firefighter abby n emt ellie coming home at around 7am only to find reader still awake :( reader couldn’t sleep, maybe bc of anxiety or something, soooo it’s group cuddle time :3
𝓢𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 ? — 𝐞𝐦𝐭!𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 + 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲
first written fic for this au yayyy!! ellie and abby bickering for 1.7k words straight. Pet names (pretty, babe), swearing, Ellie is a menace with severe adhd, reader mentioned being stressed, Abby pics reader up, fluff fluff fluff, falling asleep w the roomies :) for marie, with love :p send requests! dont be shy 🤍
𝓣he tv’s blue light shines against your face from across the living room, the loading screen appearing after many minutes of ignorance. You paid no mind to it, scrolling mindlessly through your phone underneath one of the living room throw blankets.
Your head pounds against your skull, your eyes wincing as the fluorescent screen of your phone beats into them. You had tried to close them multiple times, you really had. But no matter what you did, your body just wouldn’t cooperate.
At 10 pm you shut down your laptop, slipping it back onto the kitchen table. You washed your face, brushed your teeth, and crawled into your own bed, something you didn't do very often.
At 12, after two hours of tossing and turning, you begrudgingly tossed the covers off of your body, and tip-toed into the kitchen. You prepared yourself a small cup of warm tea, and let it coat your throat. You finished, rinsed out the cup, and made your way back to your room.
At 2, you grew angry. You threw yourself out of bed, trudged into the bathroom this time, and ran a warm bubble bath. At that point, your hopes of falling asleep were growing thin, alongside your patience. You hopped in, and let the water calm your muscles for the few minutes that followed.
You got out at three, and followed the previous routine of making your way back to your room and slipping beneath the covers. This time, you opened the window, turned off all your little lights, and did a breathing exercise.
By four o’clock, you knew there was no hope for you. You tugged your phone off the charger and moved to the living room. It was cooler in there, so you pulled a blanket out of the basket at the end of the couch.
You pulled it over the length of your body, and began to carelessly browse the tv for show options. You clicked on the current tv show you were watching, and put it in the background. You barely paid any attention to it, instead opting to pull out your phone and switch between the same four apps that you always did.
Eventually, time slipped away from you, and the clock was striking 7 am. Your roommates were due home soon, today was one of the off times where finished work at the same time.
You scroll to the next TikTok.
“Oh my god you guys, this new blush hack is changing the game!” A woman’s voice fills the silent room. The volume makes your head pound harder. You turn it down quickly, letting it sit at a solid 10.
Scroll.
A video of a cat cooing against their owner pops up. You smile gently, double tap the screen and scroll.
The next video is a lesbian couple, cuddled up in a bed with a soft sound playing in the background. You roll your eyes, clicking on the favourite button and double tapping the screen.
Your scrolling time is interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open, and two sets of boots trudging into the house. You can’t see them from here, and they can’t see you. The back of the couch is covering the majority of your body, and theirs before they step into the entry way.
Ellie groans as she steps into the house, dropping her work bag onto the floor and leaning down to shove her shoes off of her feet. Abby does the same, stretching her back out with a light sigh.
You shut your phone off, and push the blanket down to your knees. You sat up on your knees, laying your head along the back of the couch. “How was work?” You chirp up, your voice decently quiet.
Ellie’s head shoots up from the ground, her green eyes blown wide. Abby’s head cracks to the side so quickly you can only guess it gave her whiplash.
“Jesus Christ.” Ellie whispers, pushing herself off the wall. Abby chuckles quietly, stretching her arms over her head and smiling.
“Sorry, sorry!” You laugh, pushing your head back up. Abby walks into the kitchen, probably in the search of food. Ellie walks over to the couch, wrapping her arms around your neck and pulling you into a soft hug. You wrap your arms around her waist, chuckling into her shoulder.
“Work was—work. Nothing special.” Abby finally replies from the kitchen, letting the fridge door shut behind her as she pulls a container of whatever she had prepped the previous day out from inside of it.
“You literally fight fires.” You quip, letting go of Ellie and stepping off the couch. Abby just shrugs, and shoves her definitely not microwave safe container into the microwave.
You and Ellie meet her in the kitchen, sliding into the space with practiced ease.
“Why are you still up anyway?” Abby asks, moving over to the sink to wash her hands.
Ellie pipes up next. “Yeah, the sun's already up—you should be in bed.” She slides a finger up your face, grazing your upper lip and the bottom of your nose.
You bat her hand away and shrug, “couldn’t sleep.” Your admission causes Ellie to jut out her bottom lip, and Abby elbows her out of the way to get to the microwave.
“How come?” Abby asks, opening the door of the appliance with the smooth click of a button. Her voice is gentle, soothing.
“I don't know. Maybe stress.” You answer, pulling your blanket up around you. Your head felt heavy on your shoulders, and if you were honest, you weren’t quite sure how many more words you could get out.
The sun had started seeping through the cracks in the living room and kitchen curtains, a gentle breeze flowing in the open window. Ellie’s pushing out of the way and making her way down the hall to her room.
“Well, we should probably get you to bed then, hm?” Abby says, finally looking up at you. Her food is steaming when she pulls it out, she slides it down the counter and lets it settle.
You nod. “Don’t know if it's even worth it. Maybe I’ll just start the day now. Try to be productive.” It was an idea that had been swirling around your head since maybe five. But truthfully, you might collapse if you have to keep your eyes open another second.
“Nonsense. You can sleep in my room.” She places a small kiss on your forehead, and takes a seat on one of the stools that sits tucked beneath the island. You nod.
A few seconds of silence pass before Ellie’s quietly emerging from the hallway, this time she's in pajamas and has a green toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. She leans over the counter, clearly experiencing some type of fomo.
“Can you—” Abby swats at her, making a semi disgusted face. She throws her hands up, walking over to your side of the counter.
“Stop drooling on me, you goblin.” You laugh, pushing her away from you almost immediately. She drops her head back, and continues brushing, right in the kitchen.
“I’m sleeping with Abby tonight.” You state, matter of factly. Ellie drops her head back, and immediately turns around to spit her leftover toothpaste into the sink. She quickly rinses her mouth out with the tap and turns back to you.
“Why?” She asks, walking back over to you. She plops down right next to your other roommate, who’s almost done with her meal at this point.
“I dunno, I just felt like it.” You shrug.
”Jealous?” Abby intervenes, turning to her with a shit eating grin. The auburn headed girl lightly slaps her arm.
“I’m coming too, then.” She smiles at you, and you nod in her direction.
The blonde groans, you can tell she's pretending to be annoyed. “You kick hard as fuck. Stay on your side I swear.” She stands up, shoving a hand into Ellie’s face, pushing her back gently.
“Fuck you!” Ellie shrieks, flipping her off. Abby shoves her container into the sink, and grimaces at Ellie’s mess of toothpaste. She doesn't say anything, just silently rinses out the sink.
“Shhh!” You whisper to Ellie, the sound of her basically yelling only makes your head pound harder. “I have a headache.”
“Sorry, pretty.” Ellie stands, “it’s probably from sleeping at odd hours, though.” She winks, sticking the tip of her tongue out form between her chapped lips.
“I like sleeping with you more than sleeping on time.” You admit, blowing her a kiss. Her cheeks burn a light dusty pink, and she flips you off.
“Alright, let's go.” Abby speaks up from behind you. The light flicks off, and before you’re able to slide off the counter, she's sweeping you up into her arms.
Ellie rolls her eyes, turning around to make her way to the farthest room down the hall. “What, you wanna be carried too, Williams?” She jokes, and smiles at you when you laugh.
You hear Ellie whisper something along the lines of die faggot, as she opens the door. Abby follows her in, dropping you onto the bed and turning around. She's still in uniform, so she grabs a pair of pajamas and makes her way to the bathroom to wash up.
Abby's room is much much darker than the living room, thank god for blackout curtains. And the breeze from her AC keeps the place crisp. You quickly scramble beneath the sheets, tucking yourself in as Ellie falls on top of you.
“Ellie. You’re so hot.” You say into the darkness, feeling the gumminess of her warm arm wrap around you.
“Thanks, babe.” You can feel her smirking, her cocky ass. She knew thats not what you meant, and you didn't fight her on it.
Ellie's breath quickly shifts from jagged and quick to slow, soft snores. You pet her hair a few times, letting her fall asleep against you.
Abby comes back in just a few minutes later, and you’re already the closest to falling asleep you’ve been tonight. She slips beneath the sheets on the right side of you, and quickly pulls you against her chest. You hum gently into her, and Ellie only snuggles up to you more.
“She’s a child.” Abby chuckles into your ear, wrapping her arms around your waist.
You can barely nod, humming softly in agreement. It’s not long after that you’re falling asleep, chasing dreams of your insanely chaotic roommates.
content :: mdni 18+ content ;; sexual themes, fluff, angst, comedy, forbidden romance, good old lesbian yearning (lots of it), homophobia (openly expressed/implied), closeted reader, afab reader ⸺ men dni, swearing, bullying, mild violence/fighting, descriptions of injuries, typical highschool drama, ellie is insanely conflicted, reader being an ass, reader's boyfriend ALSO being an ass (x100), greg returns and crashes out, modern au, songfic, multiple part fic,, lmk if i've missed anything !!
word count :: 13.9k
series masterlist | next chapter
synopsis :: it starts the way most disasters start: quietly, and in a school cafeteria. ellie williams has a problem. it isn't the bruises, or the skipped classes, or the journal she really should have held onto more carefully. it's the girl across the lunch hall — the one she can't stop looking at, the one who looks back like it costs her something, the one who is, by every reasonable measure, the worst possible person to feel this way about. she knows that. she has always known that.
it doesn't seem to be helping.
THE CAFETERIA WAS LOUD, the way school cafeterias always were — a wall of overlapping sound, trays clattering, chairs scraping, someone three tables over laughing like a foghorn someone had taught to be obnoxious on purpose. It was the kind of noise that didn't just fill a room but colonised it, pressed itself into every available corner and set up permanent residence. A living, breathing thing made entirely of chaos and the smell of overcooked pasta.
Ellie didn't hear any of it.
You were the still point at the centre of a spinning room.
That was the only way to make sense of it — the way the afternoon light came through the high windows at just the right angle, just the right moment, and found you like it had been searching. Like it had crossed ninety-three million miles of empty, freezing, indifferent space with one singular destination in mind, and that destination was you. It poured into your hair like liquid gold being tipped from a jug, pooled at your shoulders like it was reluctant to go any further, gilded the edges of you until you were less a girl eating lunch and more a Renaissance painting that had gotten up, gotten dressed, and decided to haunt a school cafeteria for reasons of its own.
The noise, the chaos, the aggressive institutional ugliness of the room itself — none of it touched you. It broke around you the way water broke around a stone. You had your own atmosphere. A separate, sovereign one, with a pressure system all its own and weather that Ellie had never once been able to predict.
You were talking to your friends, gesturing at something with one hand — laughing, maybe, it was hard to tell from here, which was a tragedy that Ellie felt in her actual ribcage — and even the gesture was a small catastrophe, a grenade with the pin pulled, because you moved like punctuation. Like every motion was a sentence that knew exactly where it was going. Even a wave of your hand was a complete thought.
"Ellie."
The rest of the room had become scenery, a painted backdrop, a film set that existed purely as context for you, and the light kept doing what it was doing and you kept being what you were, this impossible, incandescent, gravity-bending —
"Ellie."
— thing, this force, because that's what it was, that's the only word that fit, a force, the kind that couldn't be reasoned with or negotiated with or looked at directly for too long without something in Ellie's chest doing something embarrassing and structural, like a building developing cracks along its foundational walls, and she was aware, distantly, the way you're aware of weather through a closed window, that she was staring, that she had been staring, that staring was an understatement for what she was doing, which was closer to orbiting, helplessly, uselessly, like a satellite that had long since run out of fuel but kept going anyway because gravity didn't care about her situation —
"ELLIE."
The world detonated back into existence.
"What —" She startled so violently she nearly launched her lunch tray off the table like a trebuchet, one hand slamming down on it a half second before disaster, her elbow catching the edge of her drink hard enough to send it rocking, and a fork went skidding off the edge and clattered across the linoleum with the specific kind of loud that made three nearby tables look over at once. "Jesus — Greg —"
Greg was watching her with the serene, comfortable expression of a man sitting in a lawn chair watching someone else's house burn down. He had his chin propped in his palm, his lunch sitting half-eaten in front of him, and he radiated the energy of someone who had been attempting this intervention for a deeply unreasonable amount of time and had made his peace with the wait.
"You were gone," he said. Not accusatory. Almost impressed. "Like, not just checked out. Like, evacuated. I was one minute away from checking you for a pulse."
"I was thinking," Ellie said, and she said it with the dignity of a person who had not just nearly catapulted a fork across a public space.
"Yeah." Greg's gaze drifted, slow and inevitable as a tide going out, over Ellie's shoulder. She knew the trajectory. She watched it arrive at its destination. She watched his face conduct a rapid and unflattering series of calculations. "About her."
Ellie did not turn around. She retrieved her fork from the floor, set it back on the tray with surgical precision, and took a long, unhurried drink of water. Buying time. Building a wall out of nothing.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Ellie. I could trace your eyeline with a ruler."
"I was zoning out. It happens."
"In the exact direction —"
"Greg."
"— of the girl who is, conservatively, so far out of your league that the concept of a league is no longer a useful framework —"
"Greg."
"— like we're talking different sports, different continents, she is playing chess and you are, with an enormous heart and terrible odds, playing Go Fish —"
"I know," Ellie said.
And that was the end of it. The words landed flat and definitive, a period at the end of a sentence that had already been written and wasn't looking for edits. Not angry. Not wounded. Just the particular heaviness of something that had already been turned over so many times in her hands that all the sharp edges were worn smooth. She knew. She had always known. She kept the knowing in a locked box in the basement of herself and did not go down there on purpose, and on the occasions she found herself there anyway, she turned the light off and went back upstairs.
"I'm not doing anything," she said, quieter. "I'm not trying anything. I'm not an idiot."
Greg looked at her for a moment. The entertainment evaporated off his face and left something more honest behind.
"I know you're not," he said.
"Don't," she said.
He closed his mouth. He understood, which was why she kept him around.
She stood up and grabbed her tray. "Come on."
