"you only like her because shes a woman" yup "you let female characters get away with too much" yes "if a man did this you would hate him for it" indeed
Coming to your uncle to seek answers, he teaches you something far more dangerous instead: that perfection is a cage you’ve mistaken for virtue. Long before you realize you’ve crossed a line, it isn’t innocence you’ve lost, but the desire to ever be good again.
WORDS: 4421
WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MDNI; canon typical incest/Targcest (uncle & niece), slightly dubious consent, p in v, oral (fem receiving), hand job, slight pussy spanking (once), corruption/corruption kink, innocence kink, daemon being daemon, afab reader with valyrian features (silver hair and lilac eyes)
NOTES: @schniiipsel this is for you. <3 it‘s leaning more towards the book canon than the show.
The sun hangs high above King’s Landing, casting golden light through the garden’s arched trellises draped in blooming flowers. Bird chirps around you, much more prominent with the gardens being otherwise quiet at this hour.
You sit on a marble bench near the roses; your back straight, ankles crossed and a book lying open in your lap. It’s filled with stories of queens and ladies who were everything you’ve always been told to become–graceful, noble, good. Perhaps even perfect.
Being far too engrossed in your stories, you don’t really notice him at first.
But Daemon notices you.
He stands beneath a stone archway, watching you, before he steps forwards, his boots crunching softly against the gravel.
You lift your head immediately, a polite smile on your lips. “Uncle.”
Daemon has seen you like this plenty of times before, your perfect posture, the perfect obedience, and it makes his teeth grind. He’s not the only one that notices what a stark contrast you are to your older sister, acting exactly the way that’s expected of her as the heir.
A muscle twitches in his jaw as he approaches. “That is a dull way to spend the day,” he says, eyeing you with caution.
You know there is not truly ill intention behind his words. Someone like him—someone that would rather spend weeks on end in his dragon’s saddle in complete freedom—just can’t seem to be enthusiastic about things that are required by duty.
Your fingers briefly curl against the parchment of the book, before you’re smoothing it out with your thumbs again, schooling your expression in serene neutrality. “I was told it is my duty to read this,” you reply evenly. “Queen Alicent said knowledge of proper conduct is essential for a princess.”
There’s no protest in your voice, and no hint that you want to do something else entirely. It’s not accompanied by a sigh, a roll of your eyes or a completely different way of rebellion like your sister might’ve shown at being forced through another lesson.
He steps forwards without a warning, reaching out, and closes the book with one decisive snap. “Duties,” he repeats, tasting the word on his tongue like it’s sour. “Gods, you sound like a septa already.”
As the book snaps shut, you stiffen briefly, your wide eyes darting up to meet his. Surprise is etched onto your features, because even your uncle has never before dared to interrupt your studies like this.
Daemon exhales through his nose, his jaw tightening as he looks down at you. It’s always about duties. He’s spent his whole life bound by them, too. The duty to serve Viserys, the duty to be loyal despite their differences, the duty not to cause trouble even when every fiber of him screamed for rebellion.
But seeing it in you—in this sweet girl who he used to take for rides over King’s Landing on Caraxes’ back—makes something rise in his chest. “And there’s not a single thought of your own?”
Daemon reaches out, and plucks Queen Alicent’s precious gift from your lap. The title glints on its cover—The Virtues of Noble Women—and you can’t help but remember when she has presented it to you with a saccharine smile on her lips, and the soft praises about “raising the future lady of a noble house”.
Your fingers twitch instinctively at the sudden loss, and you simply watch as your uncle flips through the pages with deliberate disinterest.
“I think plenty, uncle,” you say.
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he turns over another page, and then another, scanning the dense text with thinly veiled disdain. Scoffing under his breath, he tosses the book to the side where it lands with a dull thud against the grass.
“Plenty?” he echoes, turning his attention back to you. “And what do you think about when no one is watching? When you are alone in your chambers or walking through these gardens?”
His voice isn’t mocking—not quite, at least—but there’s an edge beneath it; something between curiosity and protectiveness.
Your lips part slightly, as if the question genuinely surprises you. No one ever truly asks you what you think, and no one ever cares beyond checking if you’ve memorized the correct answers to questions about proper court etiquette or history.
They want to know whether your lessons are being absorbed, not what swirls behind your lilac eyes when no one else is looking.
Daemon waits patiently, enduring the silence between you without pushing. He studies you; the slight part of your lips, the way your lashes lower just a little as if you’re searching for an answer that doesn't exist.
The garden hums softly around you with bees drifting between flowers, leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. The world keeps moving… but you stand still.
“You read all these stories about perfect women who never stepped out of line,” he muses, raising a brow. “Tell me, do you think they were happy, or just… obedient?”
It has never occurred to you. The queens and ladies in these stories—these perfect, noble women—were always praised for their virtues. They were happy, weren’t they? At least, that’s what everyone implies with their approving nods whenever you recite a passage from one of these books out loud during lessons.
You consider it, and for the first time in years, doubt creeps into your mind. And your uncle sees it. It’s a tiny crack in your polished mask, flashing across your face.
That look hits home, because he’s had the same one back when he realized that Viserys would never truly see him as an equal, but just as a younger brother that is tolerated at court and not trusted with real power.
A lifetime of being told who you are supposed to be until you forget who you really are.
“You have been told your whole life what you must be,” he says. “Perfect, pure, worthy. But no one has told you what you do not have to be.”
A breeze lifts strands of his short, silver hair as he steps closer again, and crouches slightly so you’re nearly on eye level.
You stare at him for the first time since he’s stepped into the garden; not as your uncle or a prince, but as Daemon Targaryen, the man who never bows to anyone’s expectations. Your breath hitches, and your hands still remain in your lap, but something inside of your chest tightens with an emotion you can’t name.
“And what is that?”
An almost fond smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “You do not have to be perfect, niece,” he says. “You can frown when you are bored, or sigh if a lesson is dull. You can want things just because you want them, and not because someone says a princess should.”
You inhale a sharp breath before you can stop it. The concept of wanting something just because is foreign to you. They have drilled the idea that a princess’ desires should be controlled at all times into your mind, and a good lady doesn’t indulge herself.
He rises to his feet, and takes a step back. “If you are content being what they have made you, then forget this conversation ever happened.” His lilac eyes drag over your sitting form.
“But if you are not,” he starts, tilting his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with intent. “If even a small part of you wonders what it might feel like to choose for yourself—”
The sentence hangs between you, and he doesn’t finish it immediately.
He turns, and begins to walk away, but stops just before the stone archway, glancing at you from over his shoulder.
“Come find me.”
With these words, he disappears where he came from, leaving you frozen on the bench. Your heart pounds beneath your ribs with a traitorous rhythm that doesn’t match your composed exterior at all.
Is it a command? An invitation? You can’t tell. Daemon never does things by half measures. He’s either direct or cruel or charmingly vague, but never in-between.
—
When the night comes, you don’t find sleep. And if you do, it’s interrupted. You doze off, more than once, but always wake up plagued by thoughts.
