disinfecting it. “okay. that sucks, i know, bug.” she applies my little pony band-aids and kisses all her boo-boos. done. that’s it. the kid immediately stops crying.
౨ৎ saves every drawing your daughter makes. every scribble, every half-ripped, crumpled piece of misunderstood art. you always find them tucked into her sketchbook, her wallet, or even her jacket pockets—the latter usually discovered after you’ve shoved the jacket into the washing machine and the drawing comes out soggy and ruined. when you ask why she feels the urge to collect them all like pokémon cards, she’ll say: “they’re important.”
౨ৎ teaches her music early. hands her headphones that are way too big for her head and lets her pluck the strings on her guitar. she nods proudly and pretends it sounds good. “you’ve got rhythm, peanut.”
౨ৎ never says “because i said so.” ever. because she doesn’t want to be like her dad. she’d rather overexplain everything, even when she’s tired as hell.
౨ৎ packs her lunch every damn morning before kindergarten. sandwiches with little faces, tiny cupcakes ellie bakes just for her, star-shaped pieces of fruit she meticulously cuts with tiny cookie cutters.
౨ৎ gives her adult reassurance in tiny doses. “hey peanut, it’s okay to be bad at things. that’s how you get good.” it makes you wanna rip your hair out. in a good way.
౨ৎ lets your kid tattoo her or color over her already existing tattoos with washable markers, then forgets to wash them off before going out.
౨ৎ teaches her that asking for help is normal by doing it herself. now, she’s the first to hate relying on other people, but she wants to set an example. “hey babybug, help me open this?” your daughter beams, a gummy smile with barely a few teeth on display and uses all her strength. ellie thanks her like she just saved her life, boosting her tiny confidence straight through the roof.
౨ৎ has a secret handshake with her that changes weekly (mostly because your daughter keeps forgetting it) and no one else is allowed to learn it.
౨ৎ goes insanely overboard for the kid’s third christmas. sometime after midnight, you wake up to noises in the living room, only to find ellie crouched on the floor with a bag of flour, making tiny snowy footprints across the floor from the window to the tree, like santa broke in like a cheap burglar and walked around the house. she even takes one of your boots and lightly stamps it in the flour to make it look ““realistic.”” when your toddler wakes up in the morning and waddles into the living room, she freezes in awe and points at the floor excitedly, “sah-nah! sah-nah he come! mama, look!” big, dreamy green eyes look up at you, tugging at your pajama pants, “he WALK!” and ellie’s standing behind you trying so hard not to laugh, shoulders shaking, covering her mouth as she nudges you gently in the ribs, “holy shit. it actually worked.”
౨ৎ gets two bouquets on valentine’s day, one for each of her fav girls. your toddler’s is mainly a tiny bundle of plush flowers tied with a pink ribbon, a little rainbow dash tucked in the middle because ellie knows it’s her favorite pony. yours, meanwhile, is an absurdly massive bouquet that barely fits through the door or into a vase. roses, peonies, every fucking flower she was able to find in the store. when you raise a brow at her, she goes, “she’s my valentine,” she nods toward the gnome-sized, freckled mess of a kid proudly clutching rainbow dash and zooming around the living room. “but you’re my wife. there are levels.”
౨ৎ keeps snacks in every pocket of every hoodie for every eventuality. when your toddler asks for one, ellie pretends to be surprised every time she happens to find snickers tucked in her pockets. “woah! how did that get there?” your kid genuinely thinks ellie is a magician.
౨ৎ thanks your daughter for the smallest things, it’s either “thank you for trying,” or “thank you for telling me.”
౨ৎ on nights your toddler falls asleep between you, ellie brushes your hair out of your face and mumbles “you’re such a good mom,” eyes full of pride, gratitude making her heart throb.
౨ৎ becomes that parent with the camera roll. your phone has maybe ten photos of the baby. ellie’s has thousands. blurry ones, mid-yawn ones, ones where the kid’s just staring at nothing like a confused potato with not a single thought behind her irises. at some point, it genuinely starts to feel like she’s documenting a rare species.
౨ৎ sets one of her favorite girls as her lockscreen: your kid asleep on your chest, drooling on your shoulder and her tiny hand clutching your shirt.
౨ৎ loves motherhood far more than she ever expected, but more than anything, she loves seeing you round, glowing, growing an entire human inside you. she loves the ugly parts of it, too—the stress, the anxiety, the sleepless nights, the excitement that sits in her chest like it might burst into tiny sparks, but would you want to go through it again the way she would?
you’ve been out with friends all day when she finally finds the courage to bring it up. funny enough, they’d just had a baby. a newborn. ellie had held him for a while, rocking him gently while he fussed, nose pressed to the crown of his head, which smelled faintly like cinnamon. it made her chest ache with nostalgia, holding something that tiny again, she realized she missed it.
it comes up later at home, while you’re both getting ready for bed. “what if she had a sibling,” ellie mumbles suddenly, after spitting toothpaste into the sink, looking at you through the mirror while you brush your teeth, shoulders bumping together. “like, one that’s just as annoying. that’d be kinda cute, right?”
“you mean another baby?” you question, already clocking the look on her face, watching her slide the hair tie off her wrist and gather her hair into a messy, low bun.
she hums casually, “one more can’t hurt.” for a second, you think she’s talking about gummy bears.
“i dunno. we already have our hands full, el.” you sigh. “babies take a lot of time—we barely survived the first one.”
she shrugs, already committed to the idea, determined to put the idea into your head. “you’ve already been pregnant once... what’s one more?”
you don’t answer. you just leave the bathroom and crawl under the comfort of your blankets, hoping silence will kill the conversation, but nothing ever dies with her. she’s sliding into bed a second later, scooting closer like a clingy koala. “we already have one kid,” she continues, “might as well go for the dlc.”
“dlc is crazy,” you smile despite yourself, “go to sleep.”
“huh. g’night, ma.” she presses a kiss to your shoulder when you turn into her arms, facing the wall. “...sleep on it, though.”
with ao3 down i hope this reminds us of what a fanfic-less existence looks like. don’t take it for granted! because it sucks not to have it.
fanfic would not exist without the hours of free labour from fanfic writers and volunteer staff. donate to otw if you have the means. taking a second to give kudos is nothing compared to months of work for writers. a comment will probably make their whole day! sharing and reblogging spreads their work. it’s so discouraging when you give your heart to something, only to receive nothing in return.
support fandom creators and staff. they are the heartbeat of everything we enjoy.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ㅤ 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 . . . ellie creates a fake facebook account to mess with her best friend, dina. then you add her. she has quietly liked you for years, yet never had the courage to talk to you in class. when you start messaging her, ellie panics. you think you’re talking to a boy. she knows you’re straight, but telling the truth feels like the fastest way to lose the only version of you that ever chose her first.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ ㅤ𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . catfish, wlw shit.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ ㅤ𝒂/𝒏 . . . this is not a continuation or a prequel to my other ellie is away (in case you wanna read it). reblogs and feedback are super appreciated <𝟑 ++ please make sure you wait for the divider to load completely before each chapter—it indicates which month the chapter is set in. every two chapters, there’s a one-month time skip, so keep that in mind. pls and thank you :p
꒰ঌ ؛ ໒꒱ : + 𝟙𝟠 ┊ not intended for minors or cis men. for those who remain — have a lovely night/day & treat yourself kindly!
my gorgeous @andieprincessofpower and i wanted to do something a little special for valentine’s day, so we decided to release three fics together. two of them will be posted separately on our accounts, which will be linked in this masterlist, while the last one will be a collab. valentine’s day may be over, but it’s still february, so love is absolutely still in the air (for us, at least :p). either way, we hope you enjoy reading them as much as we enjoyed writing them.
𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 : 𐔌 long distancing is hard, especially when a single car or train ride isn't enough to close the miles that keep you and ellie apart. but a single, innocent lie just before valentine's day will probably fix the problem. ꒱ 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕟 𝕓𝕪 @letmebeurbaby ♡
love is in the air guys! em and I decided to colaborate to create this for you and we're so excited to share our fics. writing with em is truly one of the best things EVER, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it -`𖹭´-
hey so ik bby you just posted for she's a maneater but like ch6 when??? im hungry mama🫦🫦 and that cliffhanger mami pls no
hehe tysm for reading and being hungry in my inbox💋🫦it genuinely made me smile:p
and ch6…??? uhhhh who knows heh... definitely not this weekend nor the next as i’m currently working with @andieprincessofpower on a little valentine’s special. actually… multiple. so i’m a tiny bit booked and busy ;( BUT i promise i’m feeding you soon ok just let me cook😔
⊹ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — After the absolute wreckage of last night, you and Ellie are drowning in shame and heartbreak—not to mention killer hangovers. Just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, production shifts to Aspen, Colorado. But the real kick in the teeth happens at check-in, you in the same suite as the co-star you’ve been helplessly pining over. Now that you’re both trapped in the snow, will they finally face the feelings you’ve been hiding, or are they going to keep running in circles?
⊹ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓— 13,7K
⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — smut, switch!ellie x switch!reader, oral sex (r!receiving), scissoring, confession of love, media scrutiny, mentions of alcohol use, non-consensual tape leak (off-page), yearning as illness, AFAB!reader. minors and men DNI.
A special thank you to @andieprincessofpower and @letmebeurbaby for helping me proofread this chapter, love you both so so much ♡
𝐖hen the world was small and there weren’t eyes on you all the time, the universe consisted only of Ellie’s eyes. You were sixteen, standing on the precipice of everything, yet convinced that the only things that mattered were right here, tangled in a room in the suburbs.
The late afternoon sun poured through the blinds, painting stripes of gold and across her room. It was a museum of her brilliant, nerdy heart. A poster of Hamilton hung above her bed, the gold star silhouette watching over you both like the patron saint of ambition. On the adjacent wall, Peter Parker was mid-swing in a vintage print, his masked face frozen in perpetual heroism, while stacks of Nintendo cartridges formed precarious towers on her dresser, guarding the television.
Ellie was a masterpiece of casual disarray, as always, a young girl composed of faint edges and hidden depths. She wore a faded, oversized flannel shirt of blue and grey plaid, unbuttoned over a graphic tee. Her jeans were ripped at the knees and her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy half up, escaping in tendrils that framed a face free of the hard lines the future would one day carve.
You sat opposite her, wearing your favorite dusty pink sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your hands and a pleated skirt that fanned out around you on the floor. Between you laid open a calculus textbook, a minefield of numbers and letters that had threatened to bring you to tears only an hour before.
She had invited you that afternoon to help you with the homework, since she was always a genius for numbers. She hadn't sighed even when you confused the axis for the third time. She simply took the pencil from your cramping fingers, her touch cool and sure as she dismantled the equations with a patience that felt like love.
She turned the terrifying abstract into simple, solvable logic, whispering the steps until the panic in your chest unspooled into relief.
"See?" she had murmured, drawing a box around the answer. "Easy."
With the homework finally conquered and shoved aside, the atmosphere in the room was much more calm. You reached into your backpack and pulled out your secret comfort: a coloring book.
You both were always a little childish, in the best way. While others were rushing to grow up, to sharpen their edges, you clung to the soft things. To the whimsy of filling in black-and-white lines with pastel crayons.
You lay on your stomach, feet kicking idly in the air, losing yourself in a page, while Ellie leaned back against the frame of her bed, reading a vintage issue of The Amazing Spider-Man.
A gravelly croon filled the spaces between the dust motes. It was Pearl Jam’s Ten, a CD Ellie treated like a relic because it was a gift from Joel. Eddie Vedder’s voice was a heavy blanket over the room, a grungy lullaby that clashed with the pink crayon in your hand but matched the soul of the girl reading beside you.
You hummed along, your hand moving across the paper. You were coloring a kitten, of all things—a small, fluffy kitten standing in the center of a grand theater stage, surrounded by red velvet curtains.
"I wanna be in Heathers," you declared suddenly, the thought jumping from the page to your tongue. Your voice cut through the lazy dust motes dancing in the light, competing with the electric guitar. You stopped coloring, tracing the pattern of the rug with a finger, your eyes fixed on the imaginary spotlight hitting the kitten. "I relate to Veronica. She’s trying so hard to be good, to be decent, in a world that just wants to burn everything down."
Ellie looked up from the comic, her eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made your stomach flip. "You’d kill as Veronica. Literally," she teased. "But you're too nice to burn down a gym."
"Acting," you countered, bumping your knee against hers. The contact sent a warm jolt through your chest, a current of electricity that felt infinite. “But if we’re talking dreams? Real dreams? West Side Story."
"Maria?"
"Maria," you confirmed, clutching a throw pillow to your chest as if it contained all your hopes. "It’s just... it’s better than Romeo and Juliet. I know we did the play last year, and it was great, but West Side Story has more grit."
Ellie set the comic down, leaning back on her hands, the flannel slipping off one shoulder. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, a thoughtful, wistful smile playing on her lips.
"I’d want to be Tony," she admitted. “But I know that will never happen.”
"You’d make a perfect Tony."
"Please," she scoffed, a self-deprecating laugh bubbling up from her chest. "I can’t sing for shit. I’d open my mouth and the glass in the windows would shatter."
"You are such a liar!" you said as you reached out, "You sing along to the radio when you think I’m asleep, and I really like when you sing and play guitar. You have this... this rasp. It’s really good."
A flush crept up her neck, pinking her cheeks, a sudden bloom of color against her freckled skin. It was a rare thing to catch Ellie off guard, to see the bravado strip away to reveal the tender underbelly beneath.
She ducked her head, looking at you through her lashes. "You really think so?"
"I know so."
The silence that followed was heavy with the things you were too young to articulate but old enough to feel in your bones.
"If you ever won an award…" she started, her voice hushed as if she were speaking in a library. "Like, a big one, an Oscar. What would you say?"
