[machetegirl109]

🪽 ABOUT ME 🪽INFO+RULES 🪽MASTERLIST

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ tag list will be found in the same post of each characters master list *ੈ✩‧₊˚

🤍 ON GOING SERIES (halloween edition & smau):

🦢Stalker/Cannibal Ellie W.

🦷Singer Abby A. 🦷Perv/FGirl Ellie W.

‼️MEN, MINORS & EMPTY/AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT‼️

[machetegirl109]

i have a crush on my coworker who i don't like.

not even a bit.

i can't think of a single nice thing about them; in fact, i could make a whole list of every little thing i dislike about them.

they're unorganized. they don't know how to dress. they drink too much and they're a fucking mess when they're high.

they barely make conversation with me.

i hate the smell of their perfume and their tight skinny jeans.

they're always wandering off during work hours and they never do things without me having to ask.

it's infuriating, it's frustrating, and tiring to be around them every single day - looking at them and having to ignore the fact that you dislike them and at the same time want to fuck the shit out of them.

by now i don't even care about the cons list. it's like i'm blinded by this crush i wish never existed.

i feel like i could explode from how much i wish something would happen between us.

again.

yes, we got together one time. before i hated them. before i got obsessed with them.

it was mediocre to say the least; i guess i'll never forget how bad it was and how i wish to never experience something like that again.

but do i wish we would just kiss one more time, though.

maybe even more than a kiss.

okay, i want to fuck them again.

i have fucked them more than 10 times in my head already; i feel like a pervert and i'm happy they can't read my mind because i picture myself jumping on top of them every day when they arrive at work.

sometimes i wonder if i just fucked them already i would get over this crush. maybe if we kissed again, it would feed this hunger i feel for them. maybe it would be so horrible because they aren't that good with their fingers. but im so frustrated and i want them so fucking bad, i probably wouldn't care.

maybe i could teach them what i actually like. maybe they could disappear and take my annoying crush with them to lalaland. maybe we could get high together and fuck or maybe i could just fucking find someone else to help me forget about them!

i wish i could disappear sometimes. i wish i didn't care about them; i wish i didn't notice them and every little thing they do and how they don't notice me at all.

i feel trapped inside this feeling that i'm constantly trying to make sense of. i don't like them yet i can't stop thinking about them. i can't stop thinking about them touching me, i can't stop thinking about how much they suck and how they have a really nice ass and maybe their perfume isn't so bad after all. but they are bad.

i didn't chose this. i never wanted this. i mean, i did want it a bit. i was curious... but now it's like i fed gasoline to a small flame and i can't stop burning for them in secret.

[letmebeurbaby]

THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER ⋆｡:

PART ONE | PART TWO

⋆｡: synopsis ~ two weeks after what was supposed to be one of your usual one night stands – ended with a line you were hoping wasn't gonna be taken seriously – you find yourself running from the only person who was able to actually make you feel something for the first time ever while ellie keeps chasing the one who made her feel alive again.

⋆｡: word count ~ 10.4k

⋆｡: content warnings ~ older!ellie x reader, age-gap (ellie's 34, reader's 24), swearing, reader's pov deep dive, angst kinda, mommy issues, daddy issues, everything issues lol, reader's messed up tbh, alcohol, mentions of cigarettes, SMUT, top!ellie, sub!reader, fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving) strap-on sex (r!receiving), pet names (baby), praise, afab!reader, men and minors dni.

likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡

It’s been two weeks.

Fourteen days, give or take, since you left that apartment, tugged your dress back over your hips, patted the doorframe of her bedroom like it didn’t burn and told yourself – out loud, actually, just to make it sound more final – that it hadn’t meant anything.

And you’ve spent every one of those three hundred and thirty-six hours trying to convince yourself that it was – like always – just sex. Just another night, another body, another pulse racing beneath your palm that would forget your name before morning.

You were the one who said it, the one who left the door cracked open like a trap you didn't expect to fall into yourself: "If you wanna do this again... you know where to find me."

It was meant to be a power move, a way to remind her that you were the one in control, the one who decided if there was a next time, but now it just feels like a ghost you’ve summoned to haunt your own doorstep.

Because it’s been two weeks and you haven’t stopped thinking about her.

And not even in the ways you’re used to – not the oh she was hot, wonder if i can top her next time kind of way. Not the aesthetic recall of the shape of her hands or the flex of her muscles, though you could list every detail if someone asked.

No. This is worse. More specific. More… real. In a way that you hate yourself for remembering so vividly.