They wove through the thinning cafeteria toward the tray return, moving in the comfortable tandem of two people who had been navigating spaces together long enough to do it without thinking. Greg had pivoted to a detailed critique of the comic run Ellie had lent him last week — specifically, and incorrectly, the third act — and Ellie was in the process of constructing a rebuttal like a lawyer who had been waiting for this cross-examination, because the third act was a masterpiece and Greg's problem was not with the writing but with his own constitutional inability to sit still for a slow build, which was a character flaw she had been documenting for years and intended, eventually, to cite formally —
"Hey."
A beat.
"Loser."
Time did not stop. Ellie would not say time stopped, because that was dramatic and she was not dramatic. What she would say was that the word hit her nervous system like a match to a fuse, that her heartbeat went from baseline to a full sprint in the space between one syllable and the next, that her hands flooded with cold sweat against the lunch tray and her face became a furnace and every hair on the back of her neck stood at attention like soldiers who had been called into service and were extremely aware of it.
She didn't need to hear it twice. She didn't need context or confirmation. She knew that voice the way she knew her own name — better, maybe, in some humiliating biological sense, the way a compass needle knew north, not by choice, not by any conscious arrangement, but by something deep and structural and completely indifferent to her feelings on the matter.
She turned around.
There you were.
Three feet away, wearing an expression like a knife that had learned to look decorative. Your posse arranged behind you the way shadows arranged themselves around a light source: instinctive, inevitable, orbiting without meaning to. You were looking at Ellie with the lazy, half-lidded assessment of a cat watching something cross the floor — mildly curious, entirely unbothered, already certain of the outcome.
In your hand, held up with the casualness of someone displaying a particularly boring trophy, was a journal. Thick, soft-cornered from years of being shoved into backpacks, colonised by stickers from a collection that Ellie had been curating since she was eleven. Her name was written on the inside cover in her own handwriting.
Her brain, normally a loud and opinionated instrument, went briefly and completely silent.
"Forget something?" you asked, and your voice was warm the way a lit match was warm: pleasant right up until it wasn't.
"I —" Ellie started.
That was as far as she got.
"I," you repeated, tasting the word, turning it over in your mouth like you were deciding whether it was worth swallowing. The syllable became a scalpel in your hands. A small, precise, devastating one.
Ellie's face was a bonfire. Her brain came back online in fragments.
"Yes," she managed, and it exited her mouth at half the intended volume and twice the intended vulnerability, thin and breathless as a thread pulled too tight. "Can I — that's mine —"
She stepped forward. This was reasonable. This was rational. She was simply recovering her property; this was not a big deal; her heart was not trying to punch its way out of her chest cavity like something in an action movie.
Behind you, your friends had formed a small, murmuring parliament of cruelty. A sound drifted over — something about the jacket, probably, or the shoes, delivered in the specifically calibrated register of not-quite-quiet, the kind of cruelty that wore plausible deniability like a coat — accompanied by laughter as thin and sharp as paper and just as capable of leaving a cut.
Ellie's jaw locked. She kept her eyes on the journal.
"Sure," you said, and the word was a door being closed politely in someone's face. You pivoted the journal out of reach as naturally as breathing, as if your arm had always intended to be somewhere Ellie couldn't quite reach, and flipped it open with the air of someone settling into a very good armchair with a very good book. "Oh, this is — hm. This is interesting."
"Give it back," Ellie said, and the panic was a live wire dragged straight up her spine, white-hot and instantaneous, burning the last of the embarrassment off her clean. She stepped in with her hand out, reaching — "Now —"
You stepped back. Ellie followed. You turned, still reading, unhurried as a Sunday morning, and what unfolded next was not in any way a graceful sequence of events. It was not choreographed. It did not reflect well on anyone. It ended with Ellie's chest pressed to your back and her arms stretched forward, hands closing over yours where they held the journal, the two of you stacked together and frozen mid-reach like a sculpture depicting something its artist was still working out the title for.
The cafeteria became a distant concept.
The noise fell away like wallpaper peeling off a wall.
Ellie could feel the warmth radiating off you through two layers of fabric — could feel it the way you feel sunlight through a window, in the places it touched and the places it didn't, could feel the arrested stillness in your frame like a held breath, the sudden awareness of two bodies that had not consulted each other before arriving here, at this precise and inadvertent geography, pressed together like two notes accidentally played at the same time that turned out, improbably, to be a chord.
Her lungs had forgotten their job. Her ribs felt like they were made of glass.
And your face — she couldn't see your face, not from this angle, not with her chin nearly at your shoulder, but she could see the tip of your ear from here, and the tip of your ear was the deep, telling pink of something that had not been prepared for this either, a bloom of colour as involuntary as a confession, and Ellie filed it away in a compartment so far beneath her conscious mind that she could almost believe it didn't exist.
Almost.
"Hey."
The word fell into the moment like a stone into still water, and the ripples were immediate and violent. They jumped apart like they'd been defibrillated — Ellie backward, two full steps, landing unsteadily; you forward, spine snapping upright, shoulders squaring, the whole architecture of your expression rearranging itself in the half second it took for the situation to demand it.
Asher (your dickhead of a boyfriend) materialised like something the room had grown specifically to be inconvenient. He was leaning against the nearest table with his arms folded across his chest, a physical equation that was trying very hard to add up to something intimidating, all jaw and crossed arms and the specific energy of a person who considered his own arrival a statement. He was looking at Ellie the way you looked at something sticky on the bottom of a shoe.
"She got a problem?" he said, and the she was a dart aimed directly at Ellie's general existence, casual and contemptuous and entirely comfortable with itself.
"No," Ellie said.
It came out the way water came out of a tap. No temperature, no texture, no particular feeling about itself. She looked at him the way she looked at a blank wall — registered the surface, found it offered nothing of interest, moved on. It wasn't hostility. It was the total, undecorated absence of it: the specific brand of indifference she reserved for things and people who had not earned the dignity of her actual disdain. He blinked. He'd been expecting a different kind of reaction, the kind he could do something with, and she'd handed him a door that opened onto nothing.
She watched him recalibrate. It was not entertaining enough to be interesting.
You, meanwhile — you were not looking at him.
You were looking at Ellie, and your expression was doing something that Ellie's brain started reaching for and then abandoned, because it was shuttering closed too fast, the way curtains got drawn against the light, a smooth and practised motion that left no evidence of what had been there before it. Whatever it was, it was gone. You looked at Ellie the way you looked at a finished conversation. Then you held out the journal.
Quietly. No theatre. No ceremony.
Ellie reached out and took it.
Your fingers did not immediately let go.
One heartbeat. One single, suspended, airless beat where time seemed to hold its breath and fold itself in half — the journal floating between you in the space where both your hands met, your fingers against hers, a contact so small and accidental and fleeting it barely qualified as a thing that had technically happened.
It was the loudest thing in the room.
Then your fingers fell away like autumn, like something letting go on purpose. You turned, reached back, and looped your hand through Asher's arm with the brisk efficiency of someone closing a tab they'd had open too long. He said something; you didn't look like you were listening. You moved, and your constellation moved with you — a brief, ungainly scramble of heels and murmurs and people rearranging themselves like iron filings following a magnet — and then the cafeteria swallowed you whole, and you were gone, and the room left behind by your absence was a smaller, flatter, considerably less interesting place.
Greg appeared at Ellie's elbow like a dog who had been sitting at the door for a while.
"Hey." His voice had shed every last layer of amusement. He was watching the direction Asher had gone with an expression that had real structural integrity — the kind that was built out of something other than a passing feeling, something load-bearing. "You okay?"
Ellie looked down at the journal in her hands. Turned it over once. Pressed her thumb to the corner of the cover.
"Yeah," she said. "Fine."
She tucked it under her arm, and they walked out, and the noise of the cafeteria closed over them like water over a stone, and that was that.
Except.
Except that Ellie Williams, who was not an idiot, who had told Greg less than ten minutes ago that she knew better, who kept the box in the basement and did not open it —
— smiled.
Not a performance of a smile. Not the sarcastic, armoured, public-facing smile she used as a deflection tool. This was something that happened without her permission, small and private and stubborn, living only in the corners of her mouth and the interior of her chest, where it had no witnesses and she could maintain, in good conscience, the polite fiction that she was absolutely fine and none of this was happening to her.
Your fingers against hers had been a spark. A stupid, accidental, three-second spark.
It burned in her chest all the way to fourth period, faithful as a pilot light, small as a star seen from a very long way away.
It did not go out.
The parking lot in the middle of the school period was its own kind of quiet.
Not the quiet of absence — the school was still full, still breathing, still running through its daily machinery of bells and syllabi and thirty-something students staring at whiteboards and willing the clock to move faster by sheer collective force of misery. The noise of it bled through the brick in a low, institutional hum. But out here, between the rows of cars baking slowly in the afternoon heat, the air had a different quality. Looser. Unsupervised. The kind of quiet that belonged to people who had made an executive decision about how to spend their Tuesday and were at peace with the consequences.
Ellie was at peace with the consequences.
She was sitting on the concrete kerb at the far edge of the lot, the secluded corner where the English teacher's ancient Volvo created a natural wall against the sight lines from the main building's windows — a discovery she had made in ninth grade and guarded with the same devotion other people reserved for good parking spots. Her skateboard was on the ground beside her, one wheel spinning idly in the breeze like it was bored. Greg was next to her, both of them nursing vending machine drinks and the mutual, comfortable warmth of two people who had agreed wordlessly that whatever was happening in this period could happen without them.
"He reads off the slides," Ellie was saying, with the tone of someone delivering a verdict after a very long deliberation. "Like, verbatim. Word for word. He prints the PowerPoint, puts it on the projector, and then reads it back to us like we're not all sitting there looking at the exact same words in real time —"
"He does the thing," Greg said, pointing at her, nodding with the intensity of a man who had been waiting for permission to bring this up. "The thing where he pauses and looks at the class like he just said something profound —"
"Like he's waiting for applause —"
"Like he expects someone to weep —"
"I was there for thirty-five minutes last Thursday," Ellie said, with the dead-eyed sincerity of a trauma survivor recounting the incident, "and I learned nothing. Genuinely. I came in knowing nothing, I left knowing the same nothing, except I was also tired —"
"You were asleep for twenty of those minutes —"
"I was resting my eyes —"
"Ellie, you snored."
"I breathe loudly —"
Greg laughed, that full-body thing he did where it seemed to involve his entire skeleton, and Ellie let herself grin, let the afternoon settle around them like a blanket, let the tension of the cafeteria — the journal, the journal pressed between your hands, the pink tip of your ear — slide off her back for the first time in an hour. This was good. This was normal. This was the world as it should operate: just her and Greg and the sun on the asphalt and nothing that required her to feel anything complicated.
She picked up her skateboard and set it across her knees, running her thumb along the edge of the deck out of habit, the worn texture of it as familiar as a heartbeat.
"Mr. Peterson, though," Greg was saying, warming to the subject with the enthusiasm of a man who had been storing this grievance for weeks. "He talks about himself. He will segue from mitosis — mitosis, Ellie — to a story about his lake house, and no one has ever once questioned it, we all just sit there and let it happen like we've been hypnotised —"
"The lake house," Ellie echoed reverently. "We know more about that lake house than we know about anything on the curriculum. I could pass a test on that lake house. I could write a thesis —"
The doors of the school opened.
Not the way doors opened normally — with the casual, mundane swing of someone who had somewhere to be and was going there. These doors opened the way things opened when they were preceded by intention, flung wide with the particular momentum of a group of people who had decided on a direction and were not planning to be stopped by something as minor as a fire door. The bang of it carried across the parking lot like a starting pistol.
Ellie heard it. Her thumb stilled on the edge of the deck.
Four of them came through first — Asher's usual architecture of loyalty, the specific collection of broad shoulders and performative swagger that trailed in his wake the way debris trailed a comet. They came down the steps with their eyes already moving, already scanning, already locked onto the target with a speed that meant this had not been an accident, that someone had looked out a window, that the secluded corner had been found. They moved across the parking lot with the kind of coordinated, purposeful energy that turned a group of boys into something with a different name, something that rhymed with mob and felt like a weather front.
Ellie was on her feet before she knew she'd decided to stand.
"Greg," she said.
"Yeah," Greg said. He was already up. His voice had flattened out, gone careful. "I see them."
They came fast, spreading out as they approached, a net tightening around its catch, until they had formed a loose but deliberate ring around the corner — one on the left, two coming from the right, cutting off the gap between the Volvo and the kerb with the practised ease of people who had done this before, who knew the geometry of cornering someone and applied it without needing to think. Ellie assessed the exits in the half second available to her and found them all closed. Beside her, she felt Greg go very still, the way prey went still, the deep animal instinct of something that understood what was happening and was calculating on its feet.
Then Asher came through the doors.
He didn't rush. That was the thing about Asher — he never rushed. He had the kind of confidence that didn't need to hurry because it had already decided how things were going to go and was simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. He came down the steps with the unhurried, heavy-footed certainty of a man crossing a room he owned, hands relaxed at his sides, jaw set, eyes moving across the parking lot until they found Ellie and stopped.
He walked over. His friends parted for him without looking.
He stopped two feet in front of them.
He was tall in the way that had always seemed specifically designed to be used on someone — not incidental height, not just the result of genetics, but height that had been weaponised, deployed, stood up to its full advantage and pointed at the world like an argument. He stood in front of them and looked down, and his gaze did a slow, pendulous swing from Greg to Ellie and then settled there, on Ellie, with the weight and precision of a pin through a butterfly.
The silence stretched like taffy. Like something being pulled past the point it wanted to go.
"Cafeteria," he said finally. Just the word, dropped in front of them like a coin on a counter. His voice was low, conversational, the kind of low that was a performance of casualness, wearing it the way a fist wore a glove. "What was that."
Ellie's hands were steady. Her heartbeat was not. "Nothing," she said. "She had something of mine. I got it back. That's it."
"Hm." He tilted his head. Considered her the way you considered something you hadn't decided what to do with yet. "See, here's my thing. My thing is, she doesn't like you. She doesn't wanna be around you. And I've seen the way you look at her." He paused, and the pause was a shovel. "I know what that is."
"Then you know it wasn't a problem," Ellie said.
Something moved across his face. Not a flinch. More like a gear catching.
"Let me be clear about something," he said, and the conversational register dropped away entirely, shed like a coat, leaving something colder and more architectural underneath. He leaned forward, just fractionally, just enough to shrink the two feet between them into something that felt like inches. "You don't talk to her. You don't look at her. You don't exist near her if you can avoid it. Because girls like you —" and he dsaid girls like you the way people said things they had decided were self-explanatory, the way people said things they considered too obvious to require completion, and he left it there, in the air between them, to do its work. "She doesn't need that around her. You understand me? Keep your issues to yourself."