You started wandering, the hypothetical pulling you into a daydream. You looked past her, toward the Hamilton poster, imagining a blinding stage light instead of the afternoon sun, the roar of a crowd instead of the hum of the air conditioner.
Wait for It started playing in your head. (And if you ever get the chance to see Hamilton in a theatre, watch it.)
"What would I say?" you mused, tilting your head. "Well, I don't know... I mean... if I won an Oscar..." you let out a breathy laugh, the absurdity of it mixing with the desire. "I would thank Ms. Dalton, obviously. And the drama club. I would say that I grew up dreaming of this moment in rooms just like this one."
You looked back at her and the playfulness died in your throat. The spotlight in your mind faded, leaving only her face, illuminated by the golden hour.
"And I would thank... well, I would thank you, Ellie."
She went still, her breath hitching. "Me?"
"You," you whispered, the truth of it sitting heavy on your tongue. "I mean, you were my first friend in this hellscape of a high school. You’re the reason I can stand on a stage without shaking and you helped me so much to get rid of my fears. I wouldn't be me without you."
Ellie stared at you for a long moment. Her expression was unreadable, a mixture of awe and something like fear—the fear of being left behind.
"If you won an Oscar," she asked, her voice barely audible, not confident, "do you think I would be there?"
The question broke your heart a little, the insecurity of it, the idea that she could ever be a footnote in your story.
"I know you'd be there," you said sure of yourself, leaning forward, invading her space because you needed her to understand. "Why wouldn't you be? There isn't any award I would like to win if you weren't watching. It would just be a piece of metal, Els. It wouldn't mean anything."
You took a breath, holding her gaze, willing her to understand the absolute permanence of her place in your life.
"And even if you weren't there... say you were stuck in traffic, or on the moon... I’d still thank you, because I’d know you’d be listening."
The auburn stayed quiet for a second, her eyes widening, brightening with a wet, glassy sheen of awe at your words. She could imagine it perfectly. She could see you in the gown, holding the statue, speaking her name to the world.
She leaned across the small distance between you, her hand coming up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing your cheekbone. She kissed you then, and it tasted like chapstick and promise and the orange soda she’d been drinking earlier. It was hesitant, and then firm, a seal on a contract written in the breeze.
When she separated, her forehead rested against yours. You breathed the same air, two kids in a room full of superheroes, believing you were invincible.
𝐓his morning, the sun is even harsher than any other day in the Californian sky. It’s one of the hottest days there has ever been in the history of Los Angeles, and the temperature matches the hot truth that is about to be said on live television.
Rachel stands at the epicenter of the glare.
She is a silhouette cut from obsidian, her vintage Mugler there even when she should be wearing something that lets her breathe better. The dark fabric absorbs the light, making her frame appear even slighter, yet infinitely more dangerous. She stands before the limestone steps of the courthouse, exactly as she promised she would be. She also wears oversized Chanel sunglasses—black shields that render her eyes invisible, turning her face into an unreadable mask.
The reporters circle her like crows. They are hopping over one another to get the best angle, to peck at the pieces of meat she is about to offer. But Rachel knows this ecosystem better than anyone. She knows she is not the carcass; she is the hawk.
"We have discovered gross mismanagement coming from Mrs. Erin Hill regarding her representation of her client, Ellie Williams," the chocolate brunette announces. Her voice is not loud, but it is calibrated, crystal clear.
The reporters erupt. "What charges are they?" "What does Ellie Williams think about the situation?" "How is the case going to go?"
Rachel raises a single, manicured hand. The silence that follows is obedient.
"The charges are for embezzlement, fraud, breach of contract and invasion of privacy," she lists, each word dropping with the weight of a gavel, striking the pavement with finalized authority. "Erin Hill is now being investigated and will face the consequences of her actions. We are trusting the justice system to rectify years of systematic exploitation."
"Furthermore," she adds, "I will be personally acting as lead counsel for Ms. Williams in this matter. We are prepared to litigate this to the absolute fullest extent of the law, and the truth will finally be dragged into the light."
She lets the words settle, letting the frantic scribbling of pens and the tapping of phones catch up to the gravity of the accusation. But the press is a hydra; cut off one head, and another grows. They sense the blood in the water, but they are distracted by the scent of something even better: drama.
"So," a woman reporter says loudly, her voice nasal, shoving a recorder forward. "Both your clients, Ellie Williams and Y/N Y/L/N, are going to be in a movie together, is that correct?"
"Yes," she responds. "They are currently filming a project, and it’s moving forward as scheduled."
The reporters go insane. The camera flashes intensify, a strobe-light storm warring with the midday sun. The questions overlap, a tidal wave of curiosity that threatens to drown out the legal proceedings entirely. Nobody cares about the law anyway, even though they should, because the person writing this is a law student.
"So does that mean we will see them both?" "How are they handling it?" "Is it true they haven't spoken in years?"
She tries to step back, but the wall of sound thickens.
"Rachel!" a man in the back screams, desperate. "Isn't it a conflict of interest? Representing two ex-best friends? Or were they more? Sources say they were high school sweethearts!"
"Is there bad blood on set?" another man shouts, spit flying. "We heard reports of tension, can they even be in the same room without a mediator?!"
And then, another voice cuts through the din, loud and insinuating, slicing right to the bone. "What happened last night at the event? Resources say there has been an altercation between both stars. A screaming match? A fight? Did security have to intervene?"
The memory of the rooftop party flashes behind Rachel’s dark lenses—the alcohol, the burning stares, the violent conversation on the dance floor between you and Ellie. She adjusts her sunglasses, tilting her chin up just a bit. A smile, razor-thin and devoid of warmth, graces her lips.
"Rumors are rumors," she says, her tone dismissive, brushing the question away like a piece of lint on her lapel. "There is no proof that anything of the sort happened and they maintain a strictly professional relationship on set. We are focused on the work, and I suggest you focus on the facts."
"Wait!" someone yells as she turns. "Is it true the script is based on them?"
Rachel ignores the final bait. She turns on her heel and leaves, leaving the crows cawing at her back, hungry for a feast she refuses to serve.
Hours later, the adrenaline has curdled into misery. The sun filtrates through the heavy curtains, waking you up in the most violent of ways.
As soon as you gain consciousness, a violent headache fills your senses, a drum taking up residence behind your eyes. You groan, the sound scraping against your dry throat, the hangover making the room spin and throb.
"Fuckkkk," you groan into the fabric, squeezing your eyes shut as if that will stop the world from tilting.
But as you force your eyelids open, fighting the glue of sleep and mascara, you realize you aren't in your own bed. You are buried in sheets as black as midnight. satin, cool, and expensive.
You don’t have to look at anything else to realize you are in Rachel's place, and the next thing you register is her voice being far too cheerful for the condition of your internal organs.
"Rise and shineee," she singsongs, breezing into the room
She hovers over you, extending the holy grail: a glass of water and an ibuprofen. Her room is a gorgeous display of refined modernism, vast and intimidatingly clean, but you currently lack the energy to admire the architecture. You just accept the water and the pill with shaking hands.
"Hello, my little hungover angel," she beams, sitting on the edge of the mattress, looking impeccably fresh as if she didn't drink her weight in vodka just hours ago. "While you were sleeping the sleep of the wicked, I served major cunt on the courthouse steps. The press is eating out of my hand, and I denied what happened last night."
And just when she mentions last night, the flashbacks hit you like a freight train. You let out a guttural scream, throwing your head back against the pillow with full force, burying your face in the black satin to muffle the sound of your own mortification.
"FUCK!"
"Yeah, well, that is exactly the reaction I expected," Rachel says, sitting right beside you. She crosses her legs, looking irritatingly composed while you are currently trying to off yourself.
"I fucked everything up, I fucked everything up, I fucked everything up, I fucked everything up," you keep repeating, the words muffled into the fabric.
"Yeah, well, accurate."
"YOU AREN'T HELPING!" you shout, lifting your head just enough to glare at her with one bloodshot eye. The movement makes your brain slosh against your skull.
"The fuck am I gonna do now?" you keen, rolling onto your back and draping an arm over your eyes to block out the offending sunlight.
"Feign dementia," she suggests casually, taking a sip of her own coffee. "It’s a classic legal defense.”
"Not enough," you groan. "I’m going to lock myself forever in your house. Can I move here? If you say no I’m moving to Argentina and adopting two cats and nobody will ever know anything about me again. I’m gonna name the cats Lana and Bey. For Lana del Rey and Beyoncé. And I’ll change my name to... Maria. No, too cliché. Valentina. That's better."
"Okay, Valentina, that’s a little too much. But, Argentina is in fact the most gorgeous country ever. The wine and the girls alone are worth the flight." the brunette muses, unbothered.
"Oh my god," you whisper, the reality crashing down harder than the headache. You shoot up to a sitting position, ignoring the vertigo. "I fucked it up with Abby, and now Ellie knows about the contract with Chris! And she broke up with Dina because of me! She literally ended a relationship and I didn't say anything! I just ran after Abby and left her standing there like an idiot!"
You rake your hands through your tangled hair, pulling at the roots.
"I mean, I'm still mad about the fact she kept the tapes, that is a violation of privacy and I stand by tha,t but she must fucking loathe me now! I left her alone right after she blew up her life for me!"
Rachel sighs, setting her mug down on the nightstand. The playful demeanor evaporates, replaced by the dark makeup user and lawyer who eats press conferences for breakfast.
"First of all, swallow the damn ibuprofen," she orders, pointing at the pill. You obey, swallowing it dry because you deserve the pain.
"Second," she continues, counting on her fingers. "Ellie knowing about the contract with Chris isn't the end of the world. It levels the playing field. She knows you aren't actually in love with him. That's dangerous, but it's also... leverage."
"It's not leverage, it's humiliating!" you argue. "She probably thinks I'm pathetic for faking a relationship and that I'm the worst person alive and—"
"She doesn't think you're pathetic, she knows how mean this industry can be," Rachel corrects. "And regarding the breakup... look. Did she tell you she broke up with Dina for you? Explicitly?"
"YES!" you exclaim, flopping back down. "She said and I quote ‘we broke up because I looked her in the eye and I told her I still love you!’ And then I just... I panicked. I saw Abby leave, and I felt guilty, and I ran. I literally ran away from the girl I've been pining over for MORE than a decade."
"Let's just say… this entire situation is the biggest mess I've ever heard of, I mean, even I wouldn't know what to do in your place" she says, her voice softening. "But yes, leaving Ellie standing there in the middle of a rooftop party while she was probably waiting for a grand romantic gesture? That was... suboptimal."
"Suboptimal," you repeat deadpan. "I’m gonna vomit."
"Don't you dare!” Rachel warns, pointing a finger at you as she stands up, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her trousers. “These sheets are a hundred percent silk!"
"Rachel what am I supposed to do..." you whimper, rolling onto your side and curling into a ball of regret. You ignore her threat, your mind stuck on a loop of the previous night. You can still see Ellie’s face—the way her jaw went slack, the way those green eyes, usually so devoid, looked completely broken and glassy. "I fucked it all the way up. I left her there. She finally chose me, in her own twisted way, and I ran."
The older woman sighs, the sound pitiful. She sits back down on the edge of the bed, her hand resting briefly on your shoulder.
"Honey, look at me. You didn't fuck it all up," she says, her voice dropping the sarcasm for a rare moment of sincerity. "The whole party was a bomb, and it blew. But you are both adults. Ellie will understand. Or maybe she won't. It’s messy, but it’s not fatal. I swear."
"How am I supposed to even look at her now?" you whisper, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see white spots. You’re too deep inside your own head, drowning in emotional distress to fully accept her logic. "I still have to see her on set. The filming isn't even over. I can’t just walk in there and pretend I didn't shatter her heart on a rooftop in West Hollywood."
Rachel checks her Rolex, a grimace flickering across her face. She bites the inside of her cheek, weighing her next words carefully.
"Well... funny you mentioned the set…" she starts, her tone shifting into brisk and professional. "Steven called about twenty minutes ago while you were drooling on my pillow."
You lower your hands, peering at her suspiciously through one eye. "Why?"
"Production update…" she explains, "They’re moving the location for the finale because they want real snow. You’re going to Aspen."
"ASPEN?!"
"Yes, Aspen…" She pauses, a knowing look in her eyes. "To film the emotional climax of the movie where Grace and Andy are trapped together in the snow…"
The blood drains from your face.
"And," Rachel adds, checking her watch again, "you have to be at the hangar in... oh, about three hours."
For some seconds, there is silence in the room.
Then, you grab the pillow, slam it over your face, and let out a scream so high pitched it probably made Mariah Carey herself jealous.
𝐓he smell of burnt butter and caramelized blueberries fills Ellie’s place. Making pancakes as breakfast for her was supposed to be a form of peace offering, or at least, a kind of sweet glue for her heart after all the disaster that went down. A domestic embrace to pull her out of her inevitable crash out.
In the warmed lit kitchen, Chris and Jesse move in tandem. Chris, wearing an apron that looked comically small in his broad frame, flips a stack of pancakes onto a ceramic plate with a flourish that suggests practice. Cooking had always been one of his secret passions. Jesse, in the meanwhile, arranges a tray: fresh orange juice, a single rose he had stolen from the vase in the hallway, and some pieces of bacon.
“Do you think she’s awake?” the blonde man asks, keeping his voice low in the fear of waking his new made friend out.
“I haven’t heard a sound” Jesse mutters, placing the silverware on the tray. “Which is probably worse. Silence usually means she's either plotting a murder or her own ending.”
“Let’s go with the pancakes first.”
They walk down the hallway, the hardwood floors cool beneath their socks. They try to be as quiet as they can, but as they approach the master bedroom, the silence Jesse had feared was violently replaced. It started as a low sound, the little riff of a guitar, and then, as they got closer to the heavy oak door, it clarified into the wailing scream of a guitar solo.