Because what  you think the most about is the way she looked at you, the fact that when you said you were leaving she didn’t argue, but she also didn’t pretend she didn’t care. She just sat there, wrecked and naked, back against her own pillows, blinking at you like she hadn’t prepared for that part.

And that… that is what fucked you up.

Because people don’t look at you like that. They flirt. They beg. They act like they care but they don’t mean it. It’s a game, just a game, one you’ve always played better than anyone. You’ve broken hearts and ghosted girls and got exactly what you wanted every single time.

But Ellie?

Ellie didn’t play the game. She didn’t ask you to stay or begged. She just looked at you like you were something out of the world and she had been… human. Because she had already failed at loving someone properly before and she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to try again. 

Or at least that’s the impression you had got from the little she let on.

The problem is, it reminded you too much of things you weren’t supposed to remember.

Of your mother’s voice on the phone at 2am, shaking and cold saying, “Don’t trust anyone, baby. You let someone in and all they’ll do is tear you apart from the inside out.”

Of the way she used to pull you aside after every birthday party or school dance, every moment where you’d let your guard slip just a little too far and whispered, “You’re not soft, you’re not allowed to be soft. Softness is how they get you.”

You remember thinking – even back then – that love sounded more like a threat than a promise. And you grew up believing in that lie, you let it settle in your bones, learned to keep your hands light and your heart locked up and your exits mapped out before you even said hello.

And it worked. It worked until two weeks ago, when a woman ten years older than you pulled you apart with her mouth and then looked at you like you were holy and asked you if you were actually leaving.

So you haven’t been back to the bar on the 12th since.

Not because you’re avoiding her. God, no. That’d imply it mattered, that you’re thinking about her. That you care.

It’s just… the semester’s ending. Finals. Thesis. A job interview that will probably ghost you. It’s just the terrifying reality of a life outside of university and shared apartments.

That’s what you tell yourself anyway, while sitting at your desk in your bedroom with a single lamp turned on.

The apartment you share with your best friend is small, the kind of space that feels like it’s shrinking when you spend too much time inside your own head. Tonight the air feels particularly thin as you sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen that’s been on sleep mode for twenty minutes.

You’re supposed to be finishing the third chapter of your thesis, supposed to be focusing on coding interviews on NVivo , but all you can think about is the bar on the 12th, the way you’ve pointedly avoided that entire block for two weeks and the lies you keep telling yourself.

You stare at the black screen of your laptop at precisely 8:45pm, revising in your head the script your mother wrote for you before you were even old enough to understand why she was so bitter — the one about being sharp, about being a weapon, about being the girl who takes what she wants and leaves the rest to burn behind her.

Don’t let them in, she’d say, because if you do, the only thing they’ll do is find the softest part of you and sink their teeth in.

You’ve lived by that code for years, becoming the girl who broke hearts like it was a hobby, the one who never felt a thing. But Ellie wasn't either looking for a soft spot and she wasn't a victim – she was just a woman who looked at you and somehow made you feel like she saw the girl behind the mask.

“Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jackie’s voice cuts through the silence of the room and your spiraling like a slap to the back of the head, which – frankly – would’ve been on brand for her. 

She’s leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom, standing there with a half eaten bag of chips in one hand, her ginger hair tied up in a messy bun, looking at you with that specific brand of I know you’re full of shit look on her face that makes you want to both hug her and shove her out the window.

You don't look up from the screen, your fingers hovering over the keys as if you’re actually about to type something profound.

“Nothing.” You mutter.

Jackie stares. “You haven’t worn eyeliner in two weeks.”

You blink, finally turning your head in her direction. “What?”

“You haven’t worn eyeliner in two weeks.” She repeats, eyes narrowing as she steps into the room. “You haven’t flirted with a single woman, haven’t opened Tinder, refused to go out. So, again. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You look down, lean back against your chair and pinch the bridge of your nose trying to summon that sharp and perfect version of yourself that usually handles Jackie’s teasing with a wink and a comeback, but the mask feels heavy tonight, like it’s made of lead.

And Jackie notices, of course she does. Because she’s the only person who’s ever known you before the armor and the only one who can tell when it’s starting to rust. So she doesn’t back down, just walks over and sits on the edge of your bed, tossing a chip into her mouth.

“You’re gonna tell me what’s going on,” she starts, voice gentler now. "Or do I have to hire a psychic and a swat team to extract it from your brain?”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell her that she’s wrong, that you’re just busy, that there’s nothing more than that going on, but the words die in your throat as you remember the warmth of Ellie’s apartment, the smell of her charcoal pencils.