The words were rocks dropped into still water. Ellie felt the ripples move through her in a straight, cold line from her throat to her stomach to somewhere deeper than that, somewhere the words found the places she'd already worn thin and pressed down on them with deliberate, knowing weight. Her jaw tightened. Her hands found each other at her sides and she pressed her knuckles together and breathed through it, slow and even, the breathing of someone who had learned, through repeated occasions, to absorb this particular kind of hit and stay standing.
She was fine. She was fine. She had been called worse, implied worse, had the shape of herself outlined in uglier terms, and she was fine, she could take it.
Then Asher turned to Greg.
And said what he said.
It was quick. It was almost casual. It was the kind of comment that arrived with no fanfare, no escalation, dressed in the same tone as everything else — a flat, offhand, contemptible thing delivered the way you delivered trash, which was to say without ceremony, because it didn't require any. Just words. Just a sentence. Just Greg's most personal geography laid out and stepped on by someone who hadn't earned the right to know it, let alone flatten it.
And well, that’s all she could remember.
The thing that moved through Ellie was not anger, exactly — anger was something she had a relationship with, something she could negotiate with, something she could put on a leash and walk. This was different. This was the thing underneath the anger, the subterranean thing, the fault line going — and she thought about Greg's face, what was on Greg's face right now, and she didn't look, she couldn't look, because if she looked she would see it and then it would be worse and she couldn't afford for it to be worse —
Her fist connected with Asher's face with the full force of every last gram of it.
The sound was a single, sharp, declarative crack, as definitive as a full stop, as satisfying and as catastrophic as a window shattering from the inside. His head snapped back. He staggered — one step, two, genuinely staggered, not performed, not for effect, but rocked back on his heels by the geometry of a hit he had not, in his fundamental and structurally unsound confidence, seen coming. For one bright, blazing, fleeting second that Ellie would store in a separate compartment from everything else — the good compartment, the one without a lock — he looked genuinely surprised.
Then his hand went to his face.
Then the parking lot became a different place entirely.
It happened the way natural disasters happened: with a speed that outpaced comprehension, with a force that didn't wait for consent, with the kind of scale that reduced the individual to a small thing caught inside a much larger motion. Asher's friends moved like a single organism, a flock of something with no good intentions, and Ellie had time for one sharp, preparatory breath before the first hit landed, and then it was just sound and motion and the hard, specific language of a parking lot in the middle of the afternoon being used for something parking lots were not designed for.
She took three hits before she stopped counting. They came fast — face, shoulder, ribs — each one a blunt, percussive argument, each one the sound of knuckles meeting bone with the particular intimacy of violence, which was to say without any distance at all. Her face became a series of points of impact, her eye socket a lit fuse, her cheekbone a bruise still in the process of deciding its final shape. She did not go down. This was the thing about Ellie — and she was not proud of it, because she knew it said something about the kind of life that had made her — she did not go down easily. She was built for absorbing things. She was architecture designed for load-bearing.
She went down on one knee. Her palm hit the asphalt.
To her left, Greg was fighting a different battle — fighting to move, which was the more maddening one, two of them holding his arms back and behind him in a vice grip that was not about hurting him so much as making him watch, which was crueller, which was the point, and the bruises blooming up his arms from the grip of their fingers were the colour of storm clouds, deep and spreading and wrong against his skin in a way that made Ellie's vision go briefly, incandescently red even through her own pain.
"Greg —" she started.
"I'm fine," he said, tight and breathless. "Ellie, I'm fine —"
Asher crouched down to her level. His nose was a swelling event. There was a satisfaction lodged in Ellie's chest that not even the current circumstances could fully dislodge, stubborn as a splinter. He looked at her from six inches away with his jaw working and his eyes doing something flat and final, and he stayed there for a moment the way you stayed somewhere to make sure the point had been made.
Then he stood up.
"Stay away from her," he said, and it came out nasal and compressed and considerably less authoritative than it had been ten minutes ago, and that too went into the good compartment, filed under small victories, cherish these.
He walked away. His friends unpeeled themselves from Greg and followed, the whole assembly retreating across the parking lot with the energy of something that had said what it came to say and was ready to be done, and the sound of the doors closing behind them was an ending the same way a curtain dropping was an ending — definitive, institutional, this portion of the programme is now concluded.
The parking lot settled back into its Tuesday afternoon quiet.
Ellie stayed on one knee on the asphalt for a moment, breathing. Just breathing. Cataloguing. The side of her face was a symphony of wrongness, two or three distinct movements playing simultaneously in the key of this is going to look terrible tomorrow. Her ribs were filing a formal complaint. Her eye was beginning to swell in the unhurried, committed way of injuries that had decided to take this seriously.
Greg appeared in front of her, folding down to the ground, and she saw his arms — the dark thumbprint bruises already stamped into his skin like signatures — and her stomach turned over hard.
"Don't," he said, reading her face with the accuracy of four years of practice. "I'm fine. They were just holding me. I'm fine."
"Your arms —"
"Ellie."
She looked at him. He looked back at her, steady, with the quiet and deliberate fortitude of a person who had decided how they were going to hold themselves and was holding. She thought about what Asher had said. She thought about the look on Greg's face when he'd said it, which she had seen in the half second before she'd stopped thinking and started moving, and she pressed that image down and sealed it over.
"I'm sorry," she said. Flat. Sincere. The most genuine two words she owned.
"Don't be," Greg said. "The nose was worth it."
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
"It really was," he said.
She let out a breath that was almost, in some technical sense, a laugh.
They sat on the asphalt in the thin afternoon sunlight, two people held together by years and a shared disaster, bruised and slightly wrecked, and the parking lot sat around them in its middle-of-the-day quiet, and Ellie's skateboard lay on the ground a few feet away with one wheel still spinning, idly, faithfully, like it was waiting for her to come back.
She reached over and stopped it with her hand.
Then she sat back, pressed the heel of her palm gently against her swelling eye, looked up at the sky — wide and indifferent and enormous, stretched out over the whole unreasonable mess of her life like it had all the time in the world — and breathed.
The skate park at four-thirty in the afternoon was the closest thing Ellie had to a church.
Not in the quiet way — the park was never quiet, not really, always threaded through with the percussion of wheels on concrete and the occasional sharp crack of a board meeting the lip of a ramp at the wrong angle and the distant, overlapping noise of the city doing what cities did at the end of a school day. But church wasn't about quiet, not really. It was about the particular quality of being somewhere that received you. That didn't ask anything of you except your presence. The skate park took Ellie the same way it took everyone — bruised, badly, on a Tuesday with a swelling eye — and simply continued to exist around her, indifferent and solid and endlessly, reliably itself.
She pushed off and rolled, long and unhurried, from one end of the flat section to the other, the wheels humming their low, continuous note against the concrete. Then back. Then forward. Back and forth, back and forth, a metronome that had forgotten what it was counting.
Greg, sitting on the bench behind her with his skateboard upended across his knees and a rag and a small bottle of wheel oil in his hands, was in the middle of what could generously be called a monologue and less generously called a one-man theatre production about the subject of Asher and what Greg thought about Asher and where, specifically, Greg felt Asher could go and what he could do with himself when he got there. He had been in the middle of this monologue for approximately twenty-five minutes. He was, by any reasonable metric, nowhere near the end of it.
"— and the audacity," Greg was saying, working the oil into the bearing with the focused aggression of someone who was only technically performing maintenance and was mostly just doing something with his hands before his hands did something else. "The sheer, uncut, factory-grade audacity of him walking out there like he owns the — like we're the ones who —" He stopped. Regrouped. Swore, comprehensively, in the manner of someone who had run out of regular words and needed to reach for a different register entirely. "I'm telling you, Ellie, I'm telling you, the next time he comes within ten feet of either of us, I swear to every god that has ever been worshipped on this earth —"
Push. Roll. The wheels hummed.
"— and what he said — " Greg's voice tightened around the edges, briefly, before he pried it back open. "What he had the absolute nerve to say, I have been turning it over in my head for the past three hours and every time I do I want to —"
Push. Roll.
"— because it's not even the hitting, right, the hitting I can process, the hitting is a known quantity, but the words — "
Push.
"— Ellie. Ellie, I'm saying, are you even —"
"Do you think she really likes him?"
The monologue stopped.
The wheel oil paused mid-application.
Greg looked up from the undercarriage of his board with the slow, blinking expression of someone whose train of thought had just been derailed by something that had come from an entirely perpendicular direction. The silence stretched out between them, thin and slightly bewildered.
"...What?" he said.
Ellie rolled back toward him, one foot dragging lazily against the concrete to slow herself, and came to a stop a few feet from the bench. She was looking off to the left, at the middle distance, at nothing in particular — or more specifically at the particular kind of nothing that served as a screen for the something she was actually looking at, the interior movie reel that had been running on loop since approximately noon.
"Her," she said, with the self-evident tone of someone who felt the pronoun was sufficient context and didn't understand why clarification was being requested.
Greg stared at her. "Ellie. I need you to understand that I was in the middle of a very important —"
"Her," Ellie said again, and this time she turned her head and looked at Greg, and the look said everything the word wasn't bothering to.
Greg's expression completed its journey from confused to resigned with a brief layover at of course. He set the oil bottle down on the bench beside him with the measured care of a man putting down something that needed to be put down before he could fully engage with the situation at hand.
"Are you," he said, "telling me that I have been talking to you for —" he checked his phone "— twenty-seven minutes, and your brain has been —"
"Can you just answer the question."
"— has been entirely elsewhere, specifically at the address of —"
"Greg."
"— the girl who makes your eye twitch every time she's within fifty feet —"
"I will leave," Ellie said. "I will get on that board and I will physically remove myself from this conversation."
Greg held up a hand. A concession. He looked at the sky for a moment, the way people looked at the sky when they were deciding how to deliver information they already knew wasn't going to land well, and then he looked back at her.
"Fine," he said. "Fine. You want my honest opinion?"
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
"She likes him enough," Greg said, picking the words with the care of someone navigating something that had sharp edges and didn't want to be held. "Or — she likes something about the situation. The stability of it, maybe, or the way it looks from the outside, or — I don't know, maybe she genuinely —" He made a gesture that was trying to be diplomatic and mostly just looked tired. "People stay in things for all kinds of reasons, and not all of them are because they're madly in love, and not all of them are because they aren't. She could like him. She could be in it for something else entirely. She could be doing the thing where you convince yourself you like something because the alternative is figuring out what you actually —"
He stopped.
The rag went still in his hands.
He looked at Ellie.
Something had crossed his face — quick, electric, the specific expression of a thought arriving at full speed from a direction he hadn't been watching. His eyes went slightly wider. His mouth opened a fraction. He had the look of a man who had been putting together a puzzle for a long time and had just found the piece that told him what the picture actually was.
"Oh," he said.
Ellie said nothing. She was studying the ground with the focused intensity of someone who had suddenly developed a profound interest in the specific texture of skate park concrete.
"Oh," Greg said again, louder, the vowel round and full and carrying all the weight of the realisation behind it. He sat up straight. He set the skateboard fully aside. He was now giving this conversation the entirety of his posture. "Ellie. Ellie. You're not — tell me you're not actually —" He pointed at her. She did not look at the pointing finger. "Are you planning something?"
The concrete was very interesting. Genuinely fascinating. A rich subject.
"Ellie Williams," Greg said.
"You're being dramatic —"
"Am I?" He leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, and levelled a look at her that could have stripped paint. "Because from where I'm sitting, you just interrupted twenty-seven minutes of completely justified grievance to ask me whether your bully — your bully, Ellie, the girl who has made it her personal mission to —"
"She's not that bad —"
"She called you a loser in front of half the school this morning —"
"That's just how she —"
"She does it regularly, with consistency, like it's a hobby she's committed to —"
"Greg —"
"And not only is she your bully," Greg continued, steamrolling ahead with the unstoppable momentum of someone who had been handed a point and intended to arrive at it regardless of the terrain, "she is also the girlfriend of the guy who just rearranged your face —" he gestured broadly at Ellie's swelling eye, which was, admittedly, making its presence felt with increasing insistence — "in a school parking lot —"
"I'm aware —"
"In broad daylight —"
"I was there —"
"And despite all of that," Greg said, spreading his hands like a lawyer addressing a jury he had begun to lose faith in, "you are sitting here — you, specifically, Ellie, with your one functioning eye — thinking about whether she genuinely likes the guy who gave you the other one." He paused. Let it settle. "Does that sound like a person who is not planning something?"
Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. This did not help her eye. She did it anyway, because she needed to do something with her hands and it felt approximately right for the quality of this moment.
Greg was off the bench now, pacing the short strip of concrete in front of her with the energy of a man who had been handed more than he could hold still with. "She has a boyfriend, Ellie. A boyfriend who is a nightmare, yes, an absolute portrait of everything wrong with —yes, fine, terrible person, we are agreed — but he is still there, he is a real and present entity, and you are standing here — skating here, whatever — daydreaming about a girl who called you a loser this morning —"
"She gave me my journal back," Ellie said.
Greg stopped pacing.
He looked at her.
"Her fingers," Ellie said, and then immediately looked like she wished she hadn't said that.
There was a silence.
"Her fingers," Greg repeated. Slowly. As if handling it carefully.
"Forget I said that."
"Her fingers have convinced you —"
"I said forget it —"
"— to potentially pursue a girl with a boyfriend who employs muscle, " Greg said, resuming his pacing with renewed conviction, "because her fingers touched yours during what was, by any objective measure, a bullying incident —"
"It wasn't —"
"She was reading your journal out loud in front of her friends!"
"She stopped!"
"Why are you defending this!"
"I'm not defending anything," Ellie said, and she said it too quietly, too evenly, and that was the thing that was the most damning thing about it — not the volume or the heat but the flatness of it, the calm of someone saying something that had been sitting inside them for long enough to settle. "I'm not planning anything. I just — I was just asking."
Greg stopped pacing.
He looked at her for a long moment. The skate park moved around them, indifferent and continuous — a kid on a half-pipe in the distance, the sound of wheels, the long flat light of late afternoon falling sideways across the concrete and turning everything gold and slightly elegiac. Greg's expression had been cycling, rapid and expressive, through its range, but it landed now on something quieter. The specific quiet of someone who knew their friend better than their friend thought they did, and was choosing, carefully, how to carry that.
