it happens so fast. one second you’re reaching for the glass on the counter — distracted, thinking about nothing in particular — and the next, it slips. it hits the tile floor. shatters.
the sound is sharp. violent. too loud for something so small. your body reacts before your brain does.
your stomach drops. your shoulders tense. your heart starts pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape your ribs. you freeze.
the kitchen suddenly feels smaller. the air heavier.
it’s ridiculous. it’s just a glass. but your brain doesn’t care about logic — it cares about memory.
about raised voices.
about sighs of disappointment.
about that look. the one that says how could you be so careless?
you swallow. your hands start shaking.
“baby?” pedro’s voice calls from the living room. “everything okay?”
the words make your throat tighten.
you open your mouth but nothing comes out at first.
he’s already walking in before you can answer. and he sees it. the shattered glass.
you standing stiff in the middle of it, like you’re waiting for something to happen.
he looks from the floor to your face.
and immediately — immediately — his expression changes.
not annoyance. not frustration. concern.
“hey,” he says softly.
you hate how small your voice sounds when you finally speak.
“i’m sorry.”
it comes out automatic. reflexive. too fast.
his brows pull together.
“for what?”
“i didn’t mean to. i just— it slipped, and i— i’ll clean it up, i’m sorry.”
your breathing is uneven now. you’re already crouching down before he can stop you, hands hovering too close to sharp pieces.
he moves fast then — not angry, not sharp — just protective.
“no, no, no,” he says gently, catching your wrists before you can grab anything. “don’t touch it.”
you freeze again.
your eyes are glossy and you don’t even realize it.
“i didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter now.
he doesn’t look at the glass anymore. he looks at you. really looks at you.
at the way your chest is rising too fast. at how your fingers are trembling in his hands.
“hey,” he murmurs, lowering himself so he’s eye level with you. “it’s just a glass.”
you shake your head slightly. you know that. you do.
but your body doesn’t.
“i know,” you whisper, and that makes it worse somehow.
he studies your face for a second longer — and then understanding settles in his eyes.
not about the glass. about something older.
he lets go of your wrists slowly and instead cups your face with both hands.
warm. steady. grounding.
“look at me.”
you hesitate — then you do.
his voice is softer now. not teasing. not playful. just firm in the gentlest way.
“you’re not in trouble.”
your breath catches.
he says it again, quieter.
“you’re not in trouble, okay?”
and something inside you cracks.
your lips wobble before you can stop them.
“i know, i just—” you shake your head, embarrassed now. “i don’t know why i react like this.”
he presses his forehead lightly against yours.
“because someone taught you to,” he says calmly.
no judgment. no pity. just fact.
his thumbs brush under your eyes, catching tears you didn’t realize had fallen.
“but i’m not them.”
your breathing slows a fraction.
he shifts slightly, careful to keep you away from the glass, and wraps his arms around you fully.
pulls you into his chest. and it’s not a casual hug. it’s the kind where he holds you tight. solid. one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you close like he’s physically shielding you from something.
“it’s just a glass,” he murmurs into your hair. “we have like twelve more.”
you let out a shaky, wet laugh against his shirt.
he kisses the top of your head.
“and even if we didn’t,” he continues softly, “i would still choose you over a stupid glass.”
your fingers clutch into his shirt.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper again, but it’s smaller now. less frantic.
he leans back just enough to look at you.
“don’t apologize for existing in my kitchen,” he says gently.
you sniff. he gives you a tiny smile.
“accidents are allowed here.”
the words settle somewhere deep.
allowed.
he presses one more soft kiss to your forehead.
“now,” he says, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, “you’re going to stand over there, barefoot nowhere near the crime scene, and i’m going to clean this up.”
you nod quietly.
he stands, grabs the broom, and works carefully — glancing at you every few seconds just to make sure you’re still okay.
when he’s done, he comes right back to you.
no space. no distance.
just arms wrapping around you again.
“you okay?” he asks.
you nod against his chest.
“…yeah.”
he hums softly.