Purple Rain.
Jesse stops in his tracks, “Oh no…”
“Is that… Prince?” Chris asks, tilting his head.
“It’s the final boss of heartbreak anthems.” the brunette whispers, a look of genuine terror crossing his features. “We’re code red.”
He then doesn’t knock, because he knows it would go unheard over the maximum volume of the music. He simply pushes the door open, nudging it with his shoulder, and the two men step into the cave of Ellie’s grief.
The room was a tomb of darkness. The blackout curtains were drawn so tight not a single ray of the Californian sun dared to enter, and the air was thick, smelling of stale perfume, whiskey, and the salty tang of tears.
And in the center of the king sized bed, is Ellie.
Sitting upright, looking like the survivor of a natural disaster. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that had even more years than the years you and her had been together, her hair a bird’s nest of knots. Her face in ruins, eyes swollen, nose red, and cheeks stained with the dried tracks of tears.
She didn’t even look at them when they entered. She was in a trance, swaying back and forth, clutching a pillow on her chest.
“...Ellie?” Jesse tried, raising his voice.
She took a ragged, shuddering breath, her chest hitching, and then as Prince’s voice soared into the falsetto, she joined him.
“I ONLY WANT TO SEE YOU LAUGHING IN THE PURPLE RAINNNNN”
It wasn't a smooth rasping alto, it was more like the sound of a fifteen year old girl who has just had her heart broken for the first time.
“PURPLE RAIN… PURPLE RAIN…” she sobs, squeezing her eyes shut, fresh tears leaking out to join the old mascara from last night’s disaster.
She throws her head back. Addressing the ceiling, addressing the universe, addressing the ghost of the woman who had run away from her in front of her eyes. She keeps singing, or at least tries to to keep up with the notes, collapsing forward onto the pillow with a groan that sounded like a dying animal.
Chris stands frozen in the doorway, the tray of pancakes also frozen in his hands at the dramatic scene. He then looks at Jesse, “I don't think pancakes are gonna fix this.”
Jesse sighs, the sound of a man who had been through this war before. He walks over the nightstand, navigating through the water bottles and tissues, and turns the volume down on the phone.
The silence is deafening. She sniffles, a wet sound, and finally cracks an eye open. She glares at him with a death stare.
“I was listening to that.”
“You were screaming, El.” He corrects gently, sitting at the edge of the bed “And Prince doesn’t deserve that.”
“I hate everything.” the auburn haired mumbles, burying her face back into the pillow. “I hate the sun. I hate parties. I hate rooftops.” She pauses, a fresh sob bubbling up in her throat. “And I hate her.”
Chris steps forward cautiously, offering her the tray after faking to be the boyfriend of the woman she has been in love with for years—like it could fix anything. “We made you blueberry pancakes…”
Ellie lifts her head just enough to look at the food and for a second, the smell seems to reach her, batting the misery. But then the memory of the night before —of your back turning away, of the emptiness of the space beside her— crashes back in.
“I’m not hungry" she whispers, her lip trembling. She grabs her phone again, her thumb hovering over the ‘Restart’ button on the song. “I just wanna rot. Can you guys just leave me alone? It’s better for everyone.”
“No rotting,” Jesse says firmly, taking the phone out of her hand and sliding it into his pocket. “And no more Prince until you eat the last piece of pancake. You have a flight to catch in three hours.”
Ellie stares at him, her eyes glassy and confused. “A flight?”
“Aspen,” Chris supplies unhelpfully. “Rachel just called, Steven wants real snow for the final shots of the movie.”
Her face crumbles as she lets out a long, high pitched scream, pulling out the duvet over her head until she is completely submerged, a lump under the covers.
“I’m calling in dead” her muffled voice comes through the thick feathers. “Tell Steven to fuck off. And tell her… tell her I hope she has a nice life…”
From under the covers, her hand snakes out, blindingly patting the mattress until it finds the remote control for the stereo system on the wall. She clicks a button.
I never meant to cause you any sorrow…
Jesse looks at Chris, shaking his head
“Put the pancakes down. This is gonna take a while.”
𝐀s soon as you get off the jet—after two hours and a half of reflecting on your entire life choices looking at the window—you know this is going to be trouble. The wind in Aspen bites, a predatory chill that snaps your exposed skin with icy teeth. The cold takes you by surprise, a shock to the system that has nothing to do with temperature but everything to do with the fact that you have left the smog warm of Los Angeles.
The mountains rise beautifully around the tarmac, indifferent, covered in pristine snow that reflects the grey sky. The landscape triggers a memory, a vacation two years ago, or a lifetime ago. You remember the press photos, the curated smile and the way Chris held you on the slopes. You were the “perfect couple” skiing in the most photogenic place in the states, dressed in designer clothes and lies.
But now, there is no Chris to save you. You are shivering in a coat that isn’t thick enough, standing on the tarmac with a horrible hangover and a thousand unresolved issues.
You slide into the back of the waiting limousine outside, and the leather is cool against your legs. The car is new, the scent of it mixes with the lingering nausea in your stomach. As the driver navigates the winding roads towards the hotel, you watch the world blur past the tinted glass. The pines are heavy with snow, the world is monochromatic. An unforgiving canvas compared to the neon chaos of the prior night.
The silence in the car is louder than the music at the party ever was. Your thoughts are unforgiving—Ellie’s words, Rachel’s warnings, Abby’s upset look, and your own cowardice— echo endlessly.
The car pulls up to the location, a sprawling timber of a hotel nestled deep in the valley. It screams old money and power, illuminated by golden lights that make the snow sparkle brighter. You step out, your boots crunching on the icy ground.
Steven is awaiting you near the entrance, bundled in a thick parka that makes him look like a lost child, though his eyes are blue and piercing. He isn't alone —assistants scurry around him with clipboards and walkie-talkies— but Ellie is nowhere to be seen. The absence of her is a physical space, and you don't know if you feel relieved, or even more afraid.
“Hi! You made it!” Steven calls out, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He walks over, looking apologetically enthusiastic.
He scans your face, likely noticing the dark circles and the tired bloodshot eyes, but he categorizes it as ‘dramatic moodiness’’ rather than ‘hungover regret’.
“I’m sorry for changing everything so quickly,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the majestic frozen landscape behind him. “But look at this! We needed it. We wanted real snow for the shots and a genuine atmosphere, we couldn’t replicate this on a soundstage.”
“I understand, no problem.” You respond, even though you are not entirely happy with his rushed decisions. You needed at least three business days to rot in Rachel’s place.
He claps a gloved hand on your shoulder, steering you towards the massive double doors of the lodge.
“Ellie isn’t on set yet, she’s flying in a bit later,” he adds, oblivious to the way your heart stutters at her name. “And we’re losing the light fast, so we’re scrubbing the schedule for today. Go check in, get warm. You can spend the night in the hotel, and we start first thing tomorrow when the sun hits the ridge.”
“Perfect, then.” You mutter, watching as the hotel employee takes your luggage up.
Steven slides the key card into your palm, the sliver of plastic feeling heavier than it should, a passport to solitary confinement. You mutter a thank you that gets lost in the wind, turn away and navigate the labyrinth of the lodge until you find the door that matches the number in your hand.
The lock clicks, and you push inside.
The hotel room is luxurious, designed to make you forget the world, yet all it does is remind you more of the space you are currently occupying alone. It smells of pine and expensive linen. A gas fireplace flickers in the corner, a hollow imitation of warmth, casting dancing shadows against the white walls. But it is the bed that dominates the space, a massive king sized expanse of white duvet.
You don’t bother to take out your boots or your coat. You simply let gravity win the war against you, body collapsing onto the mattress with the grace of a felled tree.
Outside the floor to ceiling windows, the day is surrendering. the sun, having lost its battle with the horizon, bleeds out over the mountains. It paints the snow peaks in bruised shades of violet and orange—the alpenglow, they call it. It is breathtaking, and it makes you want to tear your skin off.
You stare at the ceiling, tracing the grain of the wood. The silence of the room is aggressive, and in the absence of noise and people, your mind is forced to replay the highlights of your own self destruction.
You see Ellie’s hand tightening in her glass. You see the hope that had flickered in her eyes when she looked at you, and you watch yourself extinguish it with your back turned, going after Abby. All of these memories meld together like watercolors of sorrow and regret.
You think about where she is right now. Is she in the air? Is she suspended somewhere between the smog of LA and the chill of Aspen, looking out a window at the same dying sun, hating you?
The thought generates a physical constriction in your throat. Your eyes start to water with the stinging leak of genuine remorse. The tears slide sideways across your temples, disappearing into your headline, cold and hot at the same time.
You pull the pillow closer, inhaling deeply, hoping for a scent that isn't there. It smells like bleach, not like her.
Nothing will ever compare to her.
You don't really notice when night settles over the room, because you are still lying on top of the pristine duvet, fully dressed in your winter coat and heavy boots, a visual testament of your refusal to actually arrive. You are hovering in the limbo between exhaustion and consciousness, your mind a static loop. You are about to fall asleep —or perhaps pass out— driven by the sheer weight of your emotions.
Then, the silence shatters. An electronic sound of the key card is followed by the heavy groan of the door swinging.
The hallway light floods in, a yellow wedge that cuts across the darkness and hits you right in the face. You squint, your heart hammering in sudden surprise against your ribs, and you lift your head from the pillow, disoriented and defensive.
And there she is.
Ellie, standing in the doorway, her hand gripping the handle of her rolling suitcase.
She looks like a ghost, like a memory given mass, pulse and temperature. Her auburn hair is pulled back in that particular Ellie half-up, the rest of it falling in loose, wind tousled waves over the collar of her coat. The cold outside has bitten her cheeks, flushing them pink and making her freckles stand out in high definition against her pale skin.
But it’s her eyes that gut you. They are wide, startled, and devastatingly sad. They hold the same bruised look she wore years ago when you drifted apart, during that brutal winter in the city when you were young and broke, living in an apartment where the only heat came from huddling together. She looks exactly like she did then—innocent, tired, and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.
You hadn't expected to see her, at least not tonight. Not on this side of the door where you have no script, no director, and no defense mechanism.
You stare at each other, paralyzed. The air between you crackles, thick with a million unsaid things, the years of silence, and the jarring intimacy of this collision.
“Hi,” she breathes, the word barely more than an exhale of vapor. She blinks rapidly, as if trying to clear a hallucination.
“Hi, Ellie,” you croak, your voice rough with disuse. You don't make a move to get up as you feel glued to the mattress, absurd in your boots and coat.
She stands there for an agonizing second, her gaze darting from your boots to your face, and then to the rest of the room. Confusion knits her eyebrows together. She takes a half step back, looking at the number on the plaque of the door, then down at the key card in her hand.
“I think I…” she trails off, her voice shaking. “I think I got the wrong room. I’m sorry, I just—”
She checks the card again, tilting it toward the hallway light. Then she checks the door, her shoulders slump, a physical defeat.
“Oh,” she whispers, the realization landing with a thud. “It is this one.”
She looks back at you, her expression shifting from confusion to a weary sort of resignation.
“They gave us the same room.”
You slowly sit up, propping yourself on your elbows. Looking around the cavernous suite, your eyes land on the singular, massive piece of furniture you are currently occupying.
“Yeah,” you say, the word feeling inadequate. “And there’s only one bed.”
Ellie follows your gaze to the king sized mattress. She lets out a sound that is half laugh, half choke—a bitter noise that scrapes against the timber walls.
“Classic Steven,” she shakes her head. “He probably thinks this is ‘method’”
She finally steps fully into the room, letting the door click shut behind her, sealing you both in. The tension is palpable, a third entity in the room, coiled and ready to strike. Neither of you take off your coats, feeling like two strangers with a lifetime of history trapped in a luxury box with one bed and nowhere left to run.
“I can… I can go sleep in the bathtub,” you offer weakly.
“Don’t be dumb.” She snaps, no heat in it. She leans back against the door, closing those sad green eyes for a moment. “It’s big enough. We’ve shared smaller.”
We’ve shared smaller. The reminder hangs in the air. You had shared a twin mattress on the floor of a walk-up for two years. You had shared a life.
“Right…” you whisper. “Right.”
Ellie sighs, and the sound is the only thing moving in the room, an exhalation of fatigue that seems to settle in the corners. She reaches for the buttons of her coat, her fingers fumbling with the wool loops. The heavy garment slides off her shoulders, dropping onto the armchair with a rustle.
Neither of you has the courage to look at each other. Her, out of sorrow. You, out of shame. You just stare at the pattern of the duvet, tracing the stitches with your eyes to avoid making eye contact with the reality of her existence.
“It’s really cold,” she murmurs. It's a statement of fact, but it feels more like an accusation aimed at you. Despite the fireplace the chill coming off her is what is actually freezing you. The room is actually cold, thought.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “It is.”
She walks towards the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she sits on the edge, mirroring your position on the opposite side. The vast expanse of the bed feels suddenly microscopic.
Without a word, without a signal, you both move at the same time.
You sit up to swing your legs over the side, she bends down. You reach for your laces, she grabs the heel of her boot.
It happens in a blur of muscle memory that bypasses the brain entirely. A synchronization forged in the cramped quarters of a shared life years ago, where space was so limited you had to move as one organism just to exist. You tug your left boot off; she tugs her left boot off. You drop it. She drops hers.
Then the right. You lean, she leans. You pull, she pulls.
The boots hit the carpet in perfect unison, a rhythmic measure that echoes in the silence. It is frighteningly domestic. Almost a coordinated dance, a choreography that you never stopped doing, even after years of dancing with other people. Your bodies still remember how to be a pair, even if your hearts are currently at war.
For a second the realization of it hangs in the breeze, a ghost of the couple you used to be. You can feel her pause, her breath hitching in her chest, acknowledging the accidental harmony.