He sat back down on the bench.
"Ellie," he said. Gentler, now. Sanded down.
"Don't," she said.
"I'm just saying —"
"Greg. I know." She pushed off, one small, restless kick, and rolled a few feet and came back. "I know what I'm doing. Or I know what I'm not doing. I'm not doing anything. I'm just — I'm thinking." She dragged the heel of her shoe against the concrete, scuffing it, staring at the mark it left. "People are allowed to think."
Greg watched her. Said nothing. Let her have it.
"It's fine," she said.
It landed like a coin dropping into an empty jar: small, definitive, slightly hollow.
The wheel on her skateboard hummed beneath her, low and constant, rolling and rolling and going nowhere, and the afternoon light kept doing its gold, indiscriminate thing all across the park, and somewhere above them the sky stretched out in that enormous, unbroken way it had, and Ellie stood in the middle of all of it and looked at the horizon and thought about the pink tip of your ear and the ghost of your fingers and the specific gravity of a feeling she had decided, months ago, she was not going to do anything about.
She pushed off again.
Greg picked up his oil and his rag and went back to work.
Neither of them said anything else for a long time.
It was enough.
Ellie's room looked like the inside of a very specific kind of mind.
Which was to say: it looked like chaos, but the organised kind, the kind that had a logic to it that only made sense from the inside. The walls had long since surrendered to the occupation — band posters colonised every available surface from the baseboards to the ceiling, overlapping at the edges, layered in the geological way of something that had been accumulating for years, each one a timestamp, a mood, a particular Tuesday afternoon when she'd decided this mattered and put it up with tape that had since yellowed at the corners. The Misfits. Bikini Kill. Hole. A large, slightly lopsided poster of the solar system that she'd had since she was nine and refused to take down on principle, the planets faded now to softer versions of themselves, Jupiter a pale shadow of its former drama. Beside it, a hand-drawn map of a comic universe she'd been building in her head since middle school, tacked up in pieces, connected by lines of red string that had seemed less unhinged when she'd put it up and now looked, in certain lights, like a conspiracy board.
The desk in the corner was a civilisation unto itself. Stacks of comics, organised by a system that would have been incomprehensible to anyone else but was, to Ellie, as legible as a library catalogue. A half-finished drawing she'd abandoned two weeks ago. Three pens that worked and one that definitely didn't but kept getting picked up by mistake. A small potted cactus that she'd named Gerald and watered erratically and which had, against all reasonable odds, survived.
The guitar lived against the wall beside the window — an old acoustic with a crack along the body that had been there when it was given to her by her dad, Joel, at fifteen and which she'd never gotten around to fixing, partly because she didn't have the money and partly because she'd come to think of the crack as a feature, a mark of character, a thing that had a story. Its presence filled the room the way all instruments filled rooms, with a particular kind of potential energy, the sense of something that could become sound at any moment if asked.
On the floor, a skateboard she hadn't put away yet. On the ceiling, a cluster of glow-in-the-dark stars she'd put up in seventh grade, arranged not randomly but in the actual configuration of Orion's Belt, because she had been that kind of twelve-year-old and some things didn't change.
It was, in every way that mattered, entirely hers. The room of a person who had been filling space with the evidence of herself for years, who decorated like she was leaving proof.
Tonight, it felt like a very small place to contain a very large mood.
The journal was open across her knees, and the pen in her hand was moving with the furious velocity of something trying to outrun itself.
She was not writing neatly. Neat was not the register she was operating in. The words came out pressed hard into the page, the pen dragging with the specific pressure of a hand that was communicating with its whole body weight, the letters angular and fast and running slightly uphill the way her handwriting always did when she was past the point of caring about presentation. It was less like writing and more like an exorcism — dragging things out of the dark interior of herself and pinning them to the page before they could do any more damage in there, getting them outside where they could be looked at from a distance, filed and categorised and rendered slightly less enormous by the act of having been named.
Asher, she wrote, and what followed was a paragraph that would have made Greg applaud and her mother weep, a dense architectural construction of frustration and fury with its foundations in the parking lot and its towers reaching all the way up into the general, aching unfairness of how the world was organised, who it rewarded, what it permitted and what it quietly endorsed by its silence. She wrote about his face when he'd said what he'd said to Greg, the flat, casual cruelty of it, and felt the anger move through her again like a current — still live, still hot, still capable. She wrote about the parking lot and the hits she'd taken and the hits Greg had taken, and her pen pressed so hard into the paper at that part that she went through slightly, leaving a ghost of the letters on the page beneath.
She wrote: I don't regret it. And underlined it twice. And then a third time for structural integrity.
She wrote about the cafeteria, and the journal being held out to her at the end of everything, and she wrote her fingers and then went back and scribbled it out, several times, with the pen going back and forth until the ink was a solid dark bar, a redaction, a classified document. She was not writing about that. That was not the kind of thing she was writing about tonight.
She filled two more pages. She didn't time it. When she finally stopped, the pen hovering over the paper, there was nothing left to write that wouldn't be circling back to things she'd already been over twice, so she stopped.
She closed the journal.
She sat in the quiet of her room — the quiet that wasn't silence, that was the city outside the window and the hum of the light above the desk and the creak of the building settling into itself — and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes.
Breathed.
Let the anger cool the way things cooled: slowly, unevenly, the heat still present in places.
She sighed — a long, full-body thing, the sigh of something deflating by degrees — and dropped her hands from her face, and her right hand caught the side of her cheekbone on the way down.
"—hss—"
The pain fired up sharp and immediate, a lit match dragged across the bruise, and she pulled her hand away and held it in the air as if apologising to it. She reached up gingerly, instead, and pressed two careful fingers to the ridge of her cheekbone, testing the topography of the damage like a geologist assessing unstable ground.
The bruise had fully committed now, had moved from possibility to statement, a deep and spreading thing beneath her eye that she'd glimpsed in the bathroom mirror an hour ago and decided not to look at again until morning, when presumably she'd be better prepared to deal with the particular aesthetic of having been punched in the face by someone with more mass than personality.
She sat with her eyes closed.
The room was quiet. Gerald the cactus did not offer any comments.
And in the dark behind her eyelids, where there was nothing to look at and therefore nothing to choose not to look at, you arrived without invitation or preamble, the way you always arrived in the unguarded spaces — not dramatically, not with any of the fanfare you'd think something that caused this much structural damage would bring, but quietly, almost gently, settling in like a tide coming in, like a frequency she was already tuned to.
The afternoon light in your hair.
The pink at the tip of your ear.
The way your fingers hadn't immediately let go.
Ellie exhaled. Slow. Measured. The exhale of someone practising containment.
Her thumb, moving with its own agenda, was already tracing the edge of the journal in her lap. She noticed it doing this. She told it not to. It continued anyway, the way the body continued things the brain hadn't signed off on, operating on a different authority entirely — the authority of want, which didn't ask permission and didn't particularly care about consequences.
She opened the journal.
Not to the new pages. Her fingers moved backward through the book with the instinct of something that had made this trip before — back past the furious entry, back past the half-finished thoughts and the doodles in the margins, back through weeks of herself, until the pages changed quality. Until the writing gave way to something else.
She stopped.
There you were.
Spread across three pages in soft graphite, built out of the kind of careful, compulsive observation that Ellie could only justify to herself by the fact that she'd never intended to show these to anyone, ever, and therefore they existed in a separate category from things she needed to be accountable for. They were not portraits, exactly. They were studies. Fragments. The way a scientist filled a notebook with measurements of something they were trying to understand — not to possess it, but to comprehend it, to make it less mysterious by breaking it into its component parts and looking at each one.
Except the thing being studied was you. And Ellie was not, if she was being honest with herself, and she was not being honest with herself, approaching this scientifically.
There was the sketch of just your hands — the one she'd done from memory, which meant it was probably slightly wrong in the specifics and completely right in the feeling, your fingers curled loosely around a pen in third period, the particular way you held things, unhurried, like everything you touched could wait for you. Beside it, in her small cramped handwriting, a note: always looks like she's about to say something important. And below that, a bracket, and the word: doesn't. And then: or maybe she does and I'm not close enough to hear it. She'd written that last part in smaller letters, like she'd been trying to make it take up less space.
There was the sketch of your profile — just the outline, the particular architecture of your face seen from the side in the forty seconds she'd had in the lunch line two weeks ago before you'd moved and she'd had to stop looking before someone noticed. Annotated: the way her chin tilts up when she's talking to someone she thinks is boring. And then, at the bottom of the page, almost to herself, a note that she'd pressed lighter than the others, barely there, a whisper in graphite: tilted up at me once. in the corridor. didn't look bored.
There was a sketch of the back of your head. Of your hands again, different angle. Of the particular way you sat — spine straight, never fully relaxed, like you were always half-prepared for something, like rest was a performance you'd learned and not a thing that came naturally. She'd written next to that one: who taught her she had to sit like that?
And threading through all of it, the annotations of a person trying to decode a language they'd never been taught — small observations, careful and private and slightly devastating in their honesty, the handwriting of someone writing for an audience of one and still hedging.
Ellie looked at the pages spread across her knees and felt something move through her that was the internal equivalent of stepping off a curb you hadn't seen — that sudden, weightless, stomach-dropping moment of oh, this is happening.
You did ballet. She knew this the way she knew most things about you — involuntarily, through the osmosis of proximity, information that arrived without being asked for and then refused to leave. She'd seen you come out of the gym once in the early morning with your hair up and a bag over your shoulder and the specific, turned-out way you walked that she'd catalogued and filed and told herself was nothing. Ballet. Pink and precise and entirely incompatible with the girl sitting in her room right now with a bruised face and band posters and a cracked guitar and a cactus she'd named after a middle-aged man.
She was a punk. She owned three shirts in any colour other than black and wore two of them ironically. She had skated so many times she could feel the specific texture of the park's concrete in her sleep. She read comics by lamplight and knew the names of every star you could see from the roof of this building and had strong, extensive, practised opinions about guitar riffs.
And you — you were the opposite of all of it. You were the negative image of her. You moved through the world like it had been arranged for you ahead of time, like the lights came on as you walked and went off when you left, like everything that touched you either belonged there or briefly believed it did. You were held together at every seam. You were the popular girl with the popular boyfriend and the posse and the rich, perfect family.
You were so completely, utterly, structurally different from her that it should have been a closed case. A non-starter. A door that had never been open in the first place.
And yet.
And yet here were three pages of graphite evidence, pressed into the paper with varying degrees of pressure and annotated in small handwriting by the specific, traitorous hand of a girl who knew better.
"Oh, come on," Ellie said aloud, to no one. To the room. To Gerald.
She slammed the journal shut.
The sound was a verdict. Sharp and final and slightly embarrassing, muffled by the room's soft clutter, absorbed by the band posters and the solar system and the three-years-worth of herself layered on every surface. The journal sat in her lap with the smug, inanimate energy of something that knew exactly what it contained and had no feelings about it.
She pressed both palms down on the cover. Held them there.
You don't even like me, she thought, and the thought was directed at the journal, at the pages inside, at the graphite studies of someone who called her a loser in public and held her journal out of reach and looked at her with an expression that shuttered closed before Ellie could read it. You don't even — I shouldn't even — this is so —
She groaned. A full, low, ceiling-directed groan, the sound of a person losing an argument with themselves that they'd been winning for months and had now, clearly, decisively, completely lost.
She fell back onto her bed. The journal went with her, clutched to her chest. She stared at the glow-in-the-dark Orion's Belt on the ceiling, which had not yet charged enough to glow, just sat there in the dark in the plain and patient configuration of three stars that had been called a hunter for thousands of years by people who needed the sky to make sense.
She understood the impulse.
She closed her eyes.
You shouldn't like her, she told herself, with the firm, reasonable authority of someone delivering a memo to a department that had already stopped listening. She is your bully. She has a boyfriend. She is the opposite of everything you are. You are going to get nothing from this except an inventory of the ways it doesn't work out. You know this. You have known this for months. You have the knowledge. You have the evidence. You are an idiot for even thinking that you have a chance—
The tip of your ear. Pink as a secret.
"Shut up," Ellie whispered, to herself, to the ceiling, to the three stars she'd arranged up there at twelve years old because even then she'd been the kind of person who needed to put things in their right places and call them by their names.
Outside her window, the city moved through its evening, unhurried, enormous, deeply uninterested in her predicament. Gerald sat on the desk in his usual posture, which was the posture of a cactus and therefore involved no feelings about the situation. The guitar leaned against the wall, all that potential sound locked inside it, waiting.
The glow-in-the-dark stars, slowly, began to glow.
The morning had the particular quality of mornings that had not yet decided what they wanted to be.
Grey at the edges, the sky outside the school's narrow corridor windows the colour of a thought that hadn't finished forming yet, the light filtering through the glass in thin, uncommitted strips that fell across the linoleum and did nothing especially interesting with it. The hallway between second and third period was its usual organised catastrophe — a river of shoulders and backpacks and the overlapping percussion of lockers being opened and closed with varying degrees of emotional investment, conversations fragmenting and reconnecting like mercury, the whole thing operating on the specific frequency of two hundred teenagers who had been awake for two hours and were deeply unconvinced it had been worth it.
Ellie stood with her back against the locker beside Greg's open one, one foot propped against the metal, watching the hallway with the detached observational energy of someone standing on the bank of a river they had no intention of entering. Greg was elbow-deep in his locker, conducting what appeared to be an archaeological excavation of its contents, narrating the discovery of each item with the running commentary of a man to whom silence was a personal affront.
"— and I genuinely don't know when I started keeping a granola bar in here, but it's been here long enough that I'm emotionally attached to it —"
"Throw it away," Ellie said.
"I can't, it's like a roommate at this point —"
"It's a granola bar, Greg."
"But it's been here longer than some of my friendships —"
She was listening. She was mostly listening. Some percentage of her attention was on Greg and his emotional support granola bar, and the rest of it — the percentage she would not have been able to name without incriminating herself — was doing what it always did in crowded hallways, which was run a quiet, automatic, completely involuntary background process. A scan. A search function she hadn't installed and couldn't uninstall, running on a frequency she didn't choose, returning one specific result.
Her eyes moved across the hallway.
Found your friend group first — the constellation without its sun, gathered in the usual corner with the usual architecture of performance: someone doing the talking, someone doing the agreeing, phones out, hair touched, the elaborate social machinery running at full operational capacity.
Her eyes moved across the group.
Moved again.
Her brow furrowed.
You weren't there.