You don’t want to admit it, but his words have left you not as unaffected—and uninterested—as you’d like to claim. And so, you rise, in the middle of the night. A simple robe is thrown over your dark nightgown, tied at the waist.
You don’t choose to leave through the door, no, that would be too obvious at this hour. You push a narrow door close to your bed open, and disappear into the cold and dark tunnels that have been once built by Maegor the Cruel. Rhaenyra has brought you along more often than not, and therefore you’re quite confident in finding the path leading towards Daemon’s chambers.
With a soft knock, you just wait, listening carefully to hear any commotion behind the door. It’s not a surprise you startle when the door suddenly opens and you’re standing across from Daemon.
His eyes drag over your frame, and your widened ones do the same. He wears a simple tunic, unbuttoned at the throat with the sleeves rolled up, and some pair of dark trousers.
The intensity of his gaze tears a shiver through your body, before you quickly hush past him into the warmth of his chambers.
He closes the door behind you, and watches as you just stand in his chambers, the flames of the hearth casting long shadows across your clothes. He steps towards you, and catches the hem of your robe between his fingers, adjusting it slightly where it has slipped off one of your shoulders.
“Should you not be somewhere… proper?” he asks idly.
You open your mouth, and close it, swallowing thickly. The word proper sits heavy in the air, because proper would be your chambers with you tucked safely away behind locked doors with a guard posted outside to ensure no one disturbed your rest. Proper was attending the morning prayer or practicing embroidery under the septa’s watchful eyes—not sneaking through secret tunnels built by mad kings at night to find Daemon Targaryen of all people.
A shiver runs down your spine, but not from the cold. “N-No, I–I should not,” you stammer beneath his curious gaze, pressing your lips into a thin line.
His lips curve slightly, just very briefly, and make you terribly aware that he knows all too well that his words have burrowed into your mind like thorns beneath gloves. As he cocks a brow, you start to fidget with the fabric of your nightgown. “I could–I could not sleep,” you admit.
Daemon scoffs and steps closer, slow and deliberate like he’s approaching a skittish animal. A hand rises, brushing a strand of your silver hair behind your ear. “No,” he replies simply. “I suppose not.”
You feel his fingers linger near your temple for a moment longer than necessary, the pad of his calloused thumb grazing your cheekbone. He studies you, the stiffness of your shoulders like you expect a punishment for being there.
But that doesn't come.
Something dark and possessive stirs in him at the sight, because you’re so clearly nervous. It plants a seed in his mind: the ambition to unravel all the training Alicent has forced on you to show you what it means to want, not just to obey.
A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, not mocking, but close. “Now why did you come, niece?”
Your tongue darts out briefly to wet your lips before you answer: “I–I thought about what you said,” you admit, your eyes flitting down to the floor. “About not being perfect.”
The confession—small but monumental for a princess that has spent her entire life striving for perfection—prompts you to swallow thickly. “And I did not know how to sleep with it.”
A low hum rumbles in his chest as he leans back slightly; not retreating, but giving you space. His gaze sweeps over you again. “And what did you think?”
“That I do not know if I want to be perfect,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I–I also do not know what else there is.” Exhaling a shaky breath, you glance up at him, searching his face for something.
His expression darkens at your confession, and he’s suddenly close enough that you have to tilt your head up to keep meeting his gaze. “There are plenty of things,” he replies, and without a warning, he brushes his knuckles along your cheekbone.
Despite the touch being featherlight, it sends a jolt through you. Your breath hitches, and your eyes widen as he moves with deliberate slowness. No one ever touches you like this.
Without breaking eye contact, he leans in. The movement is gradual, giving you every chance to flinch or protest and say this isn’t right.
But you don’t.
He’s close enough for your breaths to mingle, yours coming in tiny, shallow puffs of air against his lips. Your lashes lower slightly, a subconscious tilt that betrays your curiosity—and perhaps even want.
Daemon closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss as though he’s testing the waters first.
For half a heartbeat, you freeze, before your body responds. It’s just a tiny lean forward, a quiet press back against his mouth and the slightest parting of your lips, and it’s enough to be noticed by him.
A low sound rumbles in his chest, and his hands rise slowly; one cradling the back of your head with his calloused fingers threading into your silver strands, and the other sliding around your waist to pull you closer against him.
His warm lips start to move against yours with hunger, his tongue brushing against your lower lip experimentally. It causes your lips to part, and he is quick to seize the opportunity to slip his tongue past them.
Your hand finds his shoulder at the sudden intrusion, while the other rests at his chest with his tunic clutched tightly between your fingers, torn between pushing him away and pulling him in.
You hardly notice him reaching for the bow at the front of your robe, and eventually tugging on it. Only when it glides off your shoulders, a chill hitting the now exposed skin, do you draw back from him.
It suddenly feels too overwhelming, even more when you let go of him and the robe slides down your arms and to the ground, pooling at your feet. You now stand before him in nothing but the thin silk of your nightgown, a delicate strap slipping slightly from one shoulder where the movement has disturbed it.
His gaze trails over you—slowly and hungry—forcing you to take another step back. As you put some distance between you, your calves are met with a nearby chair, the impact prompting you to sit down on it. With a slight shift, you adjust your position, and press your thighs together.
You look up at him with wide eyes, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that betray your hesitancy. “We sh–I should leave,” you mumble.
But Daemon doesn’t argue.
Instead, he simply lowers himself, and kneels before you on the cold stone floor. The flames cast shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the strong line of his jaw, and these piercing eyes that study you carefully. He’s not towering over you anymore, at least not physically. The position shouldn’t be intimidating, no, it should’ve made him smaller, less imposing—but somehow it does the exact opposite.
One of his large hands rises slowly, and rests gently against your knee where it peeks out from beneath your nightgown.
“You were eager enough to come,” he muses. “Strange that courage fails you now.” He looks at you with patience written all over his features, clearly understanding that this scares you. Yet it’s evident he doesn’t let it stop him completely.
“I–I do not know what I am doing,” you admit softly, flattening your lips.
“Of course you don’t,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a mocking smirk. “If you did, this would hardly be interesting.”
You don’t have a chance to truly ponder over his words, not when he suddenly leans forwards and presses his lips gently against the side of your knee. It sends a jolt through you, and you watch silently as he slowly inches his way up. “B–But…” you try to protest, although you don’t really want him to stop, do you?
“Hush now,” Daemon purrs, pressing kisses along the inside of your thighs. He gathers the skirt of your nightgown in one hand, and brings it up to rest at your hip. “You need not think so hard, niece.”
The whimper you release is enough to bring heat to your cheeks, more so when his tongue suddenly makes contact with your cunt and coaxes another one to slip past your lips. A shiver ripples through you when he pulls back to drag his tongue through your slit.
“You’re drenched, little princess,” he remarks, his dark blown eyes gazing up at you from between your legs.