But the moment shatters as quickly as it formed. Panic flares—the fear of intimacy, the fear of the memories. She scrambles back, retreating towards her side of the headboard. You mirror her, recoiling as if the mattress had burned you.
You both lay down, turning on your sides. You face the window and the dark mountains. You feel the mattress shift as she turns on her side, facing the door.
Your backs are to each other. Almost a foot of space between your spines, a “no man’s land” of white linen. But even without touching, you can feel her. You can feel the rhythm of her breathing, jagged and uneven. You are close, yet you feel so apart.
The silence is suffocating, colder than the Aspen wind howling outside, pressing down your chest and crushing your lungs until every breath is a labor. You can’t handle it anymore. You can’t handle the proximity of her body, feeling her across the inches that separate you, mocking you with the memory of what felt to be held by her.
You have been carrying a graveyard in your heart for six years, the weight like metal in your heart, heavy and aching. You can’t handle having the love of your life by your side and not be able to talk to her, touch her, love her like you want to.
You can’t handle this war anymore.
So you choose to finally surrender.
“Ellie, I’m sorry.”
You whisper into the darkness. Ellie doesn’t respond or even move, and for a terrifying moment, you think she might be asleep—or worse, pretending that you don’t exist. But you can feel the tension in her spine, the rigid line of bone facing yours. She is listening.
You didn’t even mean to keep talking, but your heart has hijacked your throat. Your brain has no say in the history of this love.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, your voice cracking under the strain. “I’m so sorry for everything. I’m sorry for what happened at the party…for leaving you there. I swear, she doesn’t mean anything. But I’m not only sorry for that.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, the tears spilling over, tracking across the bridge of your nose and soaking the pillowcase.
“I’m sorry for all these years that we’ve spent apart. I’m sorry that I didn’t keep my promise of seeing you again. I swore I would, and I didn’t. I kept you waiting, and… and I let the silence grow and grow until it was a wall I didn’t know how to climb over.”
You take a ragged breath, the confession clawing its way out your throat.
“I’m sorry that all these years I’ve been with Chris, lying to the press, lying to the world, and lying to you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything about it. I’m sorry for not talking, not texting, not calling you even when I had my phone in my hand and your contact every single night. I wanted to. God, Ellie, I always wanted to. But I was so scared that you hated me now.”
The tears are falling faster now, a silent ugly crying that shakes your insides. You curl into yourself, but you still don’t turn around. You are too scared to face her, the fear of seeing what her reaction could be. If maybe it's rejection, or if she can't forgive you after everything. You stay facing the window, speaking to the glass, to the moon, to the mountains, to the ghost of the woman you love.
“I’m just so sorry, Ellie. The truth is… I am so lost. I haven’t been me since I was with you.”
The admission is absolute and devastating.
“Trough all of this—the movies, the magazines, the press and the commercials— the only time i was happy with myself, the only time I was really myself, was when I was with you. When I was just a kid. When I didn’t go to LA and had any roles and nobody told me to change everything about me.”
You choke on a sob, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as if that could help muffle the sounds, but the words push through your fingers like a waterfall of things you never had the strength to face.
“All of these years, I’ve been trying to fulfill this dream. I tried to do it without you, to be strong, to be the person the cameras wanted, to look for happiness in money and fame and other people. But the truth is, I’ve never been happy. I am not happy. I haven’t been happy since the day I left our apartment.”
You stare at the moonlight on the floor, the silver light blurred from your tears.
“It doesn't mean anything,” you whisper, “I could have all the riches in the world, but when I come home… you're not there. I’m alone. There’s nobody I love. And the only thing I've been wanting all these years —the only thing— is for you to be there like you used to be.”
“I understand if you can’t forgive me, or if you hate me, or if you don’t love me anymore.” you continue, “Honestly, I get it. Because the way I've treated you, and the way I've treated myself… It's something I’ll never be able to take back. I wish I could, but I can't take back time.”
You pull the duvet tighter around your chin, your body shaking with the force of the release, shivering in the cold room.
“But the only thing I can tell you… the only thing that is true… is that I miss you Ellie. I miss you every day.”
You stop, your heart laid open and bleeding in the pristine white sheet. You wait in the darkness, your back to hers, terrified that you have just spoken your final goodbye.
Until the mattress dips behind you, not away, but towards you.
Before your brain can process the movement, the space between you disappears. A sudden and overwhelming warmth presses against your back. An arm lays around your waist, desperate and tight, pulling you flush against a body that is shaking just as much as yours.
Ellie buries her face in the crook of your neck, her heartbeat against your skin. She holds you like you are the only thing that's solid in a world that is dissolving.
“I don’t care,” she chokes out, holding you fast against her as if she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go, “I don’t care about anything else.”
Her voice is a vibration against your spine, muffled by your hair.
“I don’t care that you have dated Chris, or whatever that was,” she sobs, the words tumbling in a flood just as strong as yours. “I don’t care that you were with… with her. I don’t care about what happened—I don’t care.”
She tightens her grip, her fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself to you.
“I’m the one who should be sorry” She cries, and the sound breaks your heart all over again, “I was the one who pulled away first, and i’m the one who also never called or texted, even when I’ve always wanted to… even when I rewatched our tapes all the time.”
Her confession also hangs, shameful and tender.
“I’m so sorry I kept them,” she whispers, “And I’m sorry that led to…t o everything that happened. This months have been hell and torture and neither of us deserved that. But it was my fault because I kept them—but I couldn't.”
“I couldn’t” she repeats, her voice cracking, “I couldn't do that because I couldn’t erase that last part of you. And I… I miss you so much too.”
She presses her forehead against the back of your head.
“I’ve tried to move on. I tried it with Dina, I tried to do movies, I won awards and none of that worked—and nothing will ever work because the only thing I want is you.”
“We’ve been running around,” Ellie continues, the realization striking her as if lightning, “We’ve been denying our feelings, being so mean to each other when the only thing we want… is each other.”
She takes a deep breath, pulling you even closer, eliminating every millimeter of air between your bodies.
“I’ll go back to that fucking apartment with the mattress on the floor if it means I can be with you,” she vows, her voice fierce and broken at the same time. “You’re the only thing I want.”
You turn in the tangle of sheets, the movement desperate, until you finally face her. The silence of the room has been replaced by the ragged rhythm of your shared breathing.
It feels like fever, burning your insides. You look at her in the moonlight, her forest green eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her eyelashes spiked with tears, her pink lips trembling. She is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
“I love you, Ellie,” you breathe out, the declaration tearing from your lips like a jagged stone you're finally allowed to spit out. “I’ve never stopped loving you. I just want to be with you.”
You reach out, hand trembling as you cup her freckled cheek, your thumb softly brushing away a fresh tear that tracks through the salt already drying on her skin. “I don’t care about anything else in the world. If I don’t have you, I have nothing.”
“I love you.” Ellie whispers, the words barely escaping before her composure demolishes.
And then, gravity collapses.
It is a crash. A violent, starving crash of lips. Your mouth finds hers with a desperation that borders on pain, a frantic attempt to consume and be consumed. It is the kiss of two people who have been drowning for six years and have finally broken the surface.
A war and a peace treaty all at once. Sloppy, wet with tears. Tastes of salt and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Her hands tangle in your hair, gripping your scalp with strength that aches, pulling you closer until there's no space left for the past to exist between you.
A cataclysm of lust in its rawest form—a hunger that has been starved into madness. You devour her sighs, her whimpers, the little noise of relief that vibrates in her throat and that you remember too well. You kiss the corner of her mouth, her bottom lip, the paths of tears in her cheek, and then back to her mouth, deeper, harder.
You can feel her heart hammering against your chest, a bird beating against its cage, matching with yours. The cold of the Aspen night is obliterated, replaced by a friction so intense it feels like you are both catching fire.
“Ellie,” you gasp into her mouth, the name a prayer and a curse all at once.
She swallows the sound, taking the invitation to meet your tongue with hers, tangible, warm, but most importantly, real.
The kind of kiss that rewrites the future awaiting. That erases the contract with Chris, burns the tapes, erases Dina and Abby and silences the press. In this dark room, there is only the wet heat of her lips and the desperate cling of her hands. It unspools your soul and knits it back together with hers.
You are crying, she is crying, and you are kissing through the sobbing, unable to stop or pull away, because to separate now would mean to die. You kiss like it is the last thing you will ever do, and the first thing you have ever truly done.
The need to feel her skin is a violence in your blood. Your hands are everywhere, clumsy with desperation, fumbling with the hem of her sweater. She is doing the same to you, her fingers hooking into the bottom of your long-sleeved thermal shirt.
“Take it off,” she gasps against your mouth, a command that is a plea. “I need to see you. God, please, take it off.”
You pull away just enough to obey. You yank the shirt over your head, the fabric catching briefly before you discard it onto the floor, not caring where it lands.
The cold air of the room hits your torso, but you don’t feel it. You only feel the heat of her gaze.
Ellie’s hands hover over you, trembling.
In the wash of the Aspen moonlight, you are a map she no longer knows by heart. Six years is a lifetime in the geography of a body. She stares at the changes, at new scars and new tattoos that she has never touched, stories she had never heard, pain she wasn't there to soothe.
But there’s the ink that will always remain. Her fingertips graze You have bewitched me, body and soul. Her touch is feather-light.
“I missed this,” She whispers, “I missed all of this.”
Then, her eyes travel up. She looks at your breasts, rising and falling with your fast breathing. She notices the shift, the way womanhood and Hollywood have settled into your frame, changing the softness of your younger self into the curvature of twenty-six.
She reaches out, her palms cupping them, her thumbs brushing the supple skin with a tenderness that makes your insides melt.
“You look…” she shakes her head, tears spilling all over again, catching the silver. “You look so different… so beautiful.”
“I had to,” you choke out, your hand landing on her shoulders, gripping her to keep from falling.
“But I’m here now.”
She kisses your chest, a hot and wet brand right over your heart, and then her hands move lower. It is unbearable. You need more, you need less fabric and more Ellie.
You fumble with the button of her jeans, she helps you. Her hands shake as she shimmies out of them. She attacks your waistband, shoving your pants down, kicking them away until they join the pile of discarded clothing. She hooks her fingers in the clasp of your bra, letting it fall from your shoulders. You shimmy down your panties. Everything happens in less than a minute.
You straddle her completely, utterly bare.
The moonlight pours through the window, turning your skins into marble. You are exposed, vulnerable, stripped of every defense you built since the day you last saw her. But you have never, ever felt so safe.
Ellie looks at you like you're the only source of light in the universe, her gaze feels physical, a caress that slides from your neck to your navel, drinking you in.
“God,” she trembles as she speaks, “I can't believe you're real.”
“I’m real,” you whisper, getting closer, your thighs brushing hers. “Touch me, Ellie. Prove I’m real.”
She makes a noise in the back of her throat—a whimper of pure, unfiltered want.
This is not the tentative exploration of teenagers anymore. This is the starving primal demand of two grown women who have denied themselves for half a decade. You push her back against the pillows, your hands roaming her body, reclaiming every inch. You strip her down until she matches you, skin against skin.
You run your hands down her sides to feel the solid reality of her freckled hipbones, the softness of the pale skin of her toned stomach.
“You’re the love of my life,” you tell her, the world dripping with sweat, tears and romance hovering over her face. “You hear me? There’s no one else. There never was.”
She tangles her fingers in your hair, pulling your face down to hers.
“You’re the love of my life.” she sobs, kissing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “I’ve tried so hard to hate you, but I only ever loved you.”
The feeling is suffocating. It is lust, yes—thick and heavy and dripping—but it is also pain. It is the mourning of lost time being burned away by the heat of the present.
“Make me forget,” you beg, your hips arching to meet hers, seeking peace, “make me forget everything but this.”
“I will.” she promises, her mouthing finding yours, sealing the vow in breath.
The shift is sudden, a collapse of gravity that pulls you back against the mattress, the white duvet rising up like a cloud around you as you lay down. Ellie moves with a single-minded focus, sliding down the length of your body, leaving kisses behind, her hands mapping the curve of your waist, your hips, her touch leaving trails of fire on your skin.
She hooks your legs over her shoulders, pinning you open to the cold air and her burning gaze.
When her mouth finally finds your center, the sensation is a shockwave that arches your back. It isn’t like those times you remembered all too well, when you were both young and inexperienced. Ellie is grown now. And she has become a woman who has been denied water for years finally reaching the river.
She consumes you with a ferocity that borders on animalistic. Her mouth moving in an open mouthed kiss, her tongue flickering on your clit relentlessly. There is a desperate intensity to it, a hunger that says this is the last meal she will ever have, and she intends to savor every tremor she wrings from your body.
“Jesus! Ellie!,” You hands fly to her hair, gripping the dark strands, your knuckles turning white. A loud moan tears from your throat, echoing off the walls, loud and uninhibited.
This. This is what you were thinking about for years. This is what you were thinking about when you were intimate with other people. This is what you were thinking about during the sex scene of the movie. You remember the set, the cameras zooming in, Janet the intimacy coordinator watching like a hawk, the way you couldn't fake the passion while your heart was breaking because you couldn't actually touch her. You couldn't have this.
But here? There’s no Steven shouting directions, no lighting crew adjusting the shadows and the lights, there is no “Cut!” waiting to sever the connection. There’s no script to follow, no lines to memorize. This is unscripted.
There is no Dina waiting at home, there’s no Chris posing on the red carpet with you, there is no Abby, no Rachel, no Erin. No one else but you and her. As it was always, always supposed to be.
There 's only this. The heat of her mouth, the friction, the absolute and crushing reality of her devotion. The real intimacy that has been ruining both your lives. The truth dragged out into the moonlight.