The group was complete in every other respect, the full roster present and performing, but you — the axis, the fixed point, the thing the whole arrangement orbited around — were absent. The constellation without its brightest star, still going through the motions of being a constellation, slightly less luminous for the gap at its centre.
Ellie's gaze swept the hallway with the efficiency of something that had done this before.
Then it snagged on the other absence.
Asher wasn't there either.
The realisation settled into her stomach the way something unwelcome settled — not loudly, not dramatically, but with a quiet, uninvited weight, a stone dropped into still water with no splash, just the rings spreading outward and the thing sitting at the bottom, heavy and unreasonable and not prepared to be reasoned with. It was jealousy, plain and ugly and domesticated, the kind that had been living inside her long enough to know its way around, and she hated it the way you hated something that knew too much about you — personally, and with a specific resentment reserved for things you couldn't evict.
She looked away.
Looked at the ceiling. Looked at Greg, who had located his textbook beneath what appeared to be three months of other people's futures and was now regarding it with the expression of a man encountering a distant relative he hadn't expected at a family gathering.
"There it is," he said. With feeling.
"Incredible," Ellie said. Flat. Meaning it.
The bell rang, cleaving the hallway noise in two.
Greg closed the locker with the definitive thud of a chapter ending and turned to her, already re-organising his bag. "You've got math," he said, with the tone of someone delivering a piece of information they already knew wasn't going to be well-received.
Ellie's expression underwent a brief, specific journey. "I have allegedly got math," she said.
"Ellie —"
"The keyword being allegedly."
"You've already missed it three times this —"
"Three is a coincidence," Ellie said, pushing off from the locker with her foot. "Four is a pattern. I'm not ready to be a pattern."
Greg looked at her with the resigned, sun-weathered expression of someone who had stopped fighting a tide a long time ago and was now simply observing it with documentary interest. "You're going to fail," he said.
"Not today though," she said. "And today is all I've got."
He opened his mouth.
"Go to class, Greg."
"I'm just —"
"I'll see you at lunch."
He pointed at her. The point said: we're going to talk about this. She pointed back. Her point said: no we aren't. They had an entire conversation in the space between their index fingers, and then Greg sighed the sigh of a man who had made his peace with a great many things and walked away, absorbed into the thinning river of the hallway.
Ellie walked.
The hallway was emptying out in the rapid, purposeful way it emptied when the bell had technically rung and the window between acceptable lateness and actual consequences was closing by the second. She moved against the current of the last stragglers, unhurried, hands in the front pocket of her hoodie, the bruise under her eye making its daily editorial comments about her life choices.
She passed your friend group on the way.
She didn't look at them. This was a practiced art — the deliberate, forward-facing non-look of someone who had learned that acknowledging a thing gave it power and had therefore developed an aggressive policy of visual neutrality. Eyes ahead. Jaw easy. The posture of someone who was simply a person moving through a hallway, which was all she was, which was absolutely and completely all she was.
"Nice jacket," said a voice from the group, in the particular register that made nice mean the opposite of nice, the word hollowed out and repacked with something else entirely.
Ellie did not break stride.
"Does she buy those at the men's section, or —"
She did not look. She did not slow down. She let the words move over her the way weather moved over a landscape — it happened, it passed, the landscape remained. She had built herself to be the landscape. It had taken a while, and there were still storms that found the cracks, but on a Wednesday morning in a school hallway about a jacket, she was fine.
She was fine.
She rounded the corner, and the voices dissolved back into the general noise of the school.
She was fine.
The plan was simple. The bathroom at the end of the east wing was the jurisdiction of no one, a neutral zone, tucked past the art rooms in a corridor that smelled like turpentine and ambition and where the traffic dropped to near-zero once the bell had rung. She'd skipped in worse places. She'd skipped in better places. The bathroom was comfortable. She'd read half a comic in there last Thursday and nobody had come in the whole time.
She heard it before she reached the door.
Soft. Barely there. The kind of sound that was trying very hard not to be a sound at all — compressed and controlled, held between the teeth, with all the effort of something that had been trained to take up as little space as possible. It was the specific acoustic signature of someone crying who had no interest in being caught crying, crying the way you cried when you'd gotten good at crying privately, when the architecture of your composure was still technically standing but the foundations were doing something structural and quiet and not visible from the outside.
Ellie stopped.
She stood outside the bathroom door with her hand not quite on the handle, and the sound came through the gap and she turned it over in her head for a moment, this small, compressed, trying-not-to-be thing.
Then she pushed the door open.
The sniffling stopped. Immediately. Like a tap turned off. Like a light switch. The silence that replaced it was the specific silence of someone going very still and performing the absence of themselves, the aggressive quiet of a person trying to convince the room they weren't there.
Ellie stepped in.
The bathroom was cold and fluorescent, the kind of lighting that did nobody any favours, the kind that turned everything it touched slightly greenish and exposed. Two sinks, the mirror above them running the full width of the wall, a paper towel dispenser with a broken lever that had been broken since September. The tiles on the floor were the colour of old cream.
At the far end of the mirror, you stood.
Not crying. The crying was gone — vanished, packed away, dismantled with a speed and thoroughness that was itself a kind of performance, the performance of a person who had long practice in making themselves presentable under any conditions. Your eyes were clear. Your chin was level. You had constructed the face you wore in the hallways and you were wearing it, complete and armoured and assembled with the precision of something that knew it might need to withstand scrutiny.
The only evidence was the slight, betraying pinkness at the rim of your eyes. The kind of pinkness that no amount of composure could fully recall. The kind that stayed after everything else had been packed up, small and stubborn, the last ember of something that had briefly been a fire.
Ellie looked at you.
You looked at her.
For one unguarded half-second, your eyes went wide — just slightly, just briefly, a crack in the composure, a hairline fracture that the camera would have missed but Ellie, standing four feet away in a fluorescent bathroom, did not. It was the expression of someone who had been expecting anyone else. Anyone in the world. Anyone but the specific person who had just walked through the door.
Then it was gone. Shuttered. The curtains drawn so fast the motion was almost theoretical.
Your gaze dropped.
And landed on her face.
Specifically: on the bruise that had made its full, committed entrance overnight, spreading beneath her eye in the deep, decided colours of something that had settled in for the long haul — purpled at the centre, fading outward through red into a yellowish green at the edges, the cartography of someone's knuckles mapped in pigment onto her cheekbone. She had looked at it in the mirror that morning and felt the way you felt about weather you'd predicted correctly: grimly vindicated.
Something moved along your jaw. Subtle. Quick. A tensing, barely visible, the muscle pulling tight the way things pulled tight when they were working against something. A reflex with a latch on it. Your eyes stayed on the bruise for a fraction of a second too long before your expression reassembled itself back into its default setting, which was impeccable and slightly arctic.
"Who did that to you?" you said.
You said it the way you said most things — with the bored, ambient cool of a person enquiring about something that was mildly interesting and completely beneath them. The question wrapped in the tone of someone who didn't particularly care about the answer and was asking purely as a formality, as a social gesture, as the verbal equivalent of a shrug.
Ellie blinked.
She realised, in the same moment she registered that she was staring at you, that she had been staring at you. She pulled her gaze sideways, looked at the broken paper towel dispenser, looked at the wall, rearranged her face into something approaching functional.
"Fell," she said.
Your eyebrows rose. A millimetre. Maybe two. In the language of your face, which operated on a scale of extraordinary subtlety, this was practically a standing ovation.
"You fell," you said.
"Down some stairs," Ellie said. "It was a whole thing."
The corner of your mouth moved. It was the smallest possible distance the corner of a mouth could travel and still technically qualify as movement, and it was weighted with the specific amusement of someone who had heard something they found contemptible but couldn't entirely suppress finding funny. It was not a kind expression. It was the expression of a scalpel that had been taught to smile.
"You fell," you said again, savouring the syllables like they were something to be tasted. "Down stairs."
"It happens to people," Ellie said.
"To you apparently." You turned back to the mirror, extracted a lip gloss from somewhere with the practiced ease of a magician producing something from their sleeve, and uncapped it. "Must have been quite the fall. Stairs do all that on their own, or did you trip over your —" your eyes moved, briefly, to the reflection of her, starting at the shoes, moving upward with the unhurried assessment of a customs officer looking for contraband, "— ensemble."
"The stairs had strong opinions about my hoodie," Ellie said. "Very aggressive. We had words."
You applied the lip gloss with the focused, deliberate attention of a painter adding a final detail, pressing your lips together after in the way that Ellie absolutely did not clock and was not filing anywhere. "You should watch where you're going," you said.
"Noted."
"Especially in buildings," you said. "Buildings with floors. Which you seem to have some difficulty navigating."
"Really valuable advice," Ellie said. "Transformative, even. I feel like a different person."
You made a sound. It was the sound of something that had started to be a laugh and been intercepted and redirected into something more architecturally appropriate, something that emerged as a breath through the nose with an undercurrent of something warmer that was gone almost before it arrived, like a radio signal passing through from a distance.
You put the lip gloss away. You turned to the mirror again, ran your fingers through your hair with the particular efficiency of someone re-assembling something that had briefly been in disarray, each movement precise and practised, the ritual of a person who understood that their appearance was armour and maintained it accordingly. Ellie watched the side of your face in the mirror and thought: who taught you to hold yourself like that, and the thought arrived in the same handwriting as the annotation in her journal and she told it firmly to leave.
"There's a party," you said.
It was casual. So casual it was practically horizontal — laid out flat in the sentence with all the deliberate nonchalance of something that had been dropped in very specifically and was pretending it had always been there. You said it to the mirror. To the reflection of your own hair. To the air approximately six inches to the left of anything that could be interpreted as intention.
Ellie's brain, which had been running at a manageable pace, briefly redlined.
"A party," she said.
"Friday," you said. "At Jake Brown's place. It's a whole thing apparently."
"Right," Ellie said.
"People are going," you said.
"People tend to," Ellie agreed.
A beat.
Another beat.
Ellie felt the thing that was happening in her chest doing what it was doing, which was building toward something she wasn't certain was a good idea, and she looked at you in the mirror and you were still looking at your own reflection, still straightening up your hair with the focused indifference of someone who had not said what they'd just said, who had not brought up a party in the middle of a school bathroom on a Wednesday morning to a girl they had allegedly no opinions about.
"Are you —" Ellie started, and she kept her voice flat, kept it level, kept it from doing the hopeful, cresting, idiotic thing it wanted to do, "— are you inviting me?"
The transformation was immediate.
Like a wall going up in real time, brick by visible brick — your spine straightened, your expression cooled, and something moved across your features that was not quite disgust and not quite discomfort and was instead the specific, hybrid product of both, the look of someone who had been caught doing something they'd decided they weren't doing and was now administering a correction.
"Inviting —" you said, and the word in your mouth was a thing you were holding at arm's length, something retrieved from a surface you wouldn't normally touch. You turned from the mirror to look at her directly, fully, the first time you'd done it since she'd walked in, and your eyes were winter. "I was making conversation. It's called small talk. People do it."
"Right," Ellie said.
"I wasn't inviting you," you said. The emphasis landed like a gavel. "Why would I invite you? You're —" your gaze moved over her again, brief and merciless, "— you."
"Me," Ellie said.
"You'd show up in that," you said, gesturing at the hoodie with a hand that conveyed an entire aesthetic philosophy in a single motion, "and stand in the corner reading a comic book about the solar system or whatever —"
"I don't read comics at parties —"
"— and bore everyone within a five-foot radius with facts about space —"
"I've been to parties," Ellie said, with great dignity.
"Have you," you said, in the tone of someone granting a point they did not grant.
"Multiple," Ellie said. "I've been to several parties."
You looked at her. Something moved at the very edge of your expression — that intercepted almost-laugh again, surfacing and being pushed back down, your mouth pressed into a line that was working harder than a line normally needed to. You held her gaze for a moment, and in that moment the cold of your expression had the thinnest possible layer of something else over it, something that was almost, from a distance, in poor lighting, with a significant number of caveats, almost warm.
Then you looked away.
You turned to the mirror one final time, checked your reflection with the swift, comprehensive, top-to-bottom assessment of a general reviewing troops before a deployment, found it satisfactory. You picked up your bag.
"It's a good thing you weren't invited then," you said, and your voice had recollected itself fully, was back in its regular register, smooth and cool and armoured at every seam. You moved toward the door, your heels a clean, deliberate percussion against the old cream tiles. At the door, you paused — not long, not dramatically, just a fraction of a moment, a held note — and said, without turning around, to the door, to the air, to no one specific:
"You'd never get in anyway, loser."
The door swung shut behind you.
The bathroom returned to its cold fluorescent quiet. The paper towel dispenser stood broken at the wall. The mirror showed Ellie her own reflection: bruised eye, worn hoodie, the expression of someone who had just been dropped into deep water and was still working out which direction was up.
She stood very still.
Then she turned to the mirror.
Looked at herself for a long moment — at the bruise, at the hoodie, at the face she had been born with and the expression currently living on it, which was confused and flustered and just fractionally, structurally annoyed — and she breathed.
She thought about the way you'd asked who did that to her.
She thought about your jaw, tightening at the sight of the bruise like it had done it without asking you first.
She thought about the party you hadn't invited her to.
She thought about the way the corner of your mouth had moved and the sound that had been a laugh before you'd stopped it and the way you'd said you'd never get in anyway to a door you were already walking out of, like it needed to be said quickly, like it needed to be said away from her, like the distance was load-bearing.
She straightened up.
She rolled her shoulders back.
She looked at her own reflection with the focused, calm, absolute certainty of a person who had just made a decision and felt good about it, who had identified a direction and was pointing herself at it, who had been told she couldn't and had heard, beneath the can't, in the register beneath language, underneath the cold of it all — something entirely different.
She was going to that party.
She was going to that party, and she was going to wear whatever she wanted, and she was not going to bring a comic book.
———SYNOPSIS: You expected your job at guitar center to be nothing more than ordinary . . . You are quickly proven wrong when a girl in your science class—Ellie—makes a trip to the instrument shop daily, trying to make her burning crush on you as subtle as possible.
Warnings - smut ^3^ Ellie eats u out during a zoom meeting from under your desk (n˘v˘•)¬
“Ellie!”
You’d whisper-yell, peering down at her thin fingers tugging down your panties. Your brows fell into a furrow, immediately smashing down the mute button on your screen.
“What are you doing?!”