The profanity of it all prompts you to press your lips into a thin line and look to the side, a wave of heat crashing over your whole body. But Daemon isn’t having any of that. He merely tsks, and serves a light slap with the back of his hand to your cunt. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
Although it’s not harsh, you still squirm in your seat, meeting his gaze with your head nodding eagerly.
“Good girl,” he praises, and takes that as his cue to continue, his lips finding your little bundle of nerves. One swivel of his tongue already has you arching your back, and the steady rhythm he builts is enough for you to start grinding your hips.
Two of his fingers slowly ease into of you, the thickness foreign for a moment but forgotten when they start to brush your sweet spot in a come hither motion that has you tightly locking your thighs around his head. Your hand finds the short strands of his hair, fingers threading into them to tug on it not-so-gently which has Daemon groaning against your folds.
No matter how badly you try to keep your eyes on him—knowing his own flicker up to meet yours every now and then—your head eventually tilts back slightly, and your eyes fall shut. Soft, quiet moans slip past your lips, slowly but surely growing in their intensity.
The knot in your belly tightens far too quickly with the pace he sets up, lapping and sucking at your little bud in tandem with his fingers scissoring in and out of you. But it doesn’t seem like that’s what your uncle wants. He reads the telltale signs of your impending release as if he has never done anything else, and stops his ministrations without missing a beat.
You can’t help but whine as the pleasure disappears at once. Your eyes open, and when you look down at him, you spot his chin, lips, and cheeks being coated in your arousal, glistening in the dim light of his chamber.
“W–Why did you stop?” you whimper, your lips dropping into a pout as you try to reign his head back between your thighs. But Daemon is stronger, making it clear that that’s not sufficient enough for him.
“I have scarcely begun, and you are already trembling, niece. Do you truly think that this will be all?” he asks, and rises to his feet.
Not only do his words make your breath hitch in your throat, but also the visible, straining bulge in the front of his trousers. He’s achingly hard for you already, wanting to be buried inside of you.
“You are always trying to be perfect,” he continues, leaning in to brush his thumb across your bottom lip. “Now let me see how lovely you are when you stop trying.”
Staring at the strained fabric of his trousers, you bite your bottom lip and nod sheepishly. He grabs your wrist, and pulls you to your feet. Noticing how shakily you stand on them, Daemon wastes no time and throws you over his shoulder.
It catches you off guard, and you squeal right before your back already hits the silk sheets of his bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he rids himself of his tunic, the trousers, and the boots.
One hand curls around his hard shaft, stroking himself slowly, and clearly making a show out of it for you. A shaky exhale is all that makes its way past your lips, not knowing if you should keep your gaze on his cock, his face or trail the countless scars littered all over his torso.
You settle on the first, and watch with hooded eyes as he comes closer, climbing onto the large bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and soon enough he’s towering above you. Your pulse thunders in your ears, much more when he roughly yanks the skirts of your nightgown up to your waist, before he aligns himself with your entrance.
Your arousal makes it easy for his cock to slip inside, greedily sucked in by your cunt with little resistance. Despite the burning stretch of his girth, the feeling of him being buried inside of you brings you a sense of pure bliss, prompting you to clench tightly around him.
Daemon sucks in a sharp breath, and when your hands fly to his shoulders for leverage, he starts to grind his hips against yours. His girth splits you open over and over again, reducing you to a submissive mess.
“S-Seven save me,” you whimper, arching your back beneath him. You have crawled willingly into sin, and now you pray for someone to rescue you from your own desire. It’s not like you actually want to be saved, it’s that you’re scared of the possible consequences.
As your head lulls back into the pillows, your hands seem to have a mind on their own and land below his navel, weakly pushing him away. But Daemon tsks, swatting them away. “None of this,” he growls. “The gods have never saved anyone from me, sweetling.”
An impatient tug at the neckline of your nightgown is enough to free your tits, all but bouncing freely as he fucks you harder, slamming his hips into you. No words or sounds other than hiccuped moans and whimpers leave your lips, and you can’t focus on anything but him.
The tremors that the snaps of his hips force through you have you gasping and whining, a tightness building in the pit of your belly. You have spent so much time being untouched that even the drag of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your little bud brings you a pleasure beyond imagination. But not only does your need to peak become more apparent; Daemon doesn’t seem to know how much longer he will last, too.
He towers over you, your small frame completely hidden by his. It’s such an easy game for him to keep you where he wants, to use you however he pleases, and at this point you’d let him do whatever he desires with you for as long as you get to relive the sensations you feel over and over again.
Therefore it’s no surprise that your relief washes over you in an ambush, the pleasure all but soaring through your veins. Yet his assault on your cunt doesn’t stop, and when the urge overcomes you to squeeze your thighs together, it doesn’t seize either.
Your mind goes blank, and you hardly notice Daemon toppling over, mercilessly grinding into your quivering cunt and filling you to the brim. You squeeze his throbbing cock ever so tightly in response, all but milking him for every drop.
Daemon rocks into you with reckless abandon, your sweet whimpers and squirming body spurring him on. Squeezing your flesh, he trails both his hands over your body, mapping out the parts that are still hidden by your nightgown.
But at last, the frenzy seems to leave him all at once.
He exhales sharply through his nose and collapses onto his side beside you, remaining like this for a brief moment. You adjust the neckline of your nightgown and stare up at the carved canopy above you as though it might offer you absolution, while he proceeds to sit up, lazily draping one arm around his bent knee.
“You regret it already,” he states.
You can feel your throat tighten at his words, much more when you finally notice his seed seeping idly from your cunt. “I did not say that.”
“No,” Daemon replies, huffing a breath. As you meet his gaze, you spot his lips curving slightly. “You merely look as though the gods themselves witnessed this.”
Heat crawls up your neck, and you press your lips together.
“Poor little princess,” your uncle continues, a mocking edge to his voice. “No one warned you that wanting something could feel so ugly afterwards, mh?”
The words make you flinch slightly, but still enough for him to notice and reach for you. His hand comes to rest at your wrist, his thumb pressing lazily against the frantic beat of your pulse.
“You think this has ruined you now. That one night in my bed has turned you wicked,” he murmurs, his pale gaze drifting slowly over your face. “But sweetling, you were wicked the moment you thought about coming to me.”
Daemon shifts closer to you on the bed. There is no softness in his gaze, just the same consuming fascination he’s worn since you stepped into his chambers.
“You wish to know the amusing part?”
“What?”
A low hum rumbles in his chest, and he leans in to press his lips to your shoulder. Once. “You are ashamed,” he says. “And yet, if I touched you again, you would still let me.”
The truth of his words settles over you like a heavy blanket. You are ashamed, yes, but not because you regret it. It’s the sheer intensity of it—the way your body has responded so eagerly to him despite you being raised to be proper. It’s that desire has overshadowed every moral teaching Queen Alicent and your septa have drilled into you.
And despite that you would crawl straight back into his bed if he asked you too. Without hesitation.