The pleasure builds, sharp and blinding, unlike anything you have ever felt in your fucking life. It obliterates the room, it vanishes the mountains, the hotel. The only thing that exists is the pressure of her lips sucking on you, the rhythms of her tongue, the way she hums and moans against your skin like she's the one that is getting the most pleasure out of it—vibrations that travel straight to your marrow.
“Ellie,” you cry out, the name fracturing, “Oh god!”
She chases your release without stopping or breathing, like it's the only thing that will save her soul. She memorizes you with her tongue, reclaiming what she lost, proving that despite the time and the distance and the silence, you still belong only to her.
You look down through the haze of bliss and see her there. The sight of it, her hair fanned out over your thighs, the moonlight catching the movement of her shoulders, pushes you over the edge.
Your eyes roll back. You see stars. Maybe even the whole universe. White hot bursts of light behind your eyelids as your body seizes, shuddering through a climax that feels like death and rebirth all at once. You are shaking, unraveling, completely undone in the darkness and anchored to the earth only by the woman who loves you.
For a second, panic sets in. It feels too good, too perfect. Your hand flies to your forearm and you pinch your skin hard. A sharp sting of pain registers.
It 's real. She is real
She is relentless, even after she knows you have reached climax. She doesn't want to let go. Her hands grip your thighs when you try to escape, bruising, working you open. You can hear through the waves of overstimulation a guttural vibration against your center.
“You’re mine,” she murmurs, the words wet and possessive, “You hear me? You will always be mine.”
“Fuck! Yes, yes!” you struggle to talk, your throat feeling closed.
It breaks you. The realization crashes even harder than the pleasure. This is the summit. You could lose everything tomorrow, could lose the contract, the penthouse in the hills, the millions in the bank. You could be destitute, living in a cardboard box, and as long as you had this moment, as long as you had the weight of her head between your legs and the fierce devotion of her mouth, you would be the richest person on earth.
Nothing else matters. Fame is fake noise. This is real.
Just when you’re about to scream caused by a second release, when you are trembling on the pinnacle, she shifts. She doesn't stop, but she adds to the fire, her fingers slip inside you, curling in a motion that hits a spot so deep it feels like she's touching your soul.
“Please, please," you sob, tossing your head back, heels digging into the mattress.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, her pace quickening, matching the frantic rhythm of your hips, “Let go, baby. Let it go. I want everything”
And you give her everything, the climax a catastrophic failure of every single wall you’ve ever built. It’s not just the climax, it's the release of grief. You come so hard you see white, a blinding lighting. You cry out a broken sound, and your body seizes violently, releasing a flood that soaks her hand, soaks the sheets, a weeping that leaves you completely empty and filled all at once.
You push yourself up your elbows, your limbs feeling like jelly, to look at her.
Ellie pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, breathless. She looks glorious. Her hair is a chaotic halo around her face, her lips are swollen and red, her skin flushed with the same heat that is burning you. Her eyes are dark, blown wide, shining with a mixture of lust and absolute adoration.
It is the most beautiful face you have ever seen. It is the face of your past, your present, and your future.
“Hi,” she whispers, a triumphant smile playing on her lips.
“Hi,” you breathe back, dazed.
You can't be apart for even a second. You reach for her, pulling her up the lengths of your body until you're face to face. You kiss her, tasting yourself on her lips, a seal that binds you together.
“I need to be closer,” you demand against her lips.
You reach down, your hands shaking, and hook your thumbs into the waistband of her boxers. You shove them down, kicking them away until there is nothing left but her naked center, and the auburn bush that you loved so much. She moves with you, understanding the need before you even voice it. She settles between your thighs, one leg interlocking with yours.
Then, she presses forward. The contact is electric. Wetness against wetness, heat against heat, swollen anatomy grinding against swollen anatomy. It is the most intimate friction in the world. You wrap your legs around her waist, locking her in, and you start to move togehter—a slow, grinding pulse that isn't about the finish line anymore, but about existing in the same space, fused together, scissoring your bodies until you can't tell where you end and she begins.
You pull her closer, your legs intertwining with hers, locking your ankles behind her knees to trap her against you. When you press your hips forward, the sensation is blinding. A collision of weeping flesh so perfect and agonizingly right, that sobs rip themselves from both your throats.
The best sensation of your entire lives, dethroning the first one. Nothing, absolutely nothing will ever compare. No award, no applause, no touch from another human being has ever come close to the soul shattering relief of having Ellie’s body grinding against yours.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head falling back into the pillows, your eyes rolling back, “Ellie, Ellie.”
She buries her face in the crook of your neck, her nose brushing against your pulse point, and lets out a sound that unmakes you. A desperate whine—a keen of pure bliss, unadulterated need. A sonic testament to how much she missed this, how much she missed you.
“I know,” she cries against your throat, her hips snapping forward to meet yours, seeking more contact. “I know, I know, I know.”
It sends each and every one of your nerve endings on fire. You can feel every centimeter of her, the heat of her center, the slide of her clitoris against you, a tactical spark that sends thunder straight to your spine.
It feels cinematic, but better. Cinema is pretending, this moment isn't choreographed. This is an authentic, material culmination of looking across her in rooms without being able to touch. Now, you are making up for every lost second.
You grab her face, forcing her to look at you, needing to see the pleasure wrecking her as you grind harder against her. Her eyes are glazed, deep olive pools of want, her mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy.
“Look at us,” you pant, biting her bottom lip, tasting the salt of her sweat. “We’re finally here. It's just us.”
“It’s only you,” she moans, her hands gripping your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin to hold in the storm. “It’s always been you.”
The crescendo building is dangerous. Too intense, maddening. Your bodies arch off the mattress in unison. You are weeping with it, tears streaming down your face, mixing with the sweat, with the saliva as you kiss her again—deep, tongue heavy kisses that taste like iron and eternity.
You can feel her tremble, her muscles coiling and releasing. She is whining louder now, chasing the edge.
“Don’t stop,” she begs, her hips stuttering. “Please, please, don’t stop, I’m close, I’m so close.”
“I’ve got you,” you promise, wrapping your arms tighter around her, fusing your chest to hers. “I’m right here.”
And the world goes white once again. It starts with your toes and rips like a wildfire. You feel Ellie stiffen in your arms, a cry tearing from her as she shatters against you. Her orgasm triggers yours, your body convulsing, riding wave after wave of an ocean of pleasure you wish will never reach the shore.
You hold onto each other as the after shocks roll through you, hearts hammering in tandem against your shared tattooed ribs. You are tangled, sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, collapsed in a heat of white sheets and moonlight.
You will always remember this as the single greatest moments of your life. And as you lay there, you know no matter what happens tomorrow, you have already won.
The room slowly reassambles itself around you, piece by piece. The timber walls,the flickering gas fire, the indifferent moon—it all comes back into focus, but looking different now. It looks softer, bathed in a pinkish filter. The air in the room is still biting cold, but inside the fortress of the duvet, in the tangles, sweaty knot of your bodies, it is tropical.
You remain collapsed against each other, limbs heavy and boneless, woven together so thoughtfully that it’s impossible to detangle.
Ellie’s head rests on your chest, right over your heart, which is reluctantly returning to a normal rhythm. Her breathing is a warm gust against your collarbone. Her hand is splayed flat across your stomach, her fingers occasionally twitching, as if checking that you are still there.
It is a stunning afterglow. It feels like the calm after a natural disaster, when you walk out of the rubble and realize the sun is shining brighter than it ever was before. The tension that has held your shoulders for years has dissolved, leaving you as light as a feather, floating in the ozone of pure relief.
You stroke her hair, the strands sticking to her damp forehead. You trace the line of her spine, marveling at the reality of her here, now, in this bed.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Words feel too little, or too big for the haze of the moment. You just breathe, just exist with each other, finally at peace.
Eventually, Ellie moves. She props herself in one elbow, wincing slightly as her muscles protest the sudden movement. She looks down at you, her hair a wild, beautiful disaster, a flushed map of satisfaction in her freckled chest.
She blinks, looking around the ravaged bed, then back at you.
“Wow,” she exhales, the word sounding punched out of her. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
You let out a breathy laugh, a sound that bubbles up from the bottom of your chest. You reach up to tuck a stray lock behind her ear.
“Yeah,” you smile, “I think the same.”
Ellie flops back down onto the pillow beside you, staring up at the high beams of the ceiling. She lets out a long, incredulous groan.
“We’re so ridiculous.” she states flatly.
“We are.” you agree, turning your head to look at her profile, her soft nose catching the pearly light.
“I mean, truly,” she continues, “We spent six years yearning, staring at walls, dating people we didn’t even like… just to end up in a bed. Sweating.”
“Efficency was never our strong suit,” you quip, grabbing her hand and interlacing your fingers with hers.
“Efficency?” she snorts, turning to face you, a playful glint returning to those green eyes after a long time of being taken away, “Babe, it’s like we drove off a cliff, swam through a swamp, and climbed a mountain barefoot just to get a glass of water.”
You laugh aloud, the sound ringing clear in the room. “Hey, the water was worth it, though.”
“The water was more than worth it. Excellent. Outstanding. Would do it all over again.” she conceded, grinning, before her expression changes into mock-annoyed. “But seriously, it took us a fucking while.”
“Better late than never?” you offer.
“If you say ‘good things come to those who wait’ I’ill kick you off the bed,” she warns, though she’s squeezing your hand tight.
“You wouldn’t dare,” you respond, rolling onto your side to face her, “But you have to admit… the tension added to the production value.”
Ellie rolls her eyes, but she leans in, pressing a soft peck to your lips. “Shut up. I’m never letting you leave this room. We’re living here now, we’ll order room service and bark at anyone who tries to come in. Even Steven.”
“Especially Steven.” you whisper against her lips.
“Especially Steven.” she agrees. “After all, he totally gave us the same room on purpose. I don’t know if I should thank him or punch him. Prolly both.”
You chuckle, the sound muffled by the thick feathers surrounding you. It's perfect in here, dark, warm, and smelling entirely of her and the aftermath of the last hour. But as the adrenaline fades, a new sensation creeps in. The stickiness. The reality that you are both coated in a layer of absolute exertion.
Ellie’s eyes glint, almost like she can read your mind.
“Although…” she starts, a playful lilt in her voice.
“Although?” you prompt, tracing the curve of her hip under the sheets.
“As much as I would love to ferment with you for the rest of eternity…” she pauses, running a hand down your damp arm. She bites her lip, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “I feel like we should follow this in the shower.”
You groan, a happy, exhausted sound, but the image of the steam, the hot water, and her naked body against yours is instant motivation. “Lead the way.”
“That’s why I love you,” She whispers, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the bathroom. “Come on.”
𝐓he morning light spills in the room, pouring over the jagged rim of the mountains. It was like liquid gold, flooding everything with a brilliance that belonged only to the most holy of things.
Ellie wakes up from the sheer weight of silence, without an alarm or strange sound. She blinks, the crust of sleep falling away, and the first thing she sees is you.
You are sleeping in your stomach, the duvet kicked down to your hips, leaving the bare landscape of your back exposed to the light. The pale, winter sun paints you in strokes of ivory and blue. Dust motes dance in the shafts of light above you, crowning you as an angel on earth. Ellie stops breathing for a moment, afraid that her lungs might disturb the painting in front of her.
She traces the line of your spine with her eyes, from the nape of your neck down to the dimples of your lower back. It is a sight for sore eyes, one she thought she had lost, a territory she had been exiled from. Seeing you unguarded, naked, bathed in the glow, feels less like waking up in a hotel room and more like the after life.
If I died, she thinks, a clarity that is suddenly washing over her, this is what heaven would look like.
For minutes that could have been hours, she thought about a life with you. Away from the flashing bulbs, away from the contract that ties you to a version of yourself you hate, away from the expectations of strangers, and the filming that is just an hour away of happening. She thinks about waking up like this for the rest of her days, about admiring the rise and fall of your ribs, the smell of your skin, sweeter than the expensive cedar that surrounds her.
She thinks about the last years, the hollow awards, the forced smiles on red carpets, the sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling next to bodies that were warm but weren't right. It was torture, slow, agonizing torture. An amputation of her own heart. But looking at you now, with your hair messy on the pillow and your hand curled loosely near your face, she knows with certainty that she would do it all over again.
She would walk through the fire, endure and survive the silence, she would break her own heart a thousand times over just to land right here, in this morning, with you.
You shift in your sleep, letting out a contented sight that rattles her ribcage, just where the tattoo is. Ellie smiles, feeling the bliss of being around you, as those years you had spent together in your early days.
Carefully, as careful as she could possibly be, she slides out the warmth of the sheets. She grabs her discarded flannel shirt from the floor and wraps it around herself, padding barefoot across the cold floor and sliding the glass door open just enough to slip onto the balcony.
She needs to tell someone. She feels too full, like she might spill over if she doesn't speak it into existence.
The air is biting, freezing the breath in her lungs, but she doesn't pay no mind to it. She pulls her phone from the pocket, her fingers hovering over the contact list until she finds the only name that matters in a crisis, or in a miracle. Not Rachel, not Jesse, not Chris, not even an old friend.
Joel.
She knows it's an hour later in Wyoming. He's probably already up, since he was always a morning person. She knows he is drinking coffee on his porch, watching his horses. He is the only one she wants to talk with, the only one who saw you two before the world got its claws in you. The only one who believed in her dreams before they became a reality.
She knows he is the only person in the world who can understand the magnitude of what has just been rewritten for the future.
She presses call.
“Hello?” His voice is rough, textured like gravel.
“Hey, old man,” Ellie murmurs, her breath forming clouds in the cold air.
There is a pause, a shifting of a chair on the other end. A sigh of happiness. “How you doin´, kiddo? It's been a while since I got a call from you. Especially this early. Usually means you're in trouble or you won somethin'”
The auburn laughs, "No trouble or awards today.”