“Let me make you feel good, please?” She’d murmur back, her pupils—wide, almost completely obscuring her irises—met yours, a clear open window into her desperate, needy mind. “It’ll be quick…turn off your camera, and no one will know…please.”
“…Ellie I can’t. I have to keep it on..”
“Y/n, please.”
Her cheeks were flushed, eyes hazed, lips wet with despair as heavy breaths puffed against your thighs. She needed you. Bad—and it was painfully obvious. Her legs were pressed together, rubbing against each other in an effort to give herself much needed friction.
You couldn’t bare it.
“…okay…..Fine.”
The grin that came to her lips was immediate, hooking her fingers under the elastics of your panties and pulling them down without hesitation.
Her palms cupped your knees, wasting no time spreading your legs apart and getting a good look at your cunt.
Already wet.
You swear she whimpered.
The people behind your laptop screen—your profesor and multiple students in the remote lecture—didn’t seem to be paying much to any attention to you. You let out a breathy sigh, watching intently as Ellie began leaving wet open-mouthed kisses up your thighs, fingernails biting into the soft flesh, leaving half-moon imprints in their wake.
“Mmh…you smell so good…”
She would then whimper, dragging her index finger up your pussy, splitting your lips and gathering all your slick—which was a pathetic amount, considering the fact she’s hardly done anything—before finally planting one of her teasing kisses on your pulsing clitoris.
It came out before you could stop it. a long, breathy, “ahhhhh..” left your lips as soon as Ellie’s made contact with your center, making her chuckle against it, her voice adding a gentle vibration that made your toes curl.
“You sound like you need this just as much as I do.” Ellie would tease, her tongue running a thick line up your cunt, before wrapping her lips back around your clit and giving it the attention it deserved, all while her thumbs ran soothing circles over the warmth of your thighs.
Your brows knit tighter with pleasure, struggling to look as casual as possible to the people in the zoom, your own hands clutching onto the fat of your thighs to ground you in place.
They didn’t offer much comfort when Ellie dragged her middle finger up your quivering entrance, tracing around it, teasing until you verbally told her to continue.
Which didn’t take long. Not long at all.
“Mmmh! Ellliiie! Please-!”
Before you could even finish one of her wiry digits pumped deep inside you, immediately curling up into your sweet spot, leaving you a whining mess above her.
Her tongue worked helplessly above your clitoris, leaving you spewing shaky strings of “ahh aahh ahhh” in the air, tilting the laptop away from you just slightly because the ability to conceal your need was actively dwindling.
As swiftly as she added the first one, a second finger stretched you out, resulting in Ellie chuckling against you at the immediate reaction that she’d pull from you.
So here you were, writhing in your swivel chair, moan after moan pushing from your lips, hips grinding circles over ellies annoyingly perfect face as your clitoris helplessly pulsated beneath the attention of her greedy tongue.
You were close, and you were sure Ellie could tell as her moves against you grew rougher with every second that passed.
“Ellie! Please, imgunnacum!”
Sharp whines and hitched moans quickly filled the air, your fluttering cunt leaking over Ellie’s fingers as release hit you harder than anything. Ellies mouth finally parted from you, the lower half of her face slippery with you slick as a smirk found way to her lips.
Her fingers—coated in a thick, glossy layer of your cum—entered her mouth, sucking them clean as her eyes, which were still blown wide, stared up at your expression. Utterly destroyed.
Just the thought of having fucked you in such a vulnerable spot only got ellie horny all over again.
Taglist 🔖 @notlinearr @lobotomymutt @meamouraa @nanastypewriter @ladyybabyy @dulcesthoughts @cutflwr @jigugooglieyes @uniquewombatexpert @cherry-kissesxox @m0on1ight1 @mars4hellokitty @simply-jinxed @lenisaob @reeselocaboca @wontilly @cherrybomber3000 @splakanysworld @trilxogyyy @aria1108 @sevikas7princess @bunniestfemme @girl-so-gay @koraszi @lesbikitti @lyviesb @geeanne @sicklygothic @ssmartiesmartie @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @1eliana123-blog @ar1-angel @angryoilslick516 @lonerslug @nyxplanett @dove-esque @korliover @flw3rsstuff @amoravelee (comment under this post to be added/removed!)
you wanna be friends forever? (i can think of something better)
sleepover with bsf!ellie except she secretly yearns and fantasizes about you. (cw: suggestive. mentions of masturbation but nothing graphic)
ellie’s room smelled faintly of weed from the ones you shared earlier, along with detergent and something sweet — the vanilla scented candle you lit up earlier now burned to a puddle on her nighstand. amber glowed from the string lights nailed messily against her wall, while the air conditioning hummed softly in the background. the room was quiet. painfully so. she didn’t like it one bit, because silence only leaves more room for thoughts she shouldn’t be having.
not to mention, you’re only a hairsbreadth away from her.
jesse and dina had ditched hours ago after movie night downstairs, leaving you and ellie to your usual routine. sleepover. weed. laughing your asses off until sunrise. and now, you have fallen asleep so soundly, unaware of the things that you’re doing to ellie. it’s almost cruel.
you looked pretty while you slept. to be fair, you looked pretty all the time. even when you’re doing the most mundane of things.
pretty when you rambled with your hands moving too fast for your words to catch up. pretty when you got excited over dumb shit at the thrift or the record store. pretty when you laughed with your head thrown back. pretty when you're high. pretty when you're wearing her clothes.
even more so when you're off of them.
ellie thought she might actually lose her mind.
this should feel easy. after all, you’ve known each other for years. you were the one who approached her first when she and joel moved to jackson. you who ignored her attitude until she eventually cracked. you who made it so easy for her to like you. you who made her feel safe.
after that, you’ve been inseparable.
you slept over at each other's houses so often maria stopped asking whose home you were staying at. you steal each other’s clothes without permission. ellie knew which hoodie of hers you liked because you always pulled the sleeves over your hands when you wore it. you knew ellie hated the crusts on sandwiches and would eat them without comment. you’d even changed in front of each other countless times, share a bath together when your heater broke off, crawl into her bed wearing tiny shorts and no bra without thinking twice, and fall asleep half on top of her during movies.
normal best friend shit, who cares?
except they don’t feel normal anymore. not to ellie, at least. it hasn’t been for a long while. now every little thing you did lodged itself under her skin.
she knew she should be grateful that she got this much from you at all. most people didn’t get to know you, look at you, lay with you the way she did. but greed was a terrible little thing.
she realized she wanted more.
you shifted. the blanket had slipped lower on you at some point, exposing more of your legs. one of them nudged between hers unconsciously, warm skin dragging against skin for half a second before settling. your shirt had twisted slightly during sleep, bunching around your waist enough to expose a sliver of skin.
jesus christ.
ellie swallowed hard. her gaze dropped again before she could stop herself.
elie pictured herself holding and touching you, like she had countless times in this very bed, with her hand shoved beneath her boxers, breathing hard into her pillow while she came with your name trapped silently in her throat. she felt sick everytime. but she wasn’t strong enough to stop it from happening either. because at least in her head, you were hers. dream-you always wanted her too.
her mind always painted the scene in painful detail.
she imagined kissing you. slow at first. her hand sliding up your waist under the shirt while you melted into her. your fingers hooking into the back of her neck. that soft little sigh you made sometimes when you got comfortable — ellie imagined swallowing it whole. then kissing down your throat next, pushing your hair aside while your pulse fluttered beneath her mouth. you’d crawl into her lap the way you always did without thinking, except this time she’d hold your hips down so intently to grind you against her. “fuck, els, please…” you’d beg as you move, your breath hot against her ear. god, she’d give it to you. she’d always do.
her fantasy only sharpened. she’d push you back carefully to the mattress, climbing over you while you laugh softly in surprise. she’d help you with your clothes, tugging on each fabric until you’re completely bare for her. then you’d kiss her impatiently, maybe guide her hands to where you want her most.
it was so vivid it made her head swim.
your fingers in her hair.
your thighs parting for her instinctively.
the little noises you’d make against her mouth.
ellie squeezed her eyes shut hard enough to see stars. fuck, what am i doing? she’s literally just sleeping beside ms. she felt disgusted. and you would be too if you found out she was over here imagining things that would probably ruin everything. she could handle wanting you quietly. but losing you? that’s something she could never live with.
ellie glanced at you for the last time, guilt making her feel sick to her stomach, before finally leaning her head back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling again.
Ellie and reader are actors and they need to do a kissing scene together, they're both giddy about it and they have to repeatedly try to get the take because they keep breaking character
•—---•˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ retake
Actor Ellie Williams x Actor reader
@liifeunwritten 2026
warnings - fluff, fluff, and fluff :’)
Ellie’s soft, cool fingers on your cheeks were the only thing your brain could manage to process.
Acting was your specialty—so why couldn’t you bite back the smile curling over your lips every time you and Ellie made eye contact? “This is so unprofessional,” repeating in your head like a broken record, yet your lips remained in a shy smile.
The two of you starred as the main characters, Kaia and June in your new movie, One Bite Away. And today, you’re filming the first kiss for the soon to be couple.
Except there’s one issue.
Every time the both of you lean in, a string of giggles is the only thing left behind.
You two couldn’t stop laughing!
And it was growing to be a problem, based on the expression on the directors face.
A kiss scene.
Youve filmed them before, so why is this any different?
Maybe the fact that over time you and Ellie have grown increasingly close with each other, hanging out even when not filming.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve fantasized about this scene so many times before bed. Making guesses about how warm ellies—or junes—lips would feel against yours, how deep she would take it, if she would lean in further than the script suggests.
Or maybe it’s the fact that Ellie looks absolutely breathtaking up close, and staring at her for too long causes your heart to stutter, cheeks burn a hot crimson, and all coherent thoughts to jumble into a mess of letters.
Either way, you were having a hard time keeping yourself together.
Ellie didn’t seem to be doing any better.
Every time you managed to hold it in, the second before your lips touched she would sigh, pull back, and grin sheepishly while muttering something about “trying that again.”
“Listen, girls. I’m not spending my day cooped up in here because you can muster up the courage to kiss. You’ve both filmed scenes like this before, focus.”
Scolded the director, making the both of you nod, and exhale a long sigh in unison.
Focus.
Focus.
You turned back towards Ellie, and immediately a stretch of silence pulled against the air, breath caught in your lungs as ellies fingers found housing over your cheeks.
You blinked, staring into her eyes and noting how dilatad her pupils were, swallowing the pretty, cool green of her irises that you’ve been lost in one too many times.
Your own flicked down to her lips, subconsciously leaning in closer before your eyelids came to a close, and your lips met hers.
Ellie sighed against your lips, which only made you draw nearer, your hands—which were previously rested on her thighs—snaked around her neck to prevent her from pulling back.
You hummed, swiping your tongue swiftly over her bottom lip, disregarding the fact that anything more than a simple kiss was not listed anywhere in the script.
But Ellie allowed you to do so anyway, fingers trailing down until they found your waist. Her head tilted to the side, allowing for easier movement when the familiar clack of the clapperboard cut through the air.
She was the one to pull away first, and you swore she let out a quiet groan once she caught sight of you—chest falling up and down, cheeks hot, lips pink and glistening with saliva.
ʚଓ ─── 666 wc cw: angst ୨ৎ drug possession suicidal tendencies ellie is trying her best 4 you
"Again?" She questioned sarcastically, not a trace of actual amusement on her face as she rummaged through your nightstand to make sure you weren't hiding anything else.
"You're such a fucking idiot! Stop digging in my stuff!" You yelled, trying to get her to give you the small bottles black. It was no use, she was holding them tightly against her chest as she struggled to read the fake names on the prescription labels.
"Fucking idiot for keeping you alive? Then I'm happy to be one," she retorted as she gazed upon you, her voice sharp yet quivering with the pain of acknowledging she had failed at keeping you under control once more. You were too sneaky for your own good.
"What are you even talking about? That's not mine, it's from my uncle. Leave it!" Your excuse was frantic, pathetic, laughable. But the only thought that hung in your mind as you held her, trying her to weaken her grip, was getting back your pills.
"You think I'm that stupid?" She scoffed, a frown making itself visible on her expression. "There's no way I'm letting you keep this."
"Just let me breathe! For once, let me breathe! Give that back!" Your voice rose, a sudden surge of wrath possessing every single cell in your body as your tone got sharper and colder with every word that you spat. The more agitated you got, the more frenzy and futile your attempts became. "You're suffocating, Ellie. You're not helpful, you're not nice, you're not saving my life. You're just a burden to me."
Ellie's eyes turned red, tears falling freely down her cheeks. A gouging pressure settled on her chest, right where her sweet little heart rested. But she swallowed back the sobs that threatened to spill over just seconds after she had started crying.
"You're not getting rid of me," she affirmed, green eyes slowly losing its distinctive shine as she went on. "I'll be the worst fucking burden you'll ever know. And you'll still love me." She noticed you had stopped trying to take the bottles from her hands, too immersed in her words, and stuffed them in her pockets.
"I don't love you! I don't even like being around you anymore! Just leave!" With a final shove, giving up on getting back the drugs you'd so assiduously acquired, you stared at Ellie as she faltered, almost tripping due to your rough treatment.
She was paralysed. After all the things she had done for you, all the time devoted to keeping you safe, all the sleepless nights— this is what you called her. Useless, burdensome even.
She stared deep into your eyes, her gaze blurry. But she couldn't see the hatred you so much tried to portray through your words. Regardless, your gaze stayed firm. You didn't take it back. You hadn't even hesitated a single thing that came out of your mouth.
"I love you," she reiterated, warm hands cradling your face with all the imaginable tenderness she could convey in that single gesture, "I know you love me." She wasn't waiting for an answer this time. She was just affirming it.
You couldn't lie to her face again, not with the way she looked at you— like one more word would make her crumble down like a house of cards. Still, you didn't lean into her touch like always. You couldn't look at her face with the betrayal you felt. The one person you loved the most, tying you to a life of constant pain. All because she didn't experience life the way you did. You had let her throw your efforts away, once more.
Her thumbs caressed your cheeks one last time before she let go of you and walked away from your room, leaving you to yourself.