As always: comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! Thank you and thank you for reading! 🥰
any c.ai user can help me find this abby anderson bot where abby basically offers to sleep with user cause she doesn’t date much, it’s centered in a party (abby’s hosting) user gets upset cause she has a crush on abby and leaves? it was one of my favorites but i stopped using c.ai for a while and now i can’t find it. if anyone has any idea of what i’m talking about please lmk.
⭑.ᐟ｡𖦹°‧ warnings . . . approximately 7k words, smut with plot, cheating, older!ellie (reader is 23), chef!ellie, body hair, fingering/oral (e!receiving), no use of y/n, food play, ellie drinks coffee in this one :p
𐔌.author's note.ᐟ ֹ₊꒱ first post of the year!!! muahahaha (totally not proofread :p) HAPPY NEW YEARRR!!! i just wanted to take a moment to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to each and every one of you who reads and interacts with my writings/posts in general. it truly means the world to me. :3 i also wanted to let my moots know that i love you all, y'all are so funny and cool, and i appreciate you more than you know. even if we haven’t interacted much, just know i’m lowkey stalking your blogs (in admiration, ofc… i’m definitely not hiding in your basement as you’re reading this)
It wasn’t supposed to go this far. You’d never planned to walk this road, never imagined the day you’d become someone like this. A homewrecker, or whatever the fuck people called it. This wasn’t you, not really. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
But as you kneeled before the Ellie fucking Williams, none of that mattered. Your soft hands held on to her hips with a fervent grip, almost as if your life depended on it, tongue dragging up her dripping heat, collecting every bit of that sweet, sticky honey from the slit of her soaked pussy to the carved ridges of her toned abs. She was a masterpiece, sculpted by Michelangelo himself, and you were hungry for her essence, desperate to savor every inch she had to offer. No matter how many times you have done this before, it never gets old—she never gets old.
Golden syrup trickled from the curve of her perky breasts, pooling in the valley between them before rolling down to her hardened nipples. You couldn’t just ignore them, couldn’t leave them standing there neglected. Slowly, deliberately, you made your way up, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, your mouth worshiping her as she deserved. She whimpered—soft, breathy, almost vulnerable.
You’d done that. You made her sound like that.
But Ellie wasn’t one for patience, not in the kitchen, nor in a different context. That was her thing—impatience, control—making things happen whenever she wanted it. Her calloused hand gripped your shoulder, pushing you back down with the kind of force that sent a jolt straight through you.
“Get me off, like you always do, will ya?” her voice rasp and lazy, dripping with authority.
You looked up at her, smirking despite your knees throbbing from the cold tile beneath you, bruises blooming on your skin like pretty violets, a dark reminder of how many times you’d been down here like this lately. “Yes, chef.”
You didn’t break eye contact as you sank lower, lashes fluttering, bambi-eyed and eager. Ellie always had this power over you, this hold that went deeper than lust. You admired her. You wanted her job, her life, her. You wanted to be her, and fuck, you wanted to be with her, too. But that was a dream too big for the likes of you, and you knew it.
So for now, you gave her what she wanted, what she demanded, losing yourself in her, the scent of her, the taste of her. Your tongue laid flat and ready, exposed for her, and she didn’t waste a second. Instinct took over as her hips bucked against your pretty face, her throbbing, greedy clit grinding against the wet muscle of your tongue. Her desperation only fueled you, and as her heat consumed you, your breath hitched. Your free hand slid down, pressing against your own aching core, rubbing yourself through your soaked panties while you devoured her.
In minutes, you were a wreck. Hair tangled and wild, her hands yanking at it with no care for gentleness. She didn’t give a single fuck if she was hurting you—not now, not ever. That’s just how she was, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way. The pain only made you hungrier, needier, leaving you gasping for more.
“God,” she gasped, her voice breathless, “She doesn’t do it like you do.”
Your heart skipped, your cheeks flushed, and you couldn’t stop yourself from humming proudly against her. The vibrations made her hips jerk, her clit twitching against your warm tongue as you worked on her with even more determination. Your fingers moved faster, circling your swollen bud through the drenched fabric of your panties. The soft moans that escaped your throat only made her rougher, fingers digging into your scalp, pulling you closer as she chased her release.
“Fuck…” she cursed, her voice breaking as her head tilted back, her eyes fluttering shut. She was gone, completely lost in what you were giving her. “This is why you’re my favorite.”
The words hit like a shot of adrenaline, causing a fluttery, erratic sensation to erupt in your stomach. You sucked harder, more hungrily, her juices dripping down your chin and mixing with your spit, your tongue lapping it all up like you couldn’t get enough.
A low moan rumbled from your chest as you got more of her taste, vibrating against her clit and making her cry out in return. Her toned thigh tightened around your head, pulling you impossibly closer. You could barely breathe, your nose buried in her trimmed, reddish bush, but you didn’t care. Her other hand released its grip on the steel counter behind her, letting her back fully press against it to seek steady support while she trapped her stiff nipple between her fongers. Each calculated motion you made left her gasping, her shallow breaths hitching as if she were on the verge of losing control.
Your fingers slipped past the waistband of your white panties, eagerly teasing your slit before pushing them into your pulsating walls without wasting a second more. You were too wet, too sensitive, and way too horny to be patient, couldn’t wait until she came to feel good. You winced slightly, stifling a soft mewl as you sank them deeper and deeper.
She noticed, of course, she did. “What a fucking slut you are,” she chuckled, her voice a breathless mix of amusement and disbelief. Her hips ground impatiently against your mouth, her grip on your damaged hair tightening to the point of pain. “Just like that,” she gasped, her head tilting back again as her body tensed. “I’m close already.”
You couldn’t stop a giddy chuckle to slip past your lips. The sound was soft, playful, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Her head snapped downward, her brows furrowing in confusion as her gaze locked onto yours.
“Something funny?” she asked, her voice sharp despite the breathlessness.
“What, your wife doesn’t touch you at all?” you taunted, your voice laced with mock innocence as you pulled back just enough to meet her hooded gaze.
“She does,” Ellie shot back almost instantly, her voice sharp and defensive. But her actions betrayed her words as her hand gripped the back of your head, forcing you down again with the kind of need that spoke volumes. She was selfish about it, pressing herself against you without hesitation, demanding more of you like she always did.
You gave in, plunging two fingers deep inside her, curling them just right, finding that sweet spot that made her body restless and her moans grow louder. Your mouth stayed busy, lips and tongue working on her rose nub in tandem, sucking and flicking in rhythm with the movement of your hand. Her body was tight, trembling under your touch, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride knowing you were the one making her feel like this—pulling sounds from her that her wife hadn’t in years. It was wrong, but Ellie couldn’t bring herself to stop. Not with the way your fingers worked inside her, not with the way your tongue seemed to know exactly what she needed.
You looked up at her briefly, catching the flicker of something in her eyes—guilt, maybe, or shame—but it was quickly replaced by hunger as her fingers tightened in your once-soft hair. “Don’t stop,” she rasped, her voice growing desperate. And you didn’t.
How could you sleep with another woman’s wife? The thought lingered in the corners of your mind like a restless echo of a whisper, making you feel guilty and disgusting, until your gaze landed on her again, and suddenly, the guilt felt distant, almost irrelevant, like it was never there to begin with.