“How’s the filming goin´?” Joel asks, the warmth in his voice tangible.
"All good, all good,” she replies, looking back through the glass at you, checking to see if you are still sleeping, "Sorry for not calling, everything has been… chaotic."
"So, trouble?” His tone changes instantly, the protective edge always there.
"You could say that,” she sighs, leaning against the wooden railing, "Found out Erin has been stealing money for years, and she was the one who leaked the tape… the private one."
“What?” The word is a shocked, low growl. “Erin has been stealing from you? Give me an address, Ellie. I'll be on a plane in an hour.”
“Don´t worry,” Ellie says quickly, rubbing her forehead. The single mention of Erin produces an intense migraine every single time, “It´s handled, I fired her. Rachel Brown is handling the legal side, she's my new manager. And… she’s Y/N’s manager too.”
The line goes quiet, the only sound for some seconds being the wind whistling through the pines below.
“Y/N, huh?” Joel’s voice softens, dropping an octave. “Been a while since I heard that name comin’ out your mouth. You saw her again?”
“Well… yes, you could say that” she murmurs, her voice trembling a little, “I’ve been… filming the movie with her all this time. She's my co-star.”
“Wow…” he breathes, “That’s hell of a coincidence.”
“Yeah. I even broke up with Dina because of it,” she adds, ripping the band-aid off. “So, yeah. It's been a crazy week, probably the craziest week of my life. Everything just kinda blew up in my face.”
She waits for the lecture. For the ‘I told you so’ or the ‘you need to get your life together.’ But she also knows, she didn't call Joel knowing he would lecture her about something.
He remains quiet, and when he speaks, his voice is thoughtful. “You just dropped a bomb on your life, kiddo. Career, girlfriend, manager. That’s a lot of wreckage.”
“It is.”
“But here’s the thing,” he adds, “I don't hear you sad. You sound… light. Is there something else you wanna tell me?”
Ellie bites her lip, looking back into the room. The sun had moved, illuminating your hand now.
“Well… I…” She chokes up, smiling through the sudden tears. “I think things are good with her again. Like, finally good.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I guess we finally came to terms with the fact that we can't be away from each other,” she whispers, emotion taking over her tone, “We tried, but it didn't work. Very movie-like, isn't it?”
Joel lets out a rusty chuckle. “Kiddo, this was known for a while by anyone with eyes and a heart. When I met that girl Dina, I knew. When you told me you got over her, I always knew you didn't."
Ellie laughs, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I was going through some old boxes the other day, and I found that polaroid from those high school plays y’all always used to do. You remember? When you two were playin´ Romeo and Juliet? You were fifteen.”
“Yeah, of course I remember.” the freckled one says, her heart squeezing.
“I looked at that photo,” he continues, his voice thick with memory, “And the thing is, I started remembering the two of you. When you asked to borrow the truck to take her to prom, and all those plays you used to star in, and when she used to stay for dinner, and how inseparable you were. Even when I helped you two move in together into that little apartment in the city. You were there for each other at your lowest.”
He pauses, and Ellie can hear him take a sip of his coffee.
“What you have with that girl… I’ve never seen it before, El. Not in my life and not in the movies. It wasn't just puppy love, it was always meant to be more. It has always been yours. Don't be scared about the future, because I know you callin’ 'cause you're scared.”
Ellie closes her eyes, letting this promise of peace wash over her. “I was so scared, still am. I thought I lost her. And I don't wanna lose her again.”
“You can't lose something that's a part of you. If you two stick together, you gon’ be fine” he says simply, a statement of fact. “Now, go back inside before you freeze to death. And tell her I said hello, and that I’ve missed her. You two need to give this old man a visit when you can, yeah?”
“We will,” she whispers, “Thank you, dad. For everything.”
“Anytime, kiddo. Don't mess it up this time—I’m talking to both.”
๋ ࣭ ⭑ㅤ 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 . . . ellie creates a fake facebook account to mess with her best friend, dina. then you add her. she has quietly liked you for years, yet never had the courage to talk to you in class. when you start messaging her, ellie panics. you think you’re talking to a boy. she knows you’re straight, but telling the truth feels like the fastest way to lose the only version of you that ever chose her first.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ ㅤ𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . catfish, wlw shit.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ ㅤ𝒂/𝒏 . . . this is not a continuation or a prequel to my other ellie is away (in case you wanna read it). reblogs and feedback are super appreciated <𝟑 ++ please make sure you wait for the divider to load completely before each chapter—it indicates which month the chapter is set in. every two chapters, there’s a one-month time skip, so keep that in mind. pls and thank you :p
๋ ࣭ ⭑ㅤ 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 . . . ellie creates a fake facebook account to mess with her best friend, dina. then you add her. she has quietly liked you for years, yet never had the courage to talk to you in class. when you start messaging her, ellie panics. you think you’re talking to a boy. she knows you’re straight, but telling the truth feels like the fastest way to lose the only version of you that ever chose her first.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ ㅤ𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . catfish, wlw shit.
๋ ࣭ ⭑ ㅤ𝒂/𝒏 . . . this is not a continuation or a prequel to my other ellie is away (in case you wanna read it). reblogs and feedback are super appreciated <𝟑 ++ please make sure you wait for the divider to load completely before each chapter—it indicates which month the chapter is set in. every two chapters, there’s a one-month time skip, so keep that in mind. pls and thank you :p
PLAYER!ELLIE ﾒ MEAN!READER ─ ALWAYS PLAY THE PLAYER.
❝YEAH, I BROKE YOUR HEART LIKE SOMEONE DID TO MINE, AND NOW YOU WON’T LOVE ME FOR A SECOND TIME❞
ᝰ.ᐟ⌞SUMMARY⌝ ﹕ A year after that devastating summer, Ellie is stunned to see you again—this time at a summer camp where you’re both working. The girl who once led her on and then disappeared without a trace is back, but Ellie’s no longer the naive girl you once played. Still aching from the way you broke her heart, Ellie is filled with a desire for revenge. She wants to make you feel the same confusion and hurt she felt. She’s ready to pull you into the same emotional game she was trapped in, to finally get her payback. But as she carefully lays her plans, Ellie finds herself in uncharted territory. She’s never been one for revenge, and now that the opportunity is in front of her, she begins to question if it will really give her the closure she craves—or if it will leave her with something far worse. Is revenge really worth it, or will Ellie learn the hard way that some wounds can’t be healed by hurting the person who caused them?
✶.ᐟ⌞THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS⌝﹕7.3k words⨾ no use of y/n⨾ pussy wrecking angst yuri shit⨾ headcounselor!abby⨾ exsituationship!abby / ellie⨾ counselor!ellie⨾ ellie’s mean as fuck but still down bad⨾ counselor!reader⨾ they need therapy lowk⨾ toxic yearning⨾ emotional manipulation⨾ “if i can’t have you, no one can” type of shit⨾ degradation / dirty talk⨾ public/semi-public sex⨾ fingering (r!receving)⨾ cussing⨾ manipulation/mind games⨾ heavy sexual tension⨾ push-pull type of shit⨾ slowburn (exgf ellie/enemies to lovers or wtv).
.ᐟ.ᐟ⌞AUTHOR’S NOTE⌝ ﹕SMUTSMUTSMUT. reblogs, comments and feedback of any kind highly appreciated<3 i might not be able to add anyone else to the taglist unfortunately. blame tumblr for that. ── a special thank you to these freaks who helped me proofread this (ily so much) @zzelysian, @liztreez.
The wheezing fan in the corner barely stirred the muggy air, shaking as if it were about to die on the spot. The sweat on Abby’s nape soaked the collar of her polo, sunscreen making her forearms tacky against the desk’s surface. The smell of citronella bug spray blended with the salty summer heat and Abby’s only cup of coffee that still steamed.
The whole place was a mess: loose papers, half-finished water bottles, an old walkie-talkie on the desk like a forgotten mission. Peeling posters on the wall, the whiteboard in the corner still showing last week’s schedule in fading marker.
The only thing more unbearable than the heat was Savannah’s constant whining.
Abby slammed her palm against the desk so hard the stapler itself jumped. “Enough,” She interrupted abruptly, her patience a thin thread scraped by the sharpest sword. “I don’t care who started what—I’m finishing it.”
Savannah huffed, flipping her red-orange hair over her shoulder, angry-red cheeks glowing louder with each speck of golden glitter spattered on her round cheekbones. “Oh my God, Abby, she put bugs in my bed!” she screeched, gesturing toward you, two seconds away from an aneurysm. “Bugs—live ones!”
You leaned against the filing cabinet, arms crossed over the faded logo of your Savage Starlight tee. A grin playing at your lips, enough to send her fuming, but not enough to count as a full expression. Savannah was as easy as a wasp nest being poked with a stick just to hear it buzz. You loved that shit.
“She said she didn’t do it,” Abby deadpanned, already exhausted, pushing a few wispy baby hairs back on their slick track.
Savannah turned to you, eyes squinting. “Oh, please. That’s bullshit! Kim saw her sneaking into my cabin—”
“Is that true?” Abby’s eyes met yours, her tone patient over the hiccup of the half-deceased fan in the background.
You sighed, hand sprawled in front of you, fingers wiggling lazily as the light reminded you how uneven the polish had grown. “Depends.”
“Depends on what?!”
You looked up then, head tilted slightly to the side like you were mulling over your following words. “Did you, or did you not, completely trash my closet last week?”
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. “I told you I didn’t do that.”
“Then I didn’t do it.”
Savannah let out a sound halfway between a growl and a sob at your shrug, fists curling in her own hair like she was seconds from yanking it out by the roots and slamming it onto Abby’s desk as proof of her imminent breakdown. No one gave a shit.
The back and forth went on for a few more minutes, Abby’s fingers continuously massaged her temples, mentally reconsidering why she even signed up for this job. Kids should’ve been the most challenging part. Kids.
You weren’t quite sure when she’d stopped rambling something about decency; you only knew her eyes had grown exhausted. She soon repelled you both from her space with a wave of her hand, unable to stand the sight of you anymore.
When you finally turned the knob, the door groaned as it swung open, releasing a sniff of stale office air. You didn’t even get two steps before someone stepped into your path.
Ellie.
She seemed like she’d grown roots into the doorframe, partly illuminated by the afternoon light coming from the big windows ahead. Her arms crossed just so; the suppressed smile gave her away as an observer pretending not to be one.
Her lips parted, smart words already queued up, but your expression cut her off at the ankles. “Eavesdropping now, aren’t we?” you called her out, “real slick.”
The girl’s shoulders lifted in something that only vaguely resembled a shrug. “What, I can’t lean against a wall anymore?”
“Not when it’s outside Abby’s office.”
“I wasn’t listening,” she insisted, but the innocent act was easily dismissed by the stillness of your crossed arms and the unimpressed look in your eyes. “Okay,” she conceded in a rushed puff of breath, “...maybe a little.” A subtle contraction crinkled her eyes. “But in my defense,” she continued with a hand on her chest, “you could hear Savannah’s voice even from down the hall.”
When you inched closer and melted into the space between you, your scent finally reached her—more electric than the floral scent she was used to. Her spine straightened instinctively, like her body remembered yours without permission—muscle memory some would call it.
Just then, Savannah strutted past, her perfume trailing behind that fluctuated all wrong in the air, nearly breaking the spell, that slit-pupil glare melting whatever was left of your peace.
Ellie snorted loud enough for her to hear. “You good?”
You rolled your eyes at her dumb question. “Do I look good?”
Ellie’s smirk deepened, her head lolling lazily against the wall, “always.”
You fought the smile that tugged at your lips and when you couldn’t hold it back any longer, you turned your head, hoping she’d miss it, your shoulder brushing the space beside her on the wall.
“So… did you do it?”
“Maybe.”
“Knew it. You’re too smart to get caught, though. That was your first mistake.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”
Ellie’s crooked grin flashed teeth, “bold.” Then, like she was about to reveal some government secret, she leaned a little closer, eyes darting down the hallway, right where Savannah had disappeared. “Want me to trip her in the dining hall? I’ll even make it look like an accident. I’ve got a system.”
You cracked a reluctant smile, the toe of her sneaker nudging your shoe. “You wanna come by later?” she offered like it meant nothing. “My cabin. Just us. I found that dumb movie with the exploding aliens and no plot. Figured you could use a break.”
“If this is some convoluted setup to get laid, don’t bother.”
The Williams girl blinked, then laughed with the intent of making you feel foolish for even thinking she still wanted you. “You really think I’d use alien gore as foreplay?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Just sayin’... you’re growing a bit predictable.” You rolled your hip into the wall, pupils slipping up at her through your lashes.
“Predictable, you say?” she repeated, pushing off the wall with a slow stretch, “And here I thought I was keepin’ you on your toes.” Her words were met with a quiet snort, your head bobbing subtly in response.
Her fern eyes dipped to your mouth before she caught herself and looked away, jaw chewing on a primal urge she refused to act on. “Okay, so…” She cleared her throat. “Projector and trash talk tonight?”
One eyebrow arched as your index finger flicked out, stabbing her shoulder. “Strictly that. Don’t get ideas.”
Ellie pressed her fingertips to her brow in solemn salute, “scout’s honor.”
Brushing past her with a snort, “you were never a scout.”
A grin stretched across her freckles as she tracked your every step, eyes a little too hopeful for someone who called this strategy. “...never said I was.”
𝟒𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲.
Kids with messy tie-dye shirts ran around at dusk, chasing each other with melting red and blue popsicles, their mouths stained purple.
Sparklers were also handed out right after sundown, clutched in sweaty little fists. More than one palm met the bite of a hot sparkler, which Abby promptly took care of, like the responsible nurse assistant she was. Someone else tripped face-first over scattered toys while yelling about needing more s’mores. Counselors, fizzed up on their third canned soda, tossed out reminders that drifted through the tall wild pines, happy noises they’d helped set loose.