The walk home was harrowing. So were the words she spilled in her journal that night, and the almost tangible emptiness on the right side of her bed. Everything with you felt that way.
content :: mdni 18+ content ;; sexual themes, fluff, angst, comedy, forbidden romance, enemies to lovers, good old lesbian yearning (lots of it), rejection, cheating, infidelity, homophobia (both internalised and openly expressed), misogyny, closeted reader, single mom reader, loads and loads of judgment, religious themes, smoking + drinking + substance usage, afab reader ⸺ men dni, bullying, typical highschool drama, reader being an ass, modern au, songfic, multiple part fic,, will be updated if needed as i continue!
word count :: loading . . .
synopsis :: you were never kind to ellie williams. it was easier that way.
easier than admitting why your pulse did what it did when she looked at you. easier than questioning what it meant. so when she finally said the words out loud, you said something cruel and walked away — back to the life that made sense, the boyfriend, the plan, the person you were supposed to be.
that was five years ago. the plan didn't survive contact with reality.
now it's just you, a baby who doesn't sleep, and a tuesday night that turns into something you weren't remotely prepared for — because there she is, on your television screen, under a blaze of stage lights, and fifty thousand people are screaming her name.
ellie williams, of all people. a star.
and somehow, you're going to have to face her... and her new girlfriend. lovely.
some more of our favs before i go work the night shift!! (kms.) swearing, use of y/n, mentions of stripping, “angel” being used to address reader, ellies a perv insta reels.. super short :p if there’s anything specific you want to see within this au, send a request!
SYNOPSIS: nova sinclair didn’t think much about sabrina carpenter. at least, not until she started showing up in every conversation, every set, and every room she walked into. by the time sabrina even looks at nova, nova already knows too much about her. sabrina hardly knows anything about nova. that feels like a problem.
CONTENT: potential smut in the future, fluff, smoking, future drinking, depression, potential tw for slight mention of body dysmorphia, internalized homophobia, partying, parental issues. most of these are going to be in later chapters.
a/n <3 this is my first work ever, my dear friend has been helping me proofread, and making my tumblr layouts for me so i could even post this. this oc is very dear to me and i enjoyed writing this first chapter.
CHAPTER ONE: double booked
The first time Sabrina Carpenter heard Nova Sinclair’s name, it was attached to something she didn’t ask to be a part of.
An article she didn’t ask to come onto her feed. A brief glance at someone's phone that had been discarded, angled perfectly with the screen unlocked like it was asking for Sabrina to see, on a table at some photoshoot. It's half-read by Sabrina, half-ignored. until she noticed her name caught in the same sentence.
Not as a comparison yet, just on the brink of it.
She didn’t look twice at first. She was used to names floating through the industry like that, half of the people she’d probably never meet. all in an orbit, but never any contact. She’d ignore it, going back to what she was doing, and let it disappear.
But later, it showed up again. and again. this time, in a meeting she's actually in.
“We’re seeing a lot of overlap in audience engagement between Sabrina and Nova Sinclair.” someone said, like its data instead of people they’re talking about. “Different styles, same fanbase.”
Nova Sinclair was the name that had been bothering her as of late, always in an interview, always next to hers, she ignored it for awhile, while she could.
..But of course, here she was in a meeting, and it's now inevitably “a problem.” for her image, and for her management.
She zones back in as soon as her brain seems to comprehend what had been said, “different styles.” it stuck.
Sabrina was known for control, precision and the type of presence that felt edited and poised even when it wasn’t.
She also built things carefully in the industry, broke nothing unless she absolutely had to.
Nova, from what she had heard, and seen in passing, is the opposite of that. louder in ways that don’t look planned, like she hadn’t set up a game plan with her management before any event or interview, and if she did, she sure as hell hadn’t listened to whatever it was.
There was no real similarity between them. that was what irritated sabrina,
And maybe thats what fueled the internet's need for competition.
She’d be lying if she said she hasn’t read what people say online. It usually was something along the lines of,
“nova’s lyrics are deeper and actually have meaning.”
“sabrina just seems..fake as fuck lol. nova is always real, especially in her interviews.”
She could just scroll everytime she saw something like that. It was a waste of her time. She had better things to do.
But she never scrolled.
“Sabrina, are you listening?” her media manager confirms from across the table where Sabrina’s sitting.
She blinks, then nods,
“Yeah, I have a shoot later today with Felix, got it.” She mumbles, her hands lacing together under the table.
Nova hears Sabrina's name in a different kind of room. not a meeting, not a board table. somewhere where she doesn’t really have time to process what was being said and why, as at least 3 different stylists sprayed hairspray that definitely got into her mouth more than she would’ve liked, and pressed powder puffs into her skin lined with translucent powder.
She listens silently, scrolling on her phone as the stylists worked, part of her team could be heard in the background as they had their phones out. clips playing without sound, talking louder than they thought they were.
Someone laughs, “They’re pushing Sabrina hard recently, did you see she’s headlining for Coachella?” it leaves a sour taste in Nova’s mouth, because recently, she hasn’t been able to escape the name, “Sabrina Carpenter.” no matter where she was. not even in the comfort of her own home.
Another voice responds without thinking, as if they were immune to anybody else hearing them, let alone Nova.
“Well, Nova’s right there with her too, they almost considered her, but they ended up giving it to Sabrina, it’s like they want to pit them against eachother.”
She crinkles her nose at that, not immediately.
But she’s seen Sabrina's work, god who hadn’t? you don’t avoid people at that level, you just don’t have reason to look too closely unless someone told you to.
What she’s noticed, if anything, is that Sabrina doesn’t do much that feels accidental, much like everyone in the industry, but it bothered Nova more than she would like.
Everything involving Sabrina Carpenter was composed, intentional, and almost distant if you looked hard enough, like she was always slightly removed from the noise that was the industry.
Nova wasn’t like that. she never had been. it’s not like she was gonna shave her head and go full ‘Britney Spears, circa 2007.’ but she took what her management said as a suggestion more than a demand when she could.
She scrolls past another clip of Sabrina without watching it fully, pauses for half a second, then locks her phone with a click. setting it down on the vanity in front of her.
Nova chooses, instead, to continue watching the stylist work on her hair in the mirror, she shifts slightly, playing with the silver rings that line her fingers.
She wasn’t irritated, more so aware.
Because the strange part wasn’t sabrina herself, sabrina was known in the industry and already famous.
It was how often she was being placed next to someone who she had literally nothing to do with, or, had even met, like the industry was forcing some kind of connection neither of them had agreed to.
Nova is halfway through a photoshoot that she doesn’t even want to be at. It's loud, fast and overlit, the lights give her more of a headache then she already has, she adjusts the skirt she’s wearing, covering less then she would like it to, she ignores the itchiness of the sheer tights that accompany it, though her nose crinkles in disdain at the feeling. She listens to the photographer telling her,
“Turn slightly, hold.. don’t move, perfect!” the camera flash goes off, and he smiles brightly at Nova, “That was perfect, we’ll take about 3 more shots of you in this outfit if all goes well.”
She meets his gaze with a small, polite smile of her own, it didn’t quite meet her eyes, but the response seemed enough to satisfy him.
“Could you turn your head slightly more to the side? I want one of you slightly more… neutral.”
She does what the photographers tell her to do every photoshoot despite her reputation.
She nods and moves back into position, turns her head slightly to the side, with her lips pouting perfectly. This time with the angle her head is at, Nova’s eyes lock onto a collage of photos on the wall of previous people the photographer has shot for, Sabrina Carpenter being one of them.
She immediately loses focus, her lips falling out of the trained pouty expression they had been in and she hears the photographer yelling, “Cut!”, often meaning, “Regroup and we’ll try again when you can focus.”
Shit, what was with her today?
She snaps back into focus as her manager, Hannah, yells, “Take 5!” , somewhere amidst the crowd of people circling the shoot, more-so around the photographer, who is now picking through the photos he deems satisfactory.
Nova nods, now just standing in the middle of the shoot like a deer in headlights, and stiffly retreats back into the hair and makeup area.
Unfortunately, before she has time to spiral more into the enigma that is sabrina carpenter’s and her’s imaginary relationship, Madison Beer, Nova’s best friend, appears beside her, and she had almost forgotten Madison had been allowed to come along with her.
Madison leans in, close enough for nova to smell the perfume she’d become familiar with as they grew closer over the past couple of years, something sweet, spicy, and expensive.
“Hey.” Madison says quietly, not too loud, because Nova’s still technically on set, but her tone’s warm enough for nova to just focus on her for a moment.
Madison glances at Nova for a second, makeup perfect, hair styled just so, face unreadable as always, but Nova can tell Madison knows the look that appears on the her face, the one where she crinkles her nose like she’s smelling something that died.
So without asking if everything was okay (she knew better than to assume), she holds out a half drunken latte, that was mostly watered down with ice at this point.
In retrospect it was a sweet gesture. and was a universal peace offering between two best friends who don’t talk about feelings unless they were drunk or crying.
She gives Madison a sheepish smile, it fully meeting her eyes, and she takes it, taking a sip, and furrowing her brows as the liquid hits her tongue.
“Ew what the fuck is this!?” She basically fights to swallow the liquid instead of spitting it directly onto Madison’s lethal facecard, her voice is loud enough to discard Madison’s earlier attempt of respecting the fact they’re on set.
Madison immediately rolls her eyes at the girl, taking the latte back with aggression that she didn’t really mean.
“God forbid I try to make you less miserable then you so obviously are right now.” she murmurs, her tone mock-offended.
Nova rolls her eyes in return, “That tastes like straight ass.” she huffs, almost a laugh, before continuing, no longer making fun of Madison’s poor taste in expensive L.A coffee, a small glint in her eye.
“Since we’re taking 5… bathroom break with me?” She tilts her head at the girl, her voice dropping an octave as soon as the words come out of her mouth, the implication written between the lines.
Madison nods, linking arms with Nova. And as they walk down corridors, dodging stylists and makeup artists around them, she asks what she had already asked earlier by offering Nova the latte, this time with words.
“Is Sabrina still on your mind?” Her voice a mindless hum as they enter the bathroom, the door not staying open behind them, closing with a loud slam. The bathroom is small, too white, harsh fluorescent lights that make everyone look slightly ill and too pale, Nova leans against the sink, one hand gripping the edge the other going to pull a vape from her bra, taking a long drag, exhaling the fruity smoke into Madison’s face, she crinkles her nose at it, but is used to it at this point.
Nova fights the urge to run her fingers through her hair, which multiple stylists just spent at least an hour with to get her black, pin straight hair to curl in just the right way as she opens her mouth to answer.
“I’m just so caught off guard with all the made-up competition shit between me and her. Our music is so different, I mean– it took me so long to even sign with my current label, which mind you, literally partnered with her label.” Nova’s hands seem to fly dramatically in the air as she talks, something she always did when she was frustrated.
She takes another puff of her vape blowing another cloud out, this time not blowing the smoke directly into Madison’s face, before adding, in a small almost jealous murmur,
“And of course she was signed with her label way earlier.” , she runs her fingertips against the smooth plastic of her vape, like it was some fidget that soothed her.
Madison blows air through her teeth, “Yikes.”
Nova immediately shoots the girl a glare, before leaning back on the cool stone of the counter she had been gripping.
She knew she was overreacting in some kind of way, but when she worked so hard, only to be compared to some girl she’d only heard of briefly, stripped of her own individuality and grouped as “Sabrina Carpenter's Upcoming Rival!” It was hard not to.
She sighs and shoves the vape into her bra again, her frustration showing through her fumbling hands as she adjusts her shirt in a way you couldn’t tell she had anything in it at all.
Nova could almost sense that Madison never knew what to say when she got like this, all rambles and pent-up frustration, she could just see that in the way Madison pursed her lips and nodded along with her words. She never expected anything from the girl, but she needs someone other than her management to vent her frustrations to.
Madison breaks the silence after Nova finishes adjusting her shirt,
“Ready?” Madison says simply, her tone light but careful, like Nova could snap any moment.
She hated that, being looked at like she was fragile and could break any minute.
But she nods, pushing the bathroom door open and instantly being met by people everywhere again.
She guides herself and Madison through the crowd, she doesn’t understand how this isn’t a health code violation with how many people could be packed into a studio this fucking small, she just internally scoffs and heads back to brief with the photographer, leaving Madison to fend for herself somewhere admist the crowd.
The photographer was someone she had never worked with, she had heard many good things about his name in the industry. Through her management, saying that if she was able to get a shoot with him, it’d boost her name in the industry.
His name was Felix, a small, very obviously gay man, with light facial hair and a round build, who obviously had passion for what he did, not only that but he was damn good at what he did.
Nova approaches Felix, a small smile plastered on her lips, almost scaring him as he was clearly looking through potential photos that they had shot earlier.
“Hey.” She greets, her hands clasping behind her back,
“I’m so sorry for zoning out earlier, I'm ready to continue shooting the outfit whenever you’re ready.” she apologizes, her smile remaining on her face as she speaks.
He’s a nice man, and everyone was no-nonsense in their own way, she respects that. It’s not like it’s his fault he’s good at his job and was able to shoot for other well-known celebrities.
It’s also not like he knew Sabrina Carpenter was driving her absolutely fucking crazy recently, and not in a good way.
Felix seems to recover from the startle she’d apparently given him and looks up at her with a nod,
“Great. We just really need you to focus on this shoot Nova.” He says, his tone is still polite, but she still can tell he’s slightly annoyed.
“These shots are great but you just don’t seem as in it as we’d like.”
He picks up his laptop which was resting on a table nearby a cup of the same brand of coffee Madison had offered her earlier and opens a file, he settles on a picture, clicking on it twice. And zooms in on Nova’s face as it opens.
“In this picture, the pose is great, but you’re not even looking at the camera, the shot would’ve been a hundred times better if you had been, you feel me?” He glances at Nova, he's pointing at her face in the picture, mainly at her eyes.
Right.
Nova nods, “No yeah, I totally get that.” She pauses, and a brief moment of awkward silence comes over them.
She hesitates slightly before speaking, like Felix could suddenly read her thoughts and knew she was going slightly insane over something.
“ I couldn’t help but notice you’ve shot for Sabrina Carpenter?”
It was a rhetorical question, obviously, and his reaction shows, that he could not suddenly read her thoughts.
Felix’s eyes light up not noticing the hesitation in Nova’s voice. He immediately opens a different folder on his laptop, which by the way, was horrifically unorganized, it makes Nova squirm.
But she looks at what he shows her, nonetheless.
It’s pictures that he had shot of Sabrina.
And she looked flawless. Like literally gorgeous.
It was kind of unfair. But she remembers seeing this shoot pop up on her instagram feed at some point in her life.
“Oh wow.” she muses as he continues showing her the photos, trying to hide the smidge of envy that laces her voice.
He nods in agreement, though Nova wasn’t really sure what there was to agree to in what she had just said.