Even a blind person would succumb to her allure, you told yourself, as if that excused anything. That charisma of hers—it wasn’t just a pull. It was a wicked spell that left you weak in the knees. The world around you always seemed to fade into a hazy blur as she walked into the room, her presence overwhelming and intoxicating. Self respect? It vanished the moment her soft lips crashed against yours, leaving you drowning in the pounding of your heart and your feelings for her.
Maybe it was her beauty, effortless and unassuming, the kind that seemed to defy time itself. She wore it effortlessly, as if time itself had conspired in her favor. She looked fresh, radiant even, no matter her age. Thirty-six. Was that too old for you? Surely not. There were worse gaps out there, you reasoned, though even the thought of reasoning felt ridiculous when it came to her. She made rationality crumble, made you question things you never had before.
Ellie hadn’t always been this person, this version of herself that took and took without restraint. She hated it, hated the way she’d sunk so low, but she couldn’t stop. Not when it came to you. She’d had plenty of pretty girls come and go in her kitchen, of every age, bright-eyed and eager to prove themselves. But none of them had caught her attention the way you did. There was something about you that made her stomach twist and her chest flutter in ways she didn’t want to admit.
It made her feel disgusting.
The guilt clung to her like a parasite, heavy and suffocating, consuming her at night as she lay next to Dina. Sweet, devoted Dina, who didn’t deserve any of this. Dina, who kissed Ellie goodnight with the same tenderness she had ever since high school, who still looked at her with love in her eyes, even though Ellie knew she didn’t deserve it.
But the truth was undeniable. Dina didn’t make her happy anymore. Maybe it wasn’t even Dina’s fault, maybe the problem was Ellie herself. Years of love, years of marriage, and yet something had changed. Dina was steady, reliable, safe. But safe had grown boring. Too domestic, too… predictable.
Then you walked into her restaurant.
Ellie remembered that day like it had been etched into her memory with a hot iron. You had this nervous energy about you, your manicured hands trembling slightly even as you tried to project confidence. It was endearing the way you squared your shoulders and forced a smile despite how jittery you clearly felt. Ellie couldn’t take her eyes off you.
Your nerves were a tangled mess, a whirlwind of excitement and dread swirling in your chest. Meeting someone you had admired for years was thrilling, yes, but it was also overwhelming in a way you hadn’t expected. Your love for cooking had always been an anchor in your life, a passion ignited by your dad—a man whose laughter echoed in every inch of the house on cozy Sunday afternoons, whose hands expertly kneaded dough or seasoned a sauce with precision and care. Those moments were your happiest memories, fragments of a simpler time.
When he passed, it felt like a part of you went with him. Alongside the grief came a determination that burned quietly within you. You owed it to him, you told yourself. You had to carry on his passion, keep alive all the little tricks and lessons he had passed down. He never got the chance to go to a culinary school, never had the means to chase the dream he so clearly deserved. You’d been luckier. You had opportunities he could only ever dream of, and for that, you couldn’t complain.
However, somewhere along the way, doubt began to creep in.
It was subtle at first—a quiet voice in the chambers of your mind that questioned if you were truly good enough. That voice grew louder with time, eating away your confidence. Even after you graduated from a prestigious culinary school—one that rarely opened its doors to just anyone—you couldn’t shake the feeling that others were better.
More talented. More deserving.
Still, you pushed forward. Giving up wasn’t an option, not after everything you’d invested: all your savings, grueling hours of study, sleepless nights, sacrifices you had made, and the moments you had teetered on the edge of failure, only to claw your way back. Quitting now would mean throwing all of that away. Worse, it would mean letting down the one person whose opinion mattered most to you.
How would your dad react if he were still here? Would he understand your struggles, or would he shake his head in disappointment? Those unanswered questions haunted you late at night, swirling endlessly in your mind as you tossed and turned in your bed. Would he be proud of the path you had taken? Or would he see your insecurities as a weakness?
You didn’t know. You might never know. Yet that was part of what kept you going, clinging to the hope that, somehow, all of this would be worth it.
When your culinary school recommended Ellie Williams’ restaurant for an apprenticeship, your heart nearly stopped. You couldn’t afford not to say yes, but that didn’t stop the nerves from turning your stomach inside out. She was a legend, known for her perfectionism, innate talent, and the kind of reputation that inspired both awe and fear. She wasn’t just a great chef. She was the chef, and to top it all off, she’d walked the same halls at your school. Knowing she had started where you were now gave you hope, but it also set the bar impossibly high.
Ellie was why you chose that school in the first place, and now you were walking into her domain, hoping you wouldn’t screw it all up.The interview wasn’t something you could avoid, no matter how much you wanted to. Everything about her was intimidating—the stories of her strictness, her infamous zero-tolerance policy for mistakes, and her disdain for laziness in any form. All of it left you shitting your pants in anticipation.
The moment she stepped into the office a waitress had told you to wait in, the air felt like it had shifted, and the chatter of the bustling restaurant beyond the door suddenly muted. She carried herself with confidence, the intimidating kind. Her auburn hair was pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, a few rebellious strands framing her freckled face. The years had carved faint lines into the corners of her olive eyes, but they only added to her beauty. Her gaze was piercing, the type that made you feel stripped bare with just one glance.
She wore her chef’s jacket open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms adorned with faint scars and a faded tattoo. Her stance was casual but strong, her crossed arms flexing toned muscles beneath the freckled skin. She looked like someone who had worked for everything she had and who wasn’t afraid to call you out if you hadn’t done the same.
The interview itself was mercilessly brief. Ellie didn’t waste time, her words were stern and straight to the point. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable except for the slight downturn of her lips. It wasn’t just that she looked unimpressed, it was as if she had already decided you had something to prove.
Her voice cut through the silence with a rasp that spoke of too many late nights and maybe one too many cigarettes in her youth. “I’m not here to hold anyone’s hand,” she began, “And I don’t give out praise for showing up. I want to know why you think you can keep up here when most fresh-out-of-school types run for the door the second they realize what I expect.”
You stumbled over your words at first, her intensity throwing you off balance. Her stormy green eyes stayed locked on you the entire time, dissecting every word that left your mouth. You couldn’t help but notice the faint quirk of her brow, a hidden challenge laying in its arch, daring you to falter.
When you finished answering, her expression didn’t change, her arms still crossed in that stance that screamed impatience, like she had better things to do. She let the silence stretch, as if weighing your every word. Finally, she nodded, just once, curt and decisive, before standing.
Your posture straightened awkwardly, every muscle stiff as you tried to hold her gaze. You didn’t want to look nervous, not to her. Ellie Williams wasn’t the kind of person who tolerated insecurity, and the last thing you wanted was to give her the impression that you didn’t know what you were doing.
“I’ll give you a week,” The older woman conceded, “A trial. During that time, you’ll work every shift I tell you to—no complaints. If I think you’re slacking even once, you’re out. Understood?”