“good. because i love you. and i don’t do yelling in this house.”
yo just wanna vent here saying for the first time in my academic life I've failed in something and when I searched for like... A HUG, my situationship called me stupid 💀
I'm in an awful state since my biggest... personality trait is being a high achiever and I'm so fucking good at everything I do and I got denied as a trainee in the psychoanalytical school I most desired and now I'm dying to find some other place... anyways... never wanted to be marged with fantasy so bad, and now it's the moment I definitely cannot do such thing...
Reader asking Ellie to record them fucking, and Ellie ends up getting really into it (love your writing btw!! 💋💋)
say hi to the camera ─⭑.
⭒ word count: 3.6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖
⭒ content warnings: film student top!ellie x sub!reader, oral sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap-on (r!receiving), pussy slapping, hair pulling, filming kink, AFAB!reader, cursing, pet names, rough sex, degradation + praise, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖
࿐not part of the collide au (rip my absolute queens... this actually hurt my SOUL but hey sometimes we gotta go out of our comfort zone and get feral for... the craft)
you said it as a joke.
but it landed like a command.
it happens halfway through straddling her on the couch, your body already buzzing from the way she’s kissing you—slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize your mouth. her palms are hot under your shirt, fingertips dragging slow up your ribs.
you lean back just enough to catch your breath, grin sharp as ever.
"you should record this next time."
her lips pause at your throat. she stays there, a little shocked, mouth barely grazing your skin, and then—voice low, amused:
"you want me to record you while i fuck you?"
you shrug, all fake casual, even though your pulse jumps.
"i mean… why not? could be hot."
ellie pulls back just enough to look at you. blinks once. and then she grins—all trouble. her hands drag down your sides, deliberate now, like she’s already directing the first shot.
"you want a sex tape, baby?"
your smile widens. "just for me. like, when you're gone late working on a project and i’m in bed missing you."
she groans. like, actual full-body groan. throws her head back against the couch, rubs a hand over her face like you’ve just ruined her life.
"jesus fucking christ. you’re evil."
you tilt your head. "you love it."
her gaze snaps back to you—darker now, her pupils blown wide, her lip caught between her teeth.
"i will story-board the fuck out of it. lighting. blocking. sound. i'll give you a score."
"you’re such a nerd."
“and you’re the one asking a film major to make a porno, so who’s the real nerd here?”
you laugh, leaning in to kiss her, grinding down on her lap.
“bet you’d narrate the whole thing like, ‘scene one—fucking my girlfriend. interior. night. single cam. practical lighting.’”
she chokes on a laugh, then groans, fingers digging into your hips. “shut the fuck up.”
“no, seriously—‘fade in: slut on couch. extreme close-up. one long take. raw as hell.’”
“i’m gonna ruin you,” she growls, and this time it’s not a joke—rough, all threat and promise.
you just smirk, mouth barely brushing hers.
“yeah, but make it auteur.”
she doesn’t bring it up again for a week. you think she’s forgotten, or maybe it was just talk—a shared fantasy that slipped between the couch cushions and the memory of her mouth on your neck.
but then it’s saturday night. you’re fresh from the shower, hair damp and clinging to your neck, skin still warm, still smelling like her soap. you’re wearing her old gray t-shirt—soft, stretched, worn in the best way—and nothing underneath.
ellie’s already in the bedroom. the lights are low, shadows moving slow across the walls. deftones plays from the speaker—just enough to feel in your ribs, not loud enough to distract.
when you step into the room, you freeze. she’s sprawled out on the bed in a black tank top and boxers, one knee bent, and a camera aimed straight at you.
not her phone. not some propped-up, shaky little attempt at homemade porn. a real camera—matte black, compact, handheld, with a flip-out screen angled toward her face and that unmistakable red recording light already glowing steady.
the kind of camera that says she’s thought about this. planned it. maybe even fantasized about how she’d frame you, light you, direct you. and now you’re here. standing in the doorway, already caught in the first shot.
“wait,” you say, blinking. “are you for real?”
she doesn’t even flinch. just looks up from behind it and grins, wide and wolfish.
“oh, i’m for real,” she says, voice warm and smug.
you snort, tugging the hem of your shirt down instinctively, "with a real fucking camera?"