The frenzy of the Fourth had sucked everyone into their euphoric cloud, oblivious to your sneaky retreating form. Children, unbound by bedtime, streaked through the darkness like hyperactive fireflies, the counselors just as hyped, lost themselves in deep conversations about unimportant matters, throwing empty soda cans over their shoulders while laughing at inside jokes, eyes mesmerized by the exploding glittery colors illuminating the starry sky.
You slid from the scene, unnoticed by all, save one.
Sometimes, you’d catch her eye on you from the periphery, a fugitive pressure begging for attention right back. An uncanny radar, it seemed, perpetually locked onto you, her eyes a compass always pointing your way. Even when Ellie tried to ignore you, her body always did her dirty, especially her eyes—glancing at you more often than she cared to count, lingering on the way your clothes clung to your sunlit skin, kissed gold and crowned in Aphrodite’s favor.
She wished she could rip her eyes off of you and undo this spell that had been cast over her. A karmic curse, Dina would’ve called it, a past-life lesson she failed and was doomed to repeat.
But Dina wasn’t there and none of that mattered.
So for the past couple of days, she was stuck watching you smile at some wide-eyed, innocent soul who came to you with their endless, curious questions. You’d kneel to their level, a sweet pet name rolling off your tongue so easily, your hand resting gently on their fragile shoulders while you looked at them like they were the most precious thing in the world, like you’d do anything for them. You looked so damn genuine about it that it devastated her.
How could the loudmouthed lifeguard who used to scare kids half to death transform into this nurturing version that didn’t fit with the one she knew?
She was caught between alternate realities that didn’t complete one another.
At one point, she even wondered if she was stuck in a coma, trapped in some hyper-real dream designed by a dead brain that had already flatlined. The possibility that there were layers to you she’d never seen before was harder to accept.
Has Abby seen all of it? Did you let her?
Ellie herself didn’t even know what she was doing anymore. Wasn’t sure if she was just keeping an eye on you out of control, or if she was just getting lost in the easy smiles you reserved for those kids.
Either way, the freckled girl didn’t trust herself and she sure as hell didn’t trust you.
Not even when you swore there was nothing between you and Abby. Not anymore, at least. Ellie tried to play it cool, but curiosity is a quiet thief that had been eroding her peace bit by bit. She had to know.
When the confrontation came, she fired questions at you, even though you’d told her a hundred times there was nothing between you and Abby, Ellie just kept picking at it.
Maybe it was the way Abby looked at you—yeah, Ellie noticed that too. It was driving her insane. That look wasn’t subtle, and she swore on Maria’s name that Abby still felt something for you.
Ever since Alexis’ accidental revelation, she seemed to be going through a second breakup, one she didn’t fully understand herself. She’d be lying if she said those words didn’t keep her up at night, the image of you and Abby haunting her dreams.
The idea of you taking relationships seriously enough to date someone like Abby, was enough to infuriate her. It was unfair, too fucking unfair and she swore she’d set the whole camp on fire if you ever happened to be a thing.
You tried to explain how you met Abby, how it was nothing but a memory now. However, no matter the words you used to ease her suspicion, it was never believable enough. Something always felt off about it.
Each time Ellie stood afar, not even allowing herself to blink, just in case she missed a subtle touch, a smile, a glance, anything. She was that tormented.
It wasn’t just jealousy, it was the unfairness of it all. You didn’t deserve to move on, didn’t deserve happiness, not after what you’d done to her. If you hadn’t chosen her a year ago when she laid her soul bare, then you didn’t get to find peace nor date anyone else while she was still picking up the pieces of what you left behind. You deserved to be just as torn up, as hollow as she was.
God, the things she’d do.
If she couldn’t have you, no one could.
To her, it was only fair.
Then came the unexpected moment you told her you wanted to take things slow, that if there was going to be another chance, it would have to be on your terms.
You weren’t the same person anymore, you said and Ellie could see it. This newfound cautiousness shook up her plan, the one where you’d come crawling back into her boxers, desperate for a taste of her. But sadly, all she could do was taste the frustration and tuck it away. Patience, as Joel often reminded her, is its own quiet gamble.
She glanced over at the other counselors. Most of them were too focused on the kids to notice much else. Ellie took a slow step backward, Converses grumbling against the gravel, as a soft, hiccough of a breeze teased her bangs, so feather-light that her preoccupied thoughts dissolved it without a trace.
No one seemed to notice the girl slipping out of the circle and later on, a few steps away, she didn’t even bother throwing a look over her shoulder. Some departures are sneakier when left unwitnessed.
Her feet found their own path, leading her towards the camp director’s office, a structure more figurehead than functional heart of the camp. The man who supposedly ran this place was nothing but an imaginary presence Ellie had barely seen twice, a greedy hand making an appearance every now and then just to collect paychecks whilst all the real work fell on Abby’s shoulders.
Maybe it was true what the director had said about Abby being the most responsible person he knew. Still, Ellie knew it was just an excuse for him to go off on his crazy vacations while Abby was stuck taking care of everything else, whether she wanted to or not.
Her steps came to a halt as she watched you through the small office window while she loitered, camouflaged by the bleak shadows. The little light above painted the sad walls with wobbly streaks.
Your silhouette drifted into the room, rummaging through drawers you had no business being near, with the hush of someone certain that the distant burning spider lilies in the sky were loud enough to blind the world even for a moment. Long enough to get what you needed, at least.
Her emeralds glinted as they caught the crack of the door, wide enough to slip through without alarming you. You never noticed her there, nor the small smirk blooming in the dark, too preoccupied with whatever you were doing.
Slowly, slender fingers curled around the doorknob with care, making sure it didn’t squeak under her palm and blow her cover. She eased it open, the faintest of sounds barely audible over the hushed shuffling in Abby’s office.
You didn’t even flinch. Too busy digging through Abby’s shit—at least that’s what Ellie figured, though who the fuck knew what you were really up to. Then, she heard you muttering: “Where the fuck is it?” A frustrated sigh followed and Ellie had to bite back a smile.
Her eyes couldn’t help but drift down south, right where shorts hugged your ass like they were painted on. Slowly, she stalked closer, but it wasn’t until you froze mid-act that she realized you had finally sensed a presence in the room. Before your head spun around, rough hands snaked around your waist, your eyes widened with terror, only to soften as you recognized who the greedy warmth those palms belonged to.
Your gasp dissolved when a scratchy laugh caressed your ear. “What’re you up to?” The whisper of her lips brushed against the curve of your neck, each breath a brush of wind that sent jittery tremors down your arms.
“You—you’re gonna give me a heart attack!” you stammered, your hands instinctively flying to cover hers, fingers bumping clumsily against her knuckles. Pressing close, her chin comfortably came to rest on your shoulder, her laughter practically vibrating against you as curious hands began to wander, claiming home on your hips.
“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “You just look so cute like this—all flushed and startled.” Your cheeks burned hotter, a feverish glow no shadow could smother, your heart still recovering from the jumpscare.
Despite your plea to take things slower, every inch of your body conspired with her touch, both begging you to give in and lose yourself in her all over again. It was impossible not to yearn for her when she looked so fuckably sweet, not to crave the tiredness that came with being buried between her thighs for hours just like you used to, when the overwhelming feminine urge to please her took over and there was nothing you could do but obey. But the rational part of yourself, still intact, told you that you could resist this time. You were sure you could.
An exasperated huff of air slipped out of you, fueling her as your composure melted like wax under a passionate flame. “What’re you doing in Abby’s office, huh?” her lips moved over your pulse point, “snooping through her shit in the dark like some little thief?”
“Looking for… my phone,” you uttered with a hint of shame. Not for getting caught red-handed, no, but because the way you craved her had your insides twisting and your soul aching. You leaned into her despite yourself, the heat of her body drawing you into her cruel trap like a trembling insect offering itself to the velvety jaws of a Venus flytrap.
It was supposed to be quick. Just grab your phone and get out. But now you couldn’t even bring yourself to push her away.
Abby had been insufferable about the no-phones rule, confiscating them with some high-and-mighty speech about disconnecting to reconnect or whatever bullshit. Sure, you could technically live without your phone, but this wasn’t about Snapchat streaks or scrolling through Instagram reels. It was about Ava and Diego, making sure they were okay. And Pumpkin. God, you couldn’t stop thinking about Pumpkin. You needed to know your baby was okay.
Your lips parted uselessly; Ellie’s breathing hitting your neck demolished whatever explanation had queued up in your throat, shutting your brain down with the dampest pressure of lips. A tremor ran through your eyelids, lashes fluttering like trapped moths and all the air gathered in your lungs escaped in an uneven little exhale. Neck kisses—they’d be the death of you, a knowledge the Williams girl often liked to use against you.
Your head tilted, her lips holding a silent command you were too weak to fight. Your body just obeyed, like it always did, pliantly moving for her. She was the artist and her hands guided every inch of you, positioning her favorite muse just right for the masterpiece she was about to make out of you. Another kiss followed, softer but no less devastating, continuing their path upward until she zeroed a few inches behind your ear.
She could taste your senses betraying you with her tongue. Lips melted on your skin, making it impossible for you to think straight—perhaps the fact that you were ovulating wasn’t helping. A dreamy sigh escaped your lips before you could even swallow it down. She smiled against your skin, pride oozing from every freckled pore of hers.
“Why’d you possibly need your phone so bad?” she inquired, her voice silkier now, rolling over you smoothly. It was pathetic how easily you dissolved under her very fingertips.
“T’check on my…” The words faded into unfinished thoughts. Ellie’s calloused palms stopped just beneath your breasts, thumbs running over the curve there. “…yes,” you croaked incoherently.
“On your…?” she mockingly prompted against your neck, coaxing you to finish your sentence, but the fervent press of her lips working over the line of your jaw kept your brain from functioning properly.
With her touch, you were lost and without it, it was even worse. Her hands moved again, rougher than tender, kneading your tits through the cotton of your shirt, and for a second, you thought you might let her. Your lips parted, but no sound left them, until hers attached to your neck, sucking slightly, jolting you back to reality.
“Ellie, seriously?” Your brow furrowed as you twisted away, pushing her off you. “Hickeys? What are you, ten?” The scoff in your voice barely masked the trembling of wobbly knees, or the small pause in your breath when she reached for you once again. You peeled her hands off and focused back on the desk, digging through the camp director’s belongings to ignore the plastered heat on your face.
“What?” The girl feigned innocence, “worried your little girlfriend’s gonna see ‘em?”
That comment made your hands freeze mid-search, but you didn’t turn around. “For the last time, nothing is going on with Abby,” you snapped, resuming your search. The drawer creaked as you yanked it open, fingers digging through the mess inside. “She’s a friend. That’s it.”
But Ellie wasn’t having it. She remembered all too well the night you kissed that guy at that one beach party, last year. Claimed you didn’t start it, swore it wasn’t what it looked like. You still stuck to that story even now, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t trust you, not one bit. How could she, after everything you’d put her through? If there was one truth the ivy-eyed girl knew about you was that you stayed loyal to no one but yourself.
With her hands on her hips, she shifted her weight to one side, her grin dying gradually. “Mhm,” She hummed, seemingly indifferent—at least as much as the green jealousy monster would allow. “Funny, ‘cause she sure looks at you like she wants a hell of a lot more than friendship.”
Something about her accusing tone made you tick, but you didn’t take the bait. Instead, your attention zeroed on the messy pile of confiscated phones and knotted headphones. “It’s not even about Abby. It’s about—this is just…” You began, but then shook your head, drawing a hiss of a breath through your teeth, “It’s not appropriate.”
A puff of derision escaped Ellie’s nostrils; her hands, however, acted with their own will. Finding their way back to the indentations of your waist, she pulled your back flush against her front, her hips rolling forward, pressing insistently into the plushness of your ass. “Since when do you give a shit about being appropriate?” she countered, “What happened to the girl who almost ate me out in the open exactly a year ago today?”
Your scoff was met with an almost imperceptible increase in the pressure of her hands, her lips moving against the architecture of your ear, “‘cause I’m not sure I find this cautious side of you very hot.”
“Ellie,” you warned, but your body didn’t agree with you. The fabric of your undies stretched into something unbearably damp each second. A chuckle echoed against your nape, her fingers digging into the fat of your hips as she dragged you back until the hard press of her cunt ground against your ass shamelessly.
“You’re distracting me,” you grumbled, trying to keep your hands busy around your phone, failing to ignore the fluttery feeling in your stomach expanding lower.
It was endearing, truly. You played at resistance while your body betrayed you at every sinful touch, and as a spoiled brat always used to get what she desired, it only made her want to keep pushing until you gave in.
Frankly, the Williams girl didn’t buy this cautious version of you, the one insisting on taking it slow. To her, it was a front, a cruel game meant to torture her, nothing more.
“Looks like that’s the whole point, babe.” Her throaty laugh disturbed the delicate wisps at your nape, driving her point home with an insolent grind against you once again, sucking the restraint clean out of your veins like a bloodsucker. “I can’t do this whole taking-it-slow shit—I need you.”
Suddenly, the idea of pace itself vanished because the throbbing between your legs demanded to be taken care of by her. You were fucking doomed.
The whole we-should-take-it-slow thing—you truly meant it when you said it. That careless siren she had gotten a glimpse of ages ago was what made her fall so hard in the first place, so asking her for patience now was no different than asking her to breathe underwater. Impossible. She’d drown before even trying.
You, though, were convinced it might be enough to keep you both from retracing the same messy patterns that left you heartbroken before, but Ellie was never good at holding back when it came to you.
Unable to accept that some voodoo spell still might be tying her soul to your palms, she stubbornly clung to the narrative of revenge—a pretty lie she draped over herself to quieten the yearning that accompanied your name. But it was foolish.