Anxiety coursing through you at her words, the pressure settling on your shoulders like a lead apron. You nodded, swallowing your nerves and summoning every ounce of determination you had left. “Understood, Chef.”
“Good.”
Ellie pushed herself off the desk, her hand extended toward you, and for a second, you froze. When you finally reached out, your fingers met hers—rough, calloused, worn down by years of relentless labor in kitchens like this one. Her grip was firm and commanding, her knuckles marked with tiny cracks and the faded scars of burns long since healed. You couldn’t help but notice how her hand lingered just a second too long, enough for you to feel the weight of her scrutiny.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, “Don’t disappoint me.”
“I won’t,” you promised, your voice cracking slightly, betraying how much you wanted to sound confident.
Easier said than done.
The week passed in a blur. Each day felt like a battle that tested you to your limits. The kitchen wasn't just hectic; it was hell. A scorching inferno of non-stop work. Pans clattered, oil sizzled, and the air seemed perpetually thick with heat and the aroma of garlic and herbs. Voices shouted over the din, and orders barked with urgency. The counters gleamed under the lights, every inch of the space immaculately polished, ready for Ellie’s scrutinizing eyes to find fault in it.
And find fault she did.
It was like suddenly, you couldn’t hold a knife to save your life. Ellie would swoop in, catching you mid-slice with a firm, “Stop—just stop for a second.” Her voice cut through the noise, causing the chattering to quiet down. Suddenly, all eyes were on you. It felt so humiliating. “Are you a chef, or are you a five-year-old holding a knife for the first time?” She’d stand there, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked, watching you squirm. You tried to steady your hands, gripping the knife tighter, and all you got was a scoff, a look that made your stomach twist.
Then it was the mess. “Look at this mess! You think I’m running a playground here?” The older woman would gesture around your station, eyebrows pinched, lips in a tight, judgmental line. “Clean as you go, or you’re out of my kitchen.” There was no leniency. Her gaze was like a hawk’s, sharp and all-seeing. The second you moved a dish or reached for a towel, her eyes were back on you, always expecting you to fail.
And food presentation? Forget it. “Did I ask for a food explosion?” She’d glance at the plate you’d put together, her mouth twitching in that grimace that made you feel about three inches tall. “Plates come out looking perfect, not like someone took a bite out of them before they left the kitchen. This isn’t cafeteria food; it’s a reflection of our work—my work. Start over.”
Every mistake felt magnified, like each misstep was some personal insult to her craft. One evening, she caught you hesitating by the stove, trying to balance the pan with a little too much caution.
“What are you afraid of, a little fire?” She stepped up, snatching the pan from your hand and demonstrating with quick, fluid movements, flames licking up as she seared the dish. “If you can’t handle a hot pan, you’re not going to last five minutes here. Heat means flavor—no hesitation. Either own it, or let someone else do it who actually knows what they’re doing.”
Each critique came hard and fast, like she was testing just how much you could take before breaking. But you’d see that flash in her eyes, just for a second, when you corrected yourself or caught her rhythm without her saying a word—a glint of approval, almost pride, though she’d never admit it. That kitchen was hell, and Ellie was the one lighting the fire.
Gradually, you grew on her in ways Ellie refused to acknowledge. At first, it was your dedication that caught her attention. You were so damn passionate, throwing yourself into every task with a fire she hadn’t seen in years, not even in herself anymore. It reminded her of how she used to feel about cooking, back when it wasn’t just a job, back when she wasn’t doing it for anyone but for herself. A sparkle that had been her whole world until the sparkle began to fade.
That same drive she once held was mirrored in you, and it hooked her in a way she didn’t let you see.
At first, it was harmless, or at least, she told herself it was. Viridescent eyes would wander absentmindedly while you worked over the stoves, catching the way you moved, the confidence in your hands, and the soft furrow in your brow when you were deep in concentration. It wasn’t even intentional at first, just a passing glance, a stray thought. Then she noticed the way her gaze lingered longer each time, how her mind wandered just a little too far. And once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop.
She made sure you never noticed. Ellie was good at that—at control, at holding the reins so tight they left marks in her palms. Whenever you turned her way, she’d tear her eyes away before you could catch her looking, busying herself with anything else. But there was no denying the way her focus shifted, no longer just assessing your technique or critiquing your timing. Her gaze followed you for other reasons now. The curve of your body in those faded denim jeans seemed to pull at her attention no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, and every time she brushed past you, the accidental touch of her hand against yours sent a spark up her arm that she couldn’t shake.
Still, she kept herself professional. She corrected you like she corrected everyone else, keeping her harsh tone and her words blunt. You weren’t special, she told herself. You couldn’t be. And yet, when her fingers lingered a second too long while adjusting your grip on a knife or guiding your hand to the perfect spot on the cutting board, she felt the edges of her resolve begin to fray.
Then came the night that changed everything.
The last customer had left, the dining area was quiet except for the faint buzz of the lights. The rest of the crew had clocked out and gone home, leaving you alone in the kitchen, scrubbing at a caramel spill that had hardened into the countertop like cement—a clumsy incident of yours. Your movements were hurried, and your brows knit together in frustration as you scraped at the sticky mess.
Ellie stayed behind, like she often did, overseeing the final cleanup before heading home to Dina. The thought was always there, hovering at the back of her mind like a shadow, but tonight, it felt distant, blurred. She stood at the far end of the counter, arms crossed, her gaze glued on you without even realizing it.
Something about the way you moved hypnotized her. The way your lower lip caught between your teeth, the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead from the heat of the kitchen, the fluid way your body bent and shifted—it all made her stomach twist in ways she hadn’t felt in years. You were stunning, achingly so, and the red-brown-haired woman couldn’t stop herself from noticing every little detail about you.
Her chest tightened as she battled the strange, unwelcome flutter deep in her gut. It wasn’t just attraction—it was something more insidious, something that made her feel both exhilarated and ashamed. She didn’t feel this way when she went home to Dina anymore. She hadn’t for a long time.
Ellie furrowed her brow, her thoughts an unsteady swirl as she watched you wipe at the counter, your features etched with determination. She told herself to leave, to walk out and go home, but her boots stayed rooted to the floor.
When you finally finished and prepared to leave, you took a deep breath, the familiar wave of intrusive, overthinking thoughts gnawing at your self-esteem all over again. You steeled yourself, fighting the inner tension, before turning toward Ellie. She was focused, double-checking a few final things, but your stomach twisted with nerves. You couldn’t let her walk out without asking, without knowing. It might have seemed pathetic, but you needed the truth, needed to know if you’d wasted your time, if you should’ve just walked away and taken a job at McDonald’s instead. Because if that was all you were capable of, then why bother aiming higher?
“Can I ask you something?” you ventured, stopping the older woman in her tracks. Your voice carried a note of hesitation, the vulnerability in it impossible to miss.
Ellie paused, glancing over her shoulder before turning fully toward you. She wiped her hands on the apron snug around her waist, her expression shifting from its usual intensity to something softer. “Sure,” she uttered, curiosity flashing in those green eyes.