For the first time in your life, being sharp feels a lot like being empty.

So when you finally look up again, you hesitate. Although it’s fair to say that’s also because Jackie right now has got that kind of look in her eyes that says that says if you’re gonna feed me your mom’s bullshit, fucking spare me, please.

Seeing you stall, she wipes her mouth from the crumbs with the pad of her thumb and sets the bag of chips aside before crossing her arms. “Is it the hot older woman?”

You scoff. “It was a hookup, Jackie.” You start. “That’s it. Nothing serious.”

Jackie raises one brow. “It’s never serious with anyone and yet here you are, looking like someone dropkicked your emotional equilibrium.”

“It was one night.” You say, remarking your point again.

But Jackie just narrows her eyes. “Did she make you come?”

You freeze, and that’s enough to make her gasp, one hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my god. She did!”

You shoot her a look. “Could you say that louder? I think the neighbours missed it.”

“She made you come and now you’re broken.”

“Jackie!”

“She broke you.”

“She did not–”

Jackie leans forward, eyes gleaming. “You let someone make you come and then you caught feelings.”

You clench your jaw, refusing to take the bait, but you already know that when she gets like this, there’s no way in hell something is going to make her stop.

“She touched your soul through your cervix and now you’re spiraling because your mommy issues said nope.”

You groan, face hidden behind your hands. “I swear to god–”

“Just admit it!”

You slam the lid of your laptop close. “I’m not spiraling. I’m fine. It was just sex.”

Jackie blinks. You blink back.

A pause that maybe hangs for too long lingers between the two of you. Enough to make your shoulders drop, to sink into your chair deeper. To let a sliver of honesty creep in.

“...she asked if I was leaving.” You murmur eventually.

And Jackie – for the first time ever, maybe – says nothing.

You look away. “I said it wasn’t serious. I said we both got what we wanted. But she– I dunno, it was the way she asked. Like… like she didn’t expect me to leave.”

You don’t cry, just because you don’t do that in general. Ever. But your voice goes tight in the way it always does when something scratches a little too deep. “She looked like she wanted me to stay, but didn’t know if she was allowed to ask.”

Jackie exhales, but you don’t give her time to answer, just clench your jaw again. “It doesn’t matter.”

She shrugs, quiet now. “You still want to see her.”

You run your hands through your hair, sighing loudly. “I said it doesn’t matter.”

“She goes to our bar every Friday,” Jackie says casually.

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“She’s been there both weekends since,” she says, like it’s not a bomb, like it doesn’t just rip something wide open inside your chest. “I’ve seen her when I went there with that girl from Hinge. Both times.”

You can only stare at her.

“She’s waiting,” Jackie says simply. “And you’re here, playing cool like you’re not thinking about her every time you look at your own bedsheets.”

You exhale. Shaky. Quiet.

Then: “What if I go and she doesn’t want me?”

Jackie reaches over, grabs a pen from your desk and flicks it lightly against your forehead.

“Hey!” You yelp, pressing your fingers where the pen hit.

“She does,” she says, ignoring you entirely.. “She just doesn’t know if you do.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Not because you don’t know what to answer her – you do. Or at least, you could. You could make a joke, flip her off, throw out some practiced line about how you’re just not into commitment, how some good sex isn’t enough to rearrange your schedule, how the last thing you need right now is someone with sad eyes and divorce baggage and the kind of vulnerability that leaves claw marks in your chest.

You could do all of that, because you’ve done it before.

But instead, you just sit there, staring at your own hands that had been so sure of themselves when you were on her, so steady guiding her down and flipping her over, but now they’re trembling slightly in the glow of your desk lamp.

Jackie’s watching you – not pushing, not mocking anymore – just… watching. Like she’s waiting for you to come back to yourself, Like she knows you’re somewhere far off.

Because you are.

You’re not in your bedroom anymore.

You’re back in Ellie’s. Back in the quiet hum of her apartment, back where the air was warm and low and the sheets smelled like old cedar and something soft, something hers. You’re there, dragging your dress down over your hips, saying it wasn’t serious, pretending it didn’t feel like you were stepping out of something you weren’t supposed to leave.

And you left, made it a joke, told her you got what you wanted, that she did too. But it didn’t feel like power when you walked out, but like longing. Like a pulse still beating, like your hands wanting to turn the knob the other way.

You left, because you always do.