"yeah, wanna see it in 4K" she responds, tilting it, lens still trained on you. "why? don’t get all shy on me now, babe. you're the one who said record it."
“yeah,” you arch a brow. “i just didn’t think i was dating a one-woman a24 production crew.”
“you’re not,” she says, adjusting the zoom. “you’re dating a visionary.”
you try not to laugh but fail.“you look like a lesbian scorsese.”
“and you look like the hottest thing i’ve ever filmed,” she says, voice thick, thumb adjusting the focus. “so maybe be nice to your director.”
you stay where you are for a second. let her film you standing still. let her zoom in the curve of your thighs, the way the shirt clings to your chest, the outline of your nipples through the fabric. the tension builds between frames, between your breaths.
“you’re actually committing to this?” you ask, voice softer now, a little breathless, as if the heat in the room just kicked up a notch.
“baby,” she says, adjusting the focus without even looking away, “i’ve been storyboarding this in my head since before we even spoke.”
her voice is calm, almost sweet—like it’s not the filthiest thing she’s ever admitted.
“freak,” you mutter, but you’re smiling, laughing again—breathier this time. your body already giving in. you step closer, hips loose, eyes locked on hers.
ellie lifts the camera a little higher, tracks the shift of your body as if she’s afraid to miss a second.
“show me,” she whispers, tone low but teasing. “come on, give me a show.”
and you give her one. you lift the hem of the shirt slowly. not for her—for the lens. you know exactly how this is going to look in playback. the glow of your skin in this light. the way your body starts to reveal itself, line by line.
you pull it over your head and let it drop to the floor, nipples stiffening in the cold air. your stomach tenses under her gaze, and you don’t try to hide the shine between your thighs.
she makes a noise—somewhere between a sigh and a curse—and the camera dips for half a second, like her hand twitched. you see her throat bob as she swallows.
you know that look. she’s not sure whether to keep filming or drop the thing entirely and fall to her knees.
and god, it turns you on even more.
"still rolling?" you ask, voice sugar-laced, cocky.
ellie nods once, "yeah. fucking hell, yeah."
you step closer, slower this time. not acting. not pretending. this isn’t performance—it’s instinct. it’s power. the way she’s looking at you, mouth parted, eyes glazed behind the viewfinder. you know she’s turned on before she’s even touched you.
“you better not cut the part where i called you a pervy little director,” you tease, all teeth.
ellie lowers the camera just enough to meet your eyes, flushed and slightly out of breath. hand still holding the lens like a lifeline.
“cut it?” she says. “i’m putting it in the trailer.”
you grin. shift your weight, your thighs brushing.
“turn around,” she says next, and it’s not a suggestion.
it’s gravel and gravity, all command. her voice has slipped into that other place—firm, sure, focused. all director mode.
you smirk but do what she says. slowly, hips swaying. your hands drag down your own waist as you pivot, and when your back is to her, you arch slightly—just enough. let her see the full curve of your ass, the slick glinting between your thighs.
behind you, there’s a sharp exhale.
"jesus christ," she mutters. then the soft mechanical buzz of her adjusting the zoom.
you don’t need to see her to know she’s locked in. her eyes drinking in every inch, the red light on the camera the only thing keeping her from touching you already.
you glance back lazily. “so, you gonna keep filming, or are you gonna fuck me?”
and that’s it.
the camera dips. her body snaps to attention like it’s muscle memory.
you’re pulled back towards the bed in one smooth movement—no hesitation. the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you drop, your body folding back on your elbows, legs parting without a hint of shame.
ellie stands over you, camera raised.
“holy shit,” she mutters.
she brings the camera lower, letting it drink you in, between your legs, over the slick. the way your chest rises and falls, nipples peaked, skin glowing.
“look at you,” she says. “you’re already dripping, just from being filmed.”
you shift, thighs tightening, and she catches the movement.
"such a fucking dirty girl," she mutters, one hand ghosting over your stomach.
she places the camera down on the nightstand, still rolling, still angled at your spread legs and heaving chest. her focus is so fucking precise it sends a wave of arousal through you all on its own.
and then ellie kneels between your legs like it’s her altar.
angel starts playing low in the background, slow and dark.
has she even prepped the soundtrack? you wonder for a second, half-laugh, half-moan.