You hesitated for a beat, your fingers nervously brushing over the edge of the counter. Then, before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Am I completely helpless? Like… am I trash?”
The insecurity in your voice hung in her ears, and for a moment, Ellie just stared at you, her mouth tightening as the question sank in. Something about the way you stood there—your shoulders slightly hunched, your gaze fixed somewhere below hers, bracing yourself for the worst—tugged at her chest.
She recalled that feeling all too vividly. The nights spent doubting herself, the pit in her stomach as she questioned if she was good enough to stand in a kitchen like this. It was a memory she thought she’d buried, but now it resurfaced in the form of you—young, insecure, and so painfully earnest.
“No,” Ellie reassured, her voice was firm but not unkind. She stepped closer, her apron swaying slightly as she moved, and her eyes softened into something warmer, a nuance you had never seen before in those irises. “You’re not trash. You just… need time to find your footing. Everyone starts somewhere, and I’ve seen enough to know you’ve got more potential than you give yourself credit for.”
You weren’t helpless. You were just trying to figure it all out, and she couldn’t help but see herself in you, more than she cared to admit.
It wasn’t then that things started between you two. Not that night. But exactly a week later, it began.
It happened during a chaotic morning when you accidentally nicked your finger while chopping vegetables. The cut wasn’t deep, but the sight of blood had you panicking. Ellie had swept in with a surprising amount of care, guiding you to her office to patch you up and calm you down.
She hadn’t pictured you as the panicking type—self-assured was more the image you projected—but that moment revealed something else entirely. You were sweeter than you let on, a little naive, even, but there was a warmth to you, a vibrancy she hadn’t realized was there.
At first, it was innocent enough. A lingering touch as she wrapped the bandage around your finger. Then came the late nights in the kitchen, staying behind to help her with something small or lingering because she had promised to teach you a few of her tricks, always claiming you were the only one worth teaching.
Initially, it felt special, as if you were being singled out for something significant. You didn’t realize that those excuses were designed to keep you there longer than anyone else. You had no reason to suspect otherwise. Ellie was subtle and calculated in her approach, so it never occurred to you that she might be making a move—especially with a whole wife waiting for her at home.
Ellie knew what she was doing, she always did. Once you had let her see the cracks in your confidence, the way you second guessed yourself, she used it to her advantage. Whenever you vented about your insecurities or the weight of expectations, she was there, whispering reassurances in that husky voice of hers. Her praise was addictive, and you found yourself craving it more than you’d ever admit.
Before long, the lines began to blur. Innocent late-night conversations with a married woman gradually evolved into deep discussions over shitty after-hours coffee as you sat on cracked stools in the empty kitchen of her restaurant, the smell of grease still lingering in the air. She’d vent about her wife, about how distant things had gotten, how they barely spoke unless it was to fight. All you’d do was nod, offering words of comfort because that’s all it was supposed to be. Comfort. But then her hand brushed yours one night, and everything started spiraling.
Those comforting touches soon escalated into stolen kisses in her office, the kind that left you breathless. Her hands explored you sinfully, and she couldn’t get enough. Then you’d find yourself waiting for everyone to pack up and leave, your heart thrumming in your chest like never before. For the lights to dim, and the sound of keys to jingle when Ellie locked the front door, making sure to keep any potential intruders out. When the coast was finally clear, she’d be on you, no hesitation, no second-guessing. Her lips, as soft as petals of a blooming rose, would crash into yours like she’d been starving for it, her hands rough and desperate, would shamelessly yank at your shirt, your pants, anything that was in the way.
It was always messy. Messy and quick, like you didn’t have time to think about what the hell you were doing—perhaps because she didn’t want to think about it, not before, not during, and certainly not after. She’d leave the moment it was over as if it had never happened, leaving you with only the echoes of what had happened. She’d shove you up against the cold steel of the prep table, and it’d be so fucking wrong but so fucking good all at once. Her lips, her hands, her voice—it was addictive. The way she whispered filthy things in your ear completely contrasted the sweet nothings she used to talk her way into your bed.
The only other sounds were the occasional car passing by outside and your obscene whimpers, loud and unrestrained as she shoved her fingers deep inside your cunt. She liked it that way, liked seeing you lose control while she stayed so composed. Her wedding band glistened under the low kitchen light, covered in your juices, the gold stained with the sin of what you both knew shouldn’t be doing.
It wasn’t love, not really. Or maybe it was, in some twisted, fucked up way. Whatever it was, it kept you coming back.
Maybe it was because of the way she looked at you as if you were a risk worth taking—it made you feel invincible. Special. Because she had chosen you, of all the girls that worked for her. She hadn’t even chosen her wife, Dina, who waited at home every night as she fucked you roughly on the kitchen counters, bending you over the surface as your hard nipples pressed against the cold metal and her fingers plunged deeper into you. That was enough to make you dumbly believe she couldn’t live without you, that she’d be willing to leave Dina for you.
It was in those moments that you felt like you were her everything.
After six long, agonizing months, the truth hit you in the back of the head like a ton of bricks—you weren’t special.
You weren’t the one she picked. You were just another victim of her lies. She was just that—a cheater. And just like every other cheater, she promised you love and loyalty only to pull the rug from beneath you when you least expected it.
Your heart dropped when you saw Dina walk into the restaurant, bouquet in hand, her son clutching her hand like a lifeline. It felt like the world spun too fast, and all you could do was stare as she sauntered into the kitchen, greeting everyone with that perfect, beaming smile of hers.
And then Ellie—your Ellie, the one who made you believe in something real—just kissed her. Not a quick peck, but a real kiss. One that felt too familiar. A kiss that made you sick, made your stomach churn like you had swallowed rusty nails. You could hear their voices, muffled through the noise of the restaurant, but the words were clear as day. Trivial shit. Talking about their son. Pet names. Casual chatter, the kind that could’ve been any couple. But it wasn’t supposed to be them. Not when Ellie had kissed you like you were the fucking air she needed to breathe, like her wife had failed her in ways you couldn’t even begin to understand. Ellie kissed you with that desperate hunger, like she was starved for something real, and you naively fell for it.
When the auburn haired woman looked back at you, for a split second, everything froze. She saw the pain hiding behind your strained, faint smile, the hurt you were barely managing to mask. Her face went pale, and then, like a fucking coward, she ditched her wife, brushing her off with some lame excuse about being too busy. You saw the fear of being caught. The guilt. The shame. All of it etched in her face, and you hated her for it.
You confronted her, demanded answers, tried to make sense of the lies she’d spun to you for months. But she stuck to her story, every word coming out of her mouth an excuse to protect herself. “It’s not like that, it’s all a facade. She’s not like this at home.” Fucking bullshit. Dina was the perfect wife. The kind of woman anyone would kill to have by their side. Ellie was the fucking problem. She couldn’t stay away from things she shouldn’t want—you. She never could.