How long till she realized?
What lies can’t do, though, is strip away the muscle memory of a heart that once learned to love you.
But the universe had always been a patient thing, bound to shove the truth in its creations’ faces, whether they were ready or not.
Sure, Ellie wanted to crash your soul, but she couldn’t suppress the way her body chanted your name, the way her skin burned for your touch like an old addiction she couldn’t kick.
You were the drug she told herself she could handle—just a one-time habit she’d walk away from once the itch was scratched. One hit was enough to ruin her. Enough to rot her brain and hook her soul. She craved more, then more again, until want became need to function.
Even after almost a year, her body hadn’t managed to purge you from her system, like a toxin she couldn’t flush out, or maybe like the greatest fucking high she wasn’t sure she wanted to quit.
Impatience tumbled out of every hole, each grind smeared your wetness worse, grinding just hard till wet cotton caught in your folds like a humiliating reminder of just how much of a mess you were making of yourself while waiting for her fingers to take over.
You stiffened when impatient fingertips got lost under your shirt once again, the barrier itself an offense to her existence. She hesitated, torn between patiently savoring every second of you or overdosing on you completely. The thought of waiting, though, even for a moment longer, felt impossible. So why not take what she needed as fast as she could?
“‘s not fair,” you sighed, defeated, your phone slipping from your grasp to land forgotten with a stifled thud on the desk.
You turned your head, casting her a look over your shoulder. The way she looked at you would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t just as desperate—the already broken skin of her lip caught between sharp teeth, cheeks flushed that pretty shade of apricot, dusted with freckles like kisses from the stars themselves.
“Can you keep quiet?” She husked, though it was not a question. Getting handsy under your shirt, her fingertips toyed with the lace of your bra with a delicacy that made your throat tighten.
“Yeah…” you whispered, turning in her arms to face her fully, “I can do quiet,” you nodded.
Verdant irises burned into you. You looked almost as needy as her, ready to writhe under her slightest touch, which was almost enough to make her come right then and there.
And yet, even with her tongue down your throat, warning bells rang.
She wanted to ask, needed to know, but the words didn’t even reach her tongue.
Who else has touched you while she was gone?
The question screamed inside her, stabbing at her insides like her organs needed to bleed in order to coexist within the same body. But she swallowed it—the jealousy, the self-inflicted rot.
She didn’t want an answer, couldn’t bear to imagine unfamiliar hands tracing what she still considered hers. It would break her in places that hadn’t even healed yet, because, despite the hypocrisy, despite the warm bodies she’d taken into her bed just to feel something, no one’s scent had ever masked the putrid trace your absence left behind.
And no matter how hard she fucked them, they all left her empty.
The thought bothered her even as her fingers buried deep past your waistband. She slid between your slick gush and found no resistance, her fingers sinking into your cunt like it was made to be split open by her and no one else. The wetness was disgusting, drenching her fingers, creeping up her wrist like your body was trying to claim her right back. It made her fucking feral.
But it wasn’t enough to drown the maggot-rich jealousy behind her ribs, no matter how deep she pushed into you. Even with your head thrown back, lips parted in a cry of her name and your legs locked around her waist like you were terrified she might stop, it never vanished.
The crook of her neck absorbed every broken moan you sang into it and even so, the sounds neither satisfied her nor eased the unreasonable fear that someone else might have heard you like this.
So her fingers moved faster, harder, hooking inside you with the kind of familiarity that only came from knowing your body better than her own. Your walls squeezed her tight, sucking her deeper—but what if someone else has done this better?
And then you let out a sob so desperate it broke through her insecurities in one instant. Your thighs quivered against her sides, your nails drawing mean trajectories down her biceps and her name tumbled from your lips like a church chorus.
In that moment, Ellie forgot everything else. There was only you.
She was going to destroy you—again. And possibly destroy herself right alongside you.
The blush under Ellie’s freckles was impossible to miss even in the dark, leaving her red-hot, a walking, breathing stop sign you had no intention of obeying, panting like she was the one getting finger-fucked on the desk. But maybe, you figured, that’s what the rush of adrenaline made of her, the thrill coming from the knowledge that anyone could walk in on you in this compromising position.
It wasn’t inexperience that made her shaky. No, Ellie knew exactly what she was doing. But the dizzying pride of tearing you apart with her fingers was the high she couldn’t come down from, no matter how many times she already made you come for her in less than twenty-four minutes.
“You’re so fucking wet, it’s disgusting,” Ellie rasped, half-shocked at how ruined she sounded, too far gone.
“You’re disgusting,” you bit back, stubbornly clinging to your attitude with mean claws and bared teeth even as it broke down under incoherent whimpers.
Even stripped of control, that little ember of defiance burned bright in you—and fuck, Ellie devoured it like a starving succubus, gorging on the way you tried to hold your ground even as you crumbled in her hands, crying out for more.
“Still running that pretty mouth of yours, huh?” she snorted, “have you learned nothing?” her wrist jerked upward until your clit ground against the heel of her rough palm.
“If you pull out again, I swear I’m g’na—” you started, but her breathless, taunting laugh steamrolled over your threat, reducing it to a stifled hmphh. She shifted just enough to let your head fall back, exposing you like a sick offering laid out on Abby’s desk. Out of fucking spite.
The secret no one speaks of redheads is not their passion, but their pettiness.
Your sweaty hand skidded over the desk with a humiliating squeak, papers slipping to the floor in forgotten heaps, but Ellie didn’t even notice. She only had eyes for you—cheeks burning, legs shaking, messy hair around your face, portrait sacrilegious in its ruin, holy only in how defiled it looked. Your lips were swollen, bitten through with desperate teeth marks, mouth hanging in a silent plea that reached her ears loud and clear.
You were a masterpiece dripping down her fingers, shaped by her touch alone. Not Abby’s, not anyone else’s. She drank in every obnoxious whine like the finest wine, one she’d savor long after the bottle ran dry, after she’d drained you just the same.
“Gonna do what now?” Her fingers plunged into you, mean and revengeful. “Kick me with those shaky ass legs?”
The little laugh that followed was derisive; it fanned shakily over your cheekbone before her knuckles pummeled deeper, knuckles colliding with every nerve that made your eyes roll back.
You didn’t know if it was her breaking you open or your overstretched walls clenching down on her, whoring for her like a debased kind of devotion.
You could feel little spurts pooling out, baptizing your inner thighs, her hand and finally, the fucking desk beneath you. Sticky, messy, disgustingly ruined, more than she’d ever managed to make you before. Just how she liked you.
“Jesus,” she huffed out almost in awe, “Listen to yourself. Fucking soaking for me like you were made for it.”
“Fuuuck—g’na cum,” you urged, legs spasming as if the body itself had disowned them.
“Oh, I know,” she cooed, a smirk ghosting over your lips like she had something planned and then—“But do you deserve it?”
The question had your body squirming beneath her like it wanted to answer before your mouth could, blunt nails dug into the skin of her tattooed forearm, tugging for something she refused to give. Your back thudded against the rough desk. In total desperation, your palm clutched its edge until splinters bit deep. She simply held you there, watching you beg with nothing but your eyes.
This side of Ellie was terrifying and addictive in a way that itched at your sanity. It was her cockiness—not to be mistaken for confidence—making you wetter by the second. You’d be lying if you said you’d never fantasized about her like this: commanding, taking your pleasure like it was hers to steal.
And yet, you still prayed she wouldn’t realize just how badly you wanted this.
But deep down, you knew.
She could tell.
Impossible to miss, if God himself had to play fair. It was written all over you, all over the soaked papers still trapped under your ass.
You didn’t know where this side of her came from, but Ellie did. Revenge was sweet on her tongue, and reducing you to this was like granting a wish that had been lingering for far too long.
Her fingers twisted deep inside you. All you could do was mewl and cling to the edge of the desk like life or death was solely balanced in your grip. But God, was she good.
“I do, you know I do.” You whined. Fucking whined.
You barely believed the pitiful noise coming out of you, and from the glint in Ellie’s eye, neither did she. Her lips twitched into a lazy smirk that looked like nothing but cocky, fucking into you faster and harder, focusing on each tiny twitch of your body. It was a reward—a helpless little lamb spread wide open and leaking everywhere. Hers to use until there was nothing left of that bratty mouth.
It was a sight she never thought she’d see in her life, yet here you were.
You were beautiful like this.
Her free hand pressed firmly on your chest, shoving you back down onto the desk without effort. Hovering over you, her shadow swallowed your frame, slender fingers still worked inside you, never missing that sweet spot that made you bite down harder just to stifle the sound.
“Look at me,” she commanded, “look me in the fucking eyes when you come.”
Your head lolled for a moment, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure took over, but the jealousy in her voice brought you right back. “Bet she never made you feel like this, did she?” She spat, refusing to name the source of it all, as if speaking her name would breathe power into her.
But she didn’t even need to say who she was referring to.
Abby, Abby, Abby.
No, she never managed to make you feel this way.
And so the freckled girl demanded, her eyes no longer enough; with words now, she insisted, desperate to hear that no soul alive could ever compare to her.
Hungry only for those candied, saccharine little lies you used to pour in the darkness of her room like lullabies meant to rot her teeth, the same ones she now needed to hear again to feel wanted and needed in a way only you ever made her feel.
She was so close that you could almost taste her. Your eyes fought not to roll back, lids trembling as they struggled to stay locked on her eyes. It wasn’t fair how much you missed her, how your body called out her name even when she wasn’t around. And to the redhead, it wasn’t fair how perfect you looked from every position she manhandled you into, how each expression on your face seemed to outdo the last. Unfair, in every sense of the word.
You shook your head, the movement clumsy and jerky. “Just you,” you whimpered out and you could’ve sworn a soft gasp slipped from her lips.
She didn’t respond right away, didn’t smirk like you thought she might. Instead, her fingers stuttered before picking back up. Because underneath all that fake confidence she was trying to sell you, Ellie needed to know that she wasn’t just filling a space someone else had left.
Your back arched sharply, crying out as your walls pulsated around her fingers. She couldn’t miss it for the world—you milking her digits, your body spasming in pure bliss. You were her dream incarnate and she couldn’t fucking breathe.
“Feel good?” she whispered.
All you could provide was a small nod, her lips dangling just out of reach. When your lips went for the kiss you thought would follow, she pulled back, leaving you to sigh in frustration. It wasn’t fair. Nor was the way her fingers torturously slipped out of you, leaving you empty and lonely.
She wiped her fingers against her shirt as if she hadn’t just rearranged your guts, the fibers eagerly swallowing the evidence whole. Still panting like she’d barely survived you, she scanned you.
A self-assured smile played at her lips, but there was something else she decided she wouldn’t let you see. Somewhere in the bleakness of her skull, a voice reminded her that this was the closest thing to heaven she was ever gonna get.
You stumbled off the desk, legs wobbling like a newborn foal, boneless tendrils fumbling to drag your panties back up. A shaky breath rattled from your lips when the elastic snapped harshly against your skin, your head snapping up at her breathy laugh, glassy doe eyes filled with post-orgasmic confusion and the smugness painted all over her face was starting to tug at your sore nerves.
“What’s so funny?”
“You sure you’re good to walk out there?” she taunted, committing the mess she’d made out of you to memory like some fucked-up work of art. From your crumpled shirt to the crooked buckle of your shorts. She had done that. She was the one to blame—or reward—for it.
“I’m fine,” you insisted, running your hands through your hair, trying to salvage whatever was left of your dignity. “How’s my hair? Is it bad?”
She snorted, “you can barely stand up straight and you’re worried about your hair?” her hand yanked you closer by the hip. The other brushed gently through your hairline with a tenderness that didn’t match the wreckage she’d left between your thighs. “Here... I gotchu.”
You flinched without meaning to, the tenderness hitting you harder than anything else tonight. It was one thing to let her fuck you and a whole other beast to have her smooth you out afterward like she hadn’t been the reason for the mess in the first place.
The freckled girl herself was so caught up in tucking loose strands behind your ear, that she didn’t even notice the shift. Not at first. This was the problem with her: she couldn’t seem to toe that invisible line she swore she’d never cross again. The little touches, the offhanded sweet gestures—they weren’t planned, they just bled out of her.
In her head, she spun the same story she always did—it’s all strategy. She simply needed you to succumb to the delicate caress of her fingertips and make you believe you had her wrapped around your finger, so she’d get to keep you under her thumb.
Ellie was about 80% sure her plan would’ve worked if only her stomach hadn’t twisted itself into a violent knot the moment you looked up at her. Eyes wide as a doll’s, stared at her like she’d just handed you something precious and she hated that look. It made her want to give you more.
She forced herself to remember the betrayals. The false tenderness you cloaked her in while using her for your dirtiest needs, then spitting it all back in her face by calling her an experiment, like she was nothing more than an easy prey you could toy with. She couldn’t let herself forget what you did.
Her fingers loitered in your hair a second too long before her hand dropped to her side like it hadn’t even brushed you. You leaned in, hope heavy on your cupid’s bow, but she curved out of reach again. “You’re good,” she was already snapping herself back into the version of Ellie she was supposed to be.
Poor, clueless you mistook that distance for awkwardness, convinced she simply didn’t know how to act or what to do with herself. Old Ellie was like that. This one? Not so much.
“I’ll go out first, give you some time to recover,” she added, the heels of her feet already backing toward the door. Too dazed to do much else, you watched her slip out of the director’s office, leaving it slightly ajar behind her.
There you stood, flustered and shaken, the space feeling awkward without her.
Your eyes fell to the desk, searching for the thing that had brought you here in the first place. You swore you’d left it somewhere on the desk before Ellie finger-fucked you senseless. Your hands moved, gathering the scattered papers into a sloppy stack, but your eyes kept darting around the room, frantic and impatient.
ellievsbear
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn
areudirty
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