(of course she did.)
she starts with your knee. presses her mouth there, slow and warm, a kiss that lingers just a second too long before she trails it upward. her hands follow—one curling firm around your thigh like she owns it, the other gliding up the center of your stomach, dragging heat in its wake.
she slips her palm higher, sliding between your ribs, under the soft weight of your breast.
her thumb brushes over your nipple and you gasp, chest lifting into her hand like you’ve forgotten how to do anything else but respond.
"you feel that?" she murmurs, voice low, like it’s just for you even though the camera’s still blinking red. "your heart’s beating so fucking fast."
you open your mouth to say something smart, something flirty, but then she’s kissing up your thigh again and the thought dies on your tongue.
she reaches your stomach, then your sternum, then your collarbone—and instead of diving down immediately, she pauses. tilts her head. looks at you.
and kisses you.
hot and deep, all tongue and teeth. one of those messy, all-consuming kisses that steals the breath right out of your lungs.
you moan into it—she swallows the sound greedily. her fingers are already moving again. one circling your nipple, the other caressing your side.
she pulls back just enough to speak, her lips grazing your cheek, then your jaw.
"you're perfect" she says, kissing beneath your ear, down your throat, impossibly reverent.
your hips roll up involuntarily, and she smiles against your collarbone.
"getting impatient, baby?"
"ellie—fuck—"
she chuckles. not unsympathetic—just pleased. her mouth finds your nipple next, tongue dragging over it slow, flicking, then sucking it into the heat of her mouth. her other hand moves to your other breast, squeezes gently, then rougher, thumb teasing over the tip until you whine.
"god, these tits," she mumbles against your chest, "camera’s not even doing them justice."
your back arches when her palm lands flat on your stomach, sliding lower, past your hip, fingers teasing the edge of your thigh.
"ellie," you gasp again, helpless this time.
she lets your nipple go with a soft, wet pop. looks up at you from your chest, mouth slick, green eyes lit up with that impossible mix of her—tender and ravenous, as if she wants to worship you and devour you in the same breath.
she shifts downward, dragging her tongue along the slope of your breast, down your stomach, until she’s eye level with your pussy. you’re throbbing, already wrecked, thighs trembling just from the anticipation of her mouth.
she glances at the nightstand, double-checking the angle like it matters. then brings her fingers to your folds, spreading you open with both thumbs, totally entranced by the sight.
“say hi to the camera, baby,” she teases, looking up at you.
and then, without warning, her tongue drags a slow, devastating stripe from your entrance to your clit.
you moan—loud, raw, helpless, trying to lift your hips but her free hand is already there, pressing you down into the mattress.
"f-fuck!" you whimper, voice cracking.
"that's right," she murmurs, licking again. "let it hear every fuckin’ sound."
she starts working you in earnest now—tongue circling your clit in tight, practiced spirals, her mouth warm and greedy. she moans against you, like the taste of you is enough to drive her insane. you can feel every vibration down to your toes.
your hands are tangled in her hair, thighs wide open, whole body arching into her mouth. she slips one hand between your legs and slides a finger inside—curling just enough to make your spine seize.
"holy shit," you gasp. "oh my god—Ellie—"
"more," she whispers against your clit, sliding in a second finger "let it see how messy you get for it."
and then she reaches back—without stopping—grabs the camera from the nightstand with her free hand, flips the screen toward you, and holds it low between your bodies. the image blinks into view—a live, unfiltered shot: your pussy stretched around her fingers, your mouth agape and brows furrowed, your thighs shaking with every thrust.
“you seeing this, baby?” she mutters, eyes flicking between you and the viewfinder. “fuck, look at you.”
and god—you do. you watch yourself fall apart in real time, every wet sound, every twitch of your stomach from overstimulation, every pump of her fingers, every gasp on full display. like it’s art, like it’s proof.
and it’s probably the filthiest, most turned on you have ever felt in your life.
its holy and obscene at the same time—your body laid bare, her fingers deep inside you, your face twisted with pleasure, and all of it immortalized in perfect footage.
you can’t look away.
neither can she.