She convinced you, promised you she would leave Dina, that one day, it would be just the two of you. But when that night came—the night you spent together, tangled up in sweat and passion—it was the end, one you never knew was coming. You were still panting, your heart pounding, when she rolled off of you.
“Babe, where’re you going?” You croaked, your voice strained and filled with disappointment. Your arm reached out slowly, but she was quicker, already perched on the edge of the bed, ready to up and leave. You could hardly keep yourself together as she pulled on her clothes.
“Home. To Dina.” The words fell from her lips so casually, as if they didn’t tear you apart to hear them, as if the aftermath of your activities wasn’t still gripping your chest, stealing your breath. You propped yourself up, your hair a tangled mess clinging to your sweaty forehead, forcing a playful expression, masking the pain inside you with a fake pout.
“Five more minutes? Where’s my aftercare?” You hoped your teasing would soften the moment, maybe make her cave the way she always did. It was a little game you’d played, and it usually worked.
In return, she dropped a whole bomb on you that made your chest tighten painfully and your stomach sink, “Look, we can’t keep doing this.” Her back was to you, her muscles flexing as she reached down for the rest of her clothes, the soft moonlight casting a faint glow over her freckled skin, leaving you drowning in the silence that followed.
“What?” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. Your eyes trailed over her back, over the red scratches you’d left there in the heat of it all, unable to comprehend how things had turned upside down so fucking fast.
“You heard me.” Her voice grew colder all of the sudden. “I have a wife, and I’m not gonna divorce her, no matter how bad things are.” She sounded so final, like her decision was set in stone and nothing would sway her.
You tried everything. You begged her, your voice breaking as you told her to stay, to not walk out of your life just like that. You yelled, you cried, you threw every last ounce of yourself into making her see what you two had, what she was throwing away. Nothing worked. She still left.
It didn’t just end there. She had one more kick to land. A week later, she fired you.
Fired you.
She called you into her office, and just when you thought she was about to offer even a shred of compassion, there was another cold punch to the gut. She handed you a card with a number on it, and you stared at it, bile rising in your throat. As if everything you two had could be wrapped up in a neat little package with a goodbye card like you were nothing more than some evidence she needed to get rid of in order to clean her conscience and carry on with her life like you never happened.
“What’s this?” You had questioned, confused, pissed off by the lack of any emotion in the exchange.
“Another restaurant that would much appreciate your devotion. She’s my friend and—” she kept going, but you couldn’t hear it anymore. The more she spoke, the more you felt the anger boil inside, hot and suffocating. You couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Are you firing me?” you snapped as the realization hit you harder than it should’ve. You’d fucking hated this job, she made you hate it, but it had been the best thing that ever happened to you. And Ellie knew that, she knew how much it meant to you. She simply couldn’t stand to look at you anymore. Guilt had started eating away at her—after six months of sleeping with you, no less.
Ridiculous.
“No, my friend Abby told me she needs more—” She tried to bullshit her way out, but you saw right through it. She sighed, frustration in her voice as she planted her hands on her hips, looking down at the floor, avoiding your gaze like the coward she was. “Yes. I’m firing you,” she finally admitted, cutting through her own bullshit.
“Is it because of—”
“Yes.” She confirmed, not even letting you finish the question.
“Wow.” You blinked at her, the words heavy in your mouth, disbelief written all over your face. You barely managed a faint frown, feeling your insides twist. Without another word, you turned on your heel and stomped out of her office, ripping your apron off like you were shedding the last bit of dignity you had left.
That’s what led you here. Sitting in your car, parked in front of Ellie’s house—this massive, gaudy mansion that felt like a fucking slap in the face. Too perfect, too shiny, too fucking out of reach for someone like you. Your fingers dug into the steering wheel, gripping it as if you wanted to rip it apart, your eyes locked on Dina’s silhouette as she paced back and forth behind the windows. Meanwhile, Ellie was still at work, living her life as if nothing had happened, while you were left drowning in your stupid, fucking choices. Only because you fell for her words, her kisses, her promises.
She couldn’t just ruin your life and walk away without consequences. No, you wouldn’t let her get away with this shit. You felt like a goddamn homewrecker, not only because you had slept with a married woman, but because of what you were about to do now.
Your hand hovered over the doorbell, your fingers shaking as you tried to convince yourself this wasn’t a mistake.
It was too late to back out.
The seconds dragged on like hours before she appeared. Dina, standing there at the door with that look on her face—confused, curious, like she was trying to place you before she realized she had never seen you before.
“Sorry? Do I know you?” Her voice was soft, too soft, as if it was meant for someone who had slept with her wife. Those warm, brown eyes staring back at you made you feel like the lowest piece of scum, causing your words to catch in your throat, tangled and desperate. It was as though they were trying to strangle you from the inside.
“Are you okay? Do you need anything, sweetie?” Her tone shifted, softening as she noticed the panic clouding your eyes, the tremble that gripped your body. But no amount of softness could quell the scorching anger inside you. You wanted to throw it all out—the truth. The ugly truth.
Before you could even utter a word, her son appeared from behind her, his small hands holding up a drawing, pride beaming from his small face. “Mommy, look!” His innocent, excited tone cut through you, “Can’t wait to show mama, too.”
Dina gently hushed him, running her fingers through his brown hair, and your eyes locked on the ring glinting on her finger. Your gaze lingered on Dina for a moment before drifting to the family photos adorning the wall behind the woman. Some captured small trips, others moments on the beach, while a few were wedding and baby pictures. Then, your eyes returned to the child’s innocent face, his tiny hand clutching the drawing—it made something inside you crack, without a warning.
You swallowed hard as you blinked, fighting to compose yourself.
“Sorry, I was looking for... Jake. I must’ve gotten the wrong address.”
you know when you feel pure, sheer, untameable (is that a word?) anger? like the kind you feel in your chest, like center of your chest, and you feel it bubbling inside you like hot, boiling water? and you don't know if you wanna feel the pain of your knuckles breaking against someone's face, or throw up till your throat is sore and bleeding cause you're so pissed you actually feel sick? like true rage, that can never go away, cause none of those things are actually gonna make you feel better. cause what you're mad about is actually so unreasonable and foul, you'll feel that same anger every time you think about it. well, that is exactly what i felt by the time i was done reading this. and i think you should feel this too. this is a masterpiece, and it deserves to be treated like one, thank you, that is all i have to say, goodnight.
thinking about how when jayce realised that mel had powers and was the one to protect him he actually got angry because she didn’t protect the rest of the council but really just viktor because if viktor hadn’t been injured in the explosion then jayce wouldn’t have had to put viktor in the hexcore and viktor would never have been corrupted and taken over by the arcane and he never would’ve had to kill him
I can't stop thinking about how selfless Ekko is. He could have lived in a universe with everything he could've wanted. He had his father figure back, his friends were all alive and thriving, and the community he had to grow through blood, sweat, and tears was thriving in this universe. He got a chance to see Powder grow up. But he chose to return, choosing to sacrifice the closest thing he could get to his ideal reality to go back to an objectively worse one.
gummygunk
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