“Amazing person to shoot for.” He boasts.
She nods, smiling politely as he rambles on about the outfits he picked and how he had special stylists work on set with her.
“That’s amazing, what an accomplishment to shoot for someone so popular in the industry, it must’ve been hard to get to work with her.”
Her voice is too calm as she speaks, her hands tighten in the clasp that she still holds behind her back.
Felix throws his head back in an exaggerated laugh, before shaking his head, “Oh god no, her team and her are amazing, they actually reached out to me, said they loved my work, she was a dream to work with.” he says proudly, still clicking through pictures in the folder.
As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, that was not the answer she was looking for.
What was wrong with her?
Her jaw tightens as her eyes flick away from the photos he’s showing her to a random spot on the wall, then back to the photos, forcing a tight smile.
“Right, yeah that makes sense,” she says shaking her head just slightly, like she already agrees, even though she clearly doesn’t.
Of course she wasn’t hard to work with.
He continues, not seeming to notice Nova’s shift in tone.
“She was actually really natural in front of the camera. Didn’t need much direction, she's actually coming back today.”
Nova’s jaw tenses before she can stop it.
She wants to disappear.
She shouldn’t even have asked about Sabrina, it was dumb. But the words bubble out of her like bile.
“Oh, really? When?” she says lightly, too quickly, her head tilting slightly.
Felix’s eyes visibly glance to the time in the corner of his laptop. Then almost in the same motion toward the studio door.
It opens.
Light spills in for a second before it shuts again.
“Seems like now.” he says, groaning, like he’s already regretting the schedule.
What the fuck?
Nova doesn’t move at first.
She just stares at him.
“...Now?” She repeats after Felix, quietly, as if she doesn’t quite understand.
She still had to continue her shoot, so why the hell was Sabrina Carpenter here?
Her brows furrow shamelessly, not enough to be quite visible, as she bites her lip unconsciously.
Felix is already setting his laptop down, apologizing under his breath, talking about timing and overlap and how he’ll fix it immediately.
Nova hears him, but it doesn’t fully register.
“I promise we can finish your shoot immediately, the double-booking is on me completely.”
Her face is blank for a moment, like she's still processing, but then she smiles at him, shaking her head, before speaking,
“Please, don’t worry, I completely understand, we can start shooting as soon as you’re ready, I already took five awhile ago.” she says, squeezing his hands in her own, but she lets them go.
Felix nods, murmuring another apology and something about, ‘let me set up for you again’ and walks away, leaving Nova by the table with the laptop.
She stands there, she’s not mad, she wasn’t an asshole who was about to blame everything on Felix, his schedule was busy as hell.
Still, she finds herself playing with her rings again, idly, nervously, like she’s waiting for something, anything.
Her eyes tear away from her rings, finding herself looking across the studio now, near the edge of the setup,
Sabrina Carpenter is there.
She hasn’t seen Nova yet.
She’s talking to someone, likely her manager, half-turned, half relaxed, like she belongs in the space already.
And Sabrina’s all blonde, soft, blown out waves, extensions, presumably, (according to the internet, not Nova.) makeup already done, and she looks like Felix could take a picture from where Nova stood across the studio right now, and be done with the shoot.
Camera ready without trying.
Like she walked into a shoot that was already waiting for her.
Nova’s expression doesn’t change. But something in her body goes still, her hands dropping to her sides again.
Nova doesn’t mean to stare, but it’s kind of hard not to, and it’s kind of hard to look away when she catches sight of the blonde.
She watches as Sabrina nods, like she's half-listening to something her manager is saying, as her fingers brush over a hanger on a rack of clothes someone must’ve half-haspheredly wheeled into the studio.
Then Sabrina looks up.
And it happens so simply, Nova doesn’t register it at first.
Sabrina’s gaze lands on Nova. It's unreadable. It’s not a glare, or anything like that.
It’s just there, and there's an uncomfortable, at least for Nova, moment that neither of them look away, and Nova feels it immediately. Like she's being noticed.
Sabrina’s expression seems to change, just slightly. Not a smile, or a frown. More like recognition of something she didn’t expect either.
Nova’s eyes flick to the camera nearby, then they quickly flick back to Sabrina, who's still looking.
And Nova really wants to try and not look at Sabrina, but you know when your friends talk on and on about someone and you have no idea who they are, you can’t help but be curious when you see them in person for the first time?
That’s how Nova felt except with the media’s constant comparison on who did what better and Sabrina Carpenter.
This time, Sabrina smiles, it's more like a slight curve in her lips, as if she's acknowledging that Nova is also here, right here right now, it's polite, not flashy, or what Nova expected at all really. And then Sabrina gives her a small nod.
Nova seems to automatically nod back, a second too late, before Sabrina can see, and Sabrina’s attention has visibly shifted already, pulled back into the conversation with her manager, like that interaction didn’t bother her in the slightest.
Did Nova look like a complete dumbass who was gawking now?
She’s pulled from her thoughts, back into reality as Felix calls her name from the camera, she hadn’t even noticed Felix had come back to wherever he had run off to.
Hannah and Madison are by his side too now. Both looking at Nova like they can read exactly what she’s thinking.
“Nova! Ready?” He says, snapping at her from the camera with his fingers, his eyes meeting hers, before they flick somewhere else, then in the same motion back to Nova.
Nova nods, speaking mindlessly, “Yeah.. yeah.” her eyes want to look back to where Sabrina was, but she looks at Felix instead, who’s impatiently waiting near the camera, probably stressed about his scheduling mishap.
She adjusts her rings and hair once, before heading to the front of the camera, back on set.
im thinking about gf!ellie surprising u while ure sleeping and she crawls in next to you and wipes your hair out of your face and kisses your forehead until you wake up… and she just babies you and holds you and and and
(so izzie . u know i was very happy to receive this ask. u cooked twin :3)
it starts with a double take. she got home from patrol and checked on you like usual, saw u were asleep, and tried to go ahead with getting herself comfortable again — but she finds herself glancing back immediately, as if the sight of ur lashes fanning across ur cheeks took her hostage. she's so whipped she sits over you n stares for an unacceptable amount of time, grateful you aren't conscious to witness it. she almost doesn't wanna touch you in case you wake, and she ruins it :( but she can't help it.
so she warms up her hands a little first, because she'd be murdered if she woke u up with freezing ass hands on you!!! and then she cradles ur cheek, the calloused pad of her thumb swiping over ur bottom lip. she bites her own very lightly, feeling her cheeks start to burn, bc what the fuck do you mean this is her gf? she somehow pulled this? the cuteness aggression begins (and i do believe ellie would suffer from cuteness aggression big time! she's gotta squeeze and kiss and bite everywhere bc you're so cute!) .
kisses everywhereeee. on ur forehead, ur cheeks, the tip of ur nose, ur lips, eyebrows, gosh, she'd kiss every individual eyelash if she could. that's how u wake up, being treated to a barrage of hungry kisses all over your face, and when she realises you're awake she pulls away to apologise — but that only exaggerates the look on her face, how large her pupils are just looking at ur sleepy, dazed face.
"hi baby!" she chuckles a little, even more so at your confused, "hi," back. the affectionate attack continues, with ellie laying down next to you and pulling u into her arms. "you sleep good?"
u nod, face squished up against her chest. the rest of the afternoon is spent just like that, remaining so sleepy and comforted by ellie's love. her hand never ceases its circular motions on the small of ur back, and she just keeps on peppering kisses over ur forehead and mumbling about how pretty u are <3 it's this vicious cycle — cuddles, compliments, kisses, even little love bites -> u becoming shyer as a result -> her finding that so adorable that she can't stop! ughhhhhhh ellie ellie ellie ellie ellie . . . bite me
Ellie would sigh, brows creased into a furrow as her palms found way to your hips. Her lips were moist with her own saliva, only being freed from the grasp of her teeth when the occasional whimper slipped through her throat, filling the air, and motivating your already confident thrusts against her thigh.
Ellie dosnt know what to think.
This is the exact opposite of the character you play during class: quiet, shy, nerdy, and reserved.
But now that she was eye to eye with your tits, which bounced effortlessly with every shameless thrust you gave to her thigh, she really began to rethink herself.
Her fingers pressed into the fat of your hips, reveling in the feel of your own wrapping around her neck, completely melting at the feeling of the hair at the nape of her neck getting twirled around your digits.
The wet in her boxers don’t go unnoticed, her own hips rolling against nothing in hopes to find the friction that she oh so desperately needed.
But this sight of you was enough.
She tilted her head up to get a good look at your expression, and immediately, her world stopped spinning. Or sped up, she couldn’t quite tell. Either way, you looked like a constellation in an otherwise empty night sky. It baffled her, how confident you were with her when she didnt even know what your voice sounded like two weeks ago.
Oh, but now it’s the only sound hitting her ears.
“Mmh-feels good, yeah? You’re so fucking loud.” Ellie would tease, before attaching her lips to your neck, sucking harshly at your pulse—which beat rapidly against her tongue.
“Ellie…” came as a pathetic whimper, tilting your head to give her easier access to your skin, breathy sighs and moans following suit as Ellie’s hands traveled up your back beneath your shirt.
Each moan of her name only boosted Ellie’s ego, humming strings of pleasure against your neck as her lanky fingers unclasped your bra.
Her mouth then finally pulled off from your neck with a wet pop, revealing an actively darkening bruise that she knew would last a good while.
It was then when she noticed how your movements were growing frantic, speeding up against her as your breath shook with every inhale you took. How each grind against her was not as smooth as before, how your fingers were now tugging at the hairs they once played with.
You haven’t even been at this for long.
Ellie smirked, palms sliding back down to lay atop your hips, rocking you back and fourth to make sure your movements didn’t stop. “You gunna come?” She’d speak so casually as if the flame in her lower belly wasn’t growing hotter by the second.
“Ahh—Ellie! I’m close! Imsofuckingclose—!”
Your forehead plopped against her shoulder, your release hitting you tenfold—sticky warmth filling your pants and dampening Ellie’s own as she continued to guide your hips back and forth.
Tears brimmed your eyelids as overstimulation took its place, clenching around nothing as Ellie started moving you with her, now in sync, her hums growing into needy whimpers as she neared the edge.
Before she new it, the coil in her belly exploded, pleasure shooting up her spine as her own release leaked from her cunt.
what's your favourite Ellie era? you need pics to make your point, I don't make the rules
nonnie you are so diabolical for putting me on the spot like this.
i wish i could make a powerpoint about her but wtv let’s start with jackson ellie.
you see that gay ass face??? the freckles and the slutty bun? yeah. i look at her and i act up (not that i was ever normal about her). i want to bully her so bad and then apologize by kissing her forehead and biting every inch of her skin.
specifically, i wanna bite here:
now moving onto seattle ellie.......
the half bun and the cocky ass jokes about needing only 5 minutes and a knife..bro is so gay it makes nuns go homosexual. she gen has me pacing around my room. not in a good way either. she makes me wanna throw her over my shoulder, tie her to a chair, force her to eat a proper meal and eat her out angrily also beat her up for good.
santa barbara/farm ellie broooo
dude. the demonic entity in me would have tied her down in a basement for days. fuck no, you’re not leaving me to chase after a buff sexy mami whose sexual preferences somehow still remain a debate to this day. she’s not allowed to.
no, but seriously. there’s a time skip and you sit there wondering if she could’ve gotten any gayer and somehow the answer is yes. like tf. who’s the mastermind behind all this. the eyebrow scar and her abs?? just a lick pls. smash my face between your biceps too while youre at it. i would say very inappropriate things about her if she wasn’t so deeply psychologically FRIED. realistically, i’d have to enroll her in a rehabilitation program, buy her a weighted blanket, tons of lavender plushies and make sure she’s taking a nap every 30 mins.
here, have a lil blurb about backshots with ellie bc i crave her carnally. as always, 18+ mdni!
ellie’s breathing is ragged, feral.
her chest heaves, heart thumping wildly as she thrusts her hips forward, her strap buried to the hilt in your greedy cunt. each time she pulls out and slams right back in, you loose a pathetic little whine or a desperate whimper of her name, something that conveys just how badly you want her to keep wrecking you. and every sound you make sends another rush of arousal straight to her core; she’s so wet she’s leaking down her thighs as she fucks you from behind. but she’s not worried about her own pleasure right now - that can wait. right now, she’s focused on carving a place for her strap inside your cunt.
“taking me so well,” ellie rasps, rough hands squeezing your hips to hold you in place. she watches your cunt swallow her strap again and again, mesmerized by the way you split open to accommodate her.
all you can manage in response is a weak, punched-out groan, your cheek pressed to the pillow as ellie has her way with you.
“can’t even speak, huh?” ellie taunts, and though you can’t see her face, you can picture the smug grin on her lips. “am i making you feel that good?”
she pistons into you harder, hips snapping sharply against the soft swell of your ass. you cry out, tears stinging in your eyes, and your back curves into a deeper arch. ellie hisses, her fingertips digging further into your hips. you’re positive she’s going to leave bruises.
the saliva pooled in your mouth leaks out from your open lips and onto the pillow. your body is alight with pleasure, limbs tingling, belly swirling with arousal, and ellie admires the sight of you beneath her, so pliant and desperate to be used.
when she suddenly stops her punishing thrusts, you blink blearily, surprised.
“ellie,” you whisper, voice hoarse.
“yeah, princess?” her response is smooth, tone even, and you feel her hand graze over the expanse of your back, goosebumps erupting in the wake of her touch.
too embarrassed to ask for what you need, you push back against her strap, cunt opening smoothly for the silicon to sink in. you’re so wet you can hear every movement, every squelch of the toy moving inside you.
ellie doesn’t seem to get it - she doesn’t move. you huff in frustration, moving your hips forward until only the tip of the strap remains buried inside your cunt. and in one quick motion, you sink back up to the hilt, moaning indulgently at the way the silicon presses up against your g-spot.
you repeat the motion again and again, fucking yourself back onto ellie’s cock as she watches with blown-out pupils. you try to crane your neck back to look at her, to ask her why she isn’t moving, but as you work yourself up to a steady rhythm, the delicious drag of the strap buried deep in your cunt steals the words from your lips.
and ellie just stares, lips parted, her clit throbbing between her legs as you rock your hips back and forth in a quickening pace. your drooling cunt has left a creamy ring of arousal at the base of her strap, and she considers making you suck it clean once you’re done fucking yourself silly.
“atta girl,” ellie says to break the silence. her hands squeeze your hips again, hard enough to sting.