"ellie—please—I’m gonna—"
"do it," she growls, "come f’me, come for the camera."
you come with a cry that splits the room, loud, shaking. your thighs squeeze around her hand and your back lifts off the mattress, body wrung out like a rag.
she doesn’t stop, just slows her pace, works you through it. you’re trembling when she finally pulls away, kisses your thigh, and sits back with the camera resting on her bent knee. she lifts it, points it at your face.
you’re flushed, sweaty. lying in a wrecked halo of your own making.
“so damn perfect like this” she mutters, voice a rasp. "you want more?"
you nod, chest heaving.
"words."
"yes," you whisper. then louder, like she needs to hear it. like the camera does, too. "yes. fuck, yes. please fuck me."
and she grins like the devil.
she tosses the camera onto the nightstand—still recording, angled just right, lens slightly askew—but it only makes it hotter, messy, real. something she’ll watch for hours with her hand down her boxers.
she doesn’t say anything as she crosses the room, opens the drawer, and pulls out the harness. it’s not slow or performative. it’s practiced, casual. she straps it over her black boxers with one hand, the other slicking lube over the thick purple silicone cock. it gleams in the low light, catching the flash of the camera’s red recording dot.
you’re already moving, your body shifting on instinct—onto your hands and knees, face buried in the sheets, ass high in the air like it’s muscle memory.
ellie looks at you and lets out a sound from deep in her throat. almost a laugh, mostly a groan.“stay just like that.”
she climbs behind you, smooth and silent. spreads your cheeks with both hands and groans when she sees how soaked you are.
"fuck, baby. you made a whole fuckin' mess back here."
"ellie—"
she leans down, kissing the small of your back, then bites your ass, playful and sharp. one hand grips your hip, the other slides between your legs—and she slaps your pussy once, just enough to make you jolt and whine. it’s wet, loud, dirty.
she groans at the sound. "jesus. dripping."
then she drags the head of the strap between your folds, slow and heavy.
"you ready for it?"
you nod frantically, pressing your face into the mattress.
“say it.”
“please fuck me. please, i want it. i need it so bad—”
she wanted to draw it out—make you beg, make you squirm—but she’s just as wrecked as you are, barely holding it together. so when she finally thrusts in, it’s with one deep, steady stroke that knocks the air straight out of your lungs.
you gasp, choking. “jesus christ!—”
“god, look at that,” she breathes, pulling back, watching the way you stretch and suck her back in with the next thrust. “you’re fuckin’ swallowing it.”
her hands find your hips. she sets a brutal rhythm, dragging you back onto her cock with every thrust, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls. the sound of your moans, the slap of her thighs against your ass, the headboard slamming the wall—it’s filthy.
she leans forward, chest pressed to your back, and wraps one hand around your breast, squeezing, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you whine. her other hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back.
“you like getting fucked like this?” she hisses in your ear. “like a toy on display?”
“yes—fuck, yes—”
“touch yourself.”
you obey instantly. one hand between your legs, circling your clit in frantic, desperate little motions while she fucks you from behind like she’s trying to split you in two.
you notice that closer is softly but steadily playing, and the camera’s still rolling, capturing everything. the curve of your ass, the tremble in your thighs, the way your body jerks every time she bottoms out.
ellie groans like she feels it too—because she does. she’s grinding against the base of the strap, hungry and relentless, chasing the friction like she’s starved for it. the harness is soaked, her boxers nearly translucent with how wet she is, and every time she thrusts into you, the base rubs right against her clit.
“you gonna come like this?” she pants. “gonna soak my dick like a good little slut?”
“yes—yes—fuck, ellie, i’m gonna—”
“say it.”
“i’m your slut,” you cry out. “i'm your fucking slut—”
and right then, without missing a beat, she grabs the camera off the nightstand, angles it behind you. the lens catches the mess of your ass bouncing against her hips, the wet slap of skin on skin, the slick sound of your cunt stretching around the purple silicone.
and then she slaps your ass, hard. loud enough to echo through the room.
"fuck!" you yelp, back arching, legs shaking violently.
and you come like a landslide. body seizing, muscles locking, then breaking all at once as you scream into the mattress. it rolls through you in waves, loud and long, your thighs trembling, fingers still working yourself as you ride it out.
you feel it when she starts to lose it—her rhythm falters, hips stutter, breath hitching into short, high little gasps. her fingers dig into your waist and she presses forward, deeper, harder, her chest flush to your back like she’s trying to crawl inside you.
“fuck—fuck, baby—i’m—”
her voice cracks, and then she whines—high and helpless, the kind of sound you didn’t know she could make. desperate and slutty and fucking perfect. her whole body goes taut, then shudders, her thighs shaking as she ruts through it. she comes with her face buried in your shoulder, teeth clenched, breath shivering.
the base of the strap is slick and messy between you now, but she grinding against the harness like it’s not enough, never enough. she groans into your skin, broken and dazed, and you can feel her heart pounding against your back.
and when she pulls out, it’s slow and careful, hands suddenly tender where they'd just been rough. she leans forward and kisses your spine—once, then again—her breath hot and uneven against your skin.
“you okay?” she murmurs, palm sliding up your back in soft, grounding strokes.
you nod, barely able to form the word. “better than okay.”
she laughs, quiet and breathless, into your shoulder. a little dazed, wrecked herself.
she rolls you onto your back, her hand never leaving your skin, and collapses beside you. the room is humid with sex, thick with sweat, heat and the echo of everything that just happened. the air itself feels heavy, slow.
in her hand, the camera is still rolling. its red light blinks steadily, casting a faint glow over the two of you.
ellie flips the screen towards herself, then turns the lens on you—zooming in dramatically on your wrecked face.
“say hi, baby” she teases, still catching her breath.
you blink up at the lens, dazed. hair a disaster. lips kiss-bruised. eyes glassy like you’ve just returned from the dead.
“hi,” you mumble, grinning like a fool, “i just got fucked into the stratosphere.”
ellie then pans the camera to her own face—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to her forehead—and raises both brows like she’s in a documentary.
“filmmaker. method actor. strap goat. i do it all.”
you burst out laughing, weakly swatting at her.
she grins, crooked and proud, turning the camera back to you. “and you just won best actress in a leading role, doll.”
“so, what’s the title?” you ask, giggling into the pillow.
ellie snorts—eyes gleaming like she just won an oscar and knocked someone out in the same damn night. she adjusts the angle, tilts the camera so you’re both in the frame: flushed, sweaty, radiant, completely ruined.
then, with the most serious voice she can manage, she deadpans to the lens—
“the slut and the lesbian scorsese.”
you wheeze. “shut the fuck up.”
“already submitted to sundance, actually.”
“you’re insufferable.”
“director’s cut drops next week.”
you try to slap her but miss—too sore, too high on her, too in love. she just laughs, smug and glowing, and zooms in one last time on your face.
“five stars,” she murmurs, “would absolutely fuck again.”
࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ omg… first fic NOT set in the collide au in literal MONTHS and it feels SO weird but soooo good to write something different omfg 😭 rockstar!ellie and popstar!reader yall still haunt me everyday. my favorite lesbians for the rest of the eternity. i’ve missed this kind of chaos. huge love and tysm to my gorg mootie who sent this amazing request before i even started collide—you live in my brain rent free forever bby!
i might play around with a few more fics + requests before launching the next big series i’ve been outlining (👀), so stay tuned babes. ily all dearly ♡
Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on my perm taglist!
credits for divider: @cafekitsune <3 – images from pinterest - edited by me
there is a willow grows aslant a brook,
that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
there with fantastic garlands did she come
of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
that liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
but our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:
there, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
when down her weedy trophies and herself
fell in the weeping brook.
///
don't ask me why i hate myself
as i'm circling the drain
'cause death, it takes too long
and i can't wait
ophelia from shakespeare's hamlet + tempest by ethel cain
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
areudirty
pixelskylines
snowghoul