Because it was your father who taught you the geometry of a disappearing act done in silence and your mother who perfected it. One morning he was just gone. No big goodbye, just a note and your mother pacing the kitchen at midnight for three weeks straight and muttering I should’ve known like a prayer she was trying to make retroactive.

Just that, the change that came next and the rules that sharpened you the older you got.

Don’t trust anyone.

Don’t get soft, don’t let anyone see you fall apart. They’ll use it, and use you.

You want to survive? Leave first, that’s how you win.

You did that every single time. Left. Every party, situationship, hookup: you perfected the exit, crafted the mask, broke hearts and never let them break yours. You walked away from every woman who cried, begged and thought you were different.

But as you sit there with Jackie’s gaze burning into the side of your face, you realize that for the first time in your life, leaving didn’t feel like a win but like a hollow, aching loss.

You felt like a coward.

You felt like an asshole for the way you’d weaponized your own pleasure to make an exit, for the way you’d seen the flicker of something soft in Ellie’s eyes and decided to stomp it out before it could catch fire.

Jackie seems to sense the shift in you, the way the tension in your shoulders finally begins to give way to something more fragile, and her expression softens, the blunt sarcasm fading into a quiet, rare sort of empathy.

She sighs, a long, weary sound, and stands up from the bed, reaching out to give your shoulder a brief, grounding squeeze that feels more like an anchor than a gesture.

“Hey,” she says, breaking the silence again, the gentle voice of the only person in your life who's ever really truly known you.

You glance at her, wary.

“Do you wanna go back tonight?”

Your whole body goes still at her question.

“Not to see her,” Jackie adds quickly, palms up like she’s not trying to spook you. “I mean–  we can go, grab a drink, just sit at the bar. Talk shit. Watch Gemma destroy another Adele song. Just you and me.”

You want to say no, laugh, shrug, shrink. Push it all down where it belongs.

But the silence between you is too familiar. And the ache in your chest – the one that hasn't really gone away since you left Ellie’s bed – is starting to feel less like something you can ignore and more like something you need to understand, even if you have no idea if you want her to have waited or to have moved on already. Even if you don’t know what the fuck you’d even say if you saw her again.

So instead, you nod.

Slow. Reluctant. Scared.

But you nod.

Jackie softens and smiles. “Cool,” she says. “I’ll drive.”

“Okay,” you whisper, the word feeling like it’s being dragged out of you against your will. “Okay, let’s go. But I’m not dressing up.”

And you don’t.

You reach for your favorite oversized sweater, pulling it over your head like a shield, enough for Jackie to glance over at you in the mirror before you leave and say, “You’re wearing a sweater? Like, a sweater sweater?”

But you just flip her off and leave the apartment with her trailing right behind you.

The bar on the 12th is exactly the same as it always is – loud, spilled tequila and a thousand cheap perfumes. Glitter on the floor probably from the last drag show, a group of girls way too drunk for 9:30pm and Gemma in the corner with her bluetooth mic like she’s about to put someone through vocal hell.

And it’s fine.

All perfectly fine.

Sort of.

You let yourself slide into a corner booth tucked in the shadow with Jackie, let her order your drink without asking for one – Malibu Cola for her, something pink and frozen for you, and you just sit there, fingers tracing the condensation on the side of the glass, head down, trying to focus on her rambling story about that girl she matched weeks ago and whether or not she should bleach her eyebrows while your mind is a mess of what ifs and shouldn’ts looping in the back of your head.

Everything’s fine until it’s not.

Until the door opens and the cold draft from the street hits your cheeks.

You don’t hear it, not really. It’s just a subtle shift, like a pressure drop, like the static hum of something arriving.

You just hear Jackie going quiet in the middle of a sentence – just for a second – and then, “Oh.”

You sip your drink again, the sugarcoating on the rim melting against your lips, your stomach’s already in your throat.

“Don’t say it.” You mutter.

“I wasn’t going to.”

When you finally look, your heart does something stupid: it just flips inside your ribcage.

You see Ellie before she sees you.

She walks with her shoulders hunched against the chill, that same worn leather jacket pulled tight over a dark hoodie, hair a little messier than you remember maybe.

She doesn’t look at the bar, doesn’t look at the stage. Just sweeps the room in one slow motion like she’s scanning for something.

But the second her eyes land on you, your entire body goes rigid, your breath catches in your throat until you might actually choke on thin air. You freeze in a way that’s not obvious, just… inward. Still on the outside, but with every thought in your head derailing like a train car too close to the bend.

Fuck, fuck fuck. Don’t look this way, don’t look this way, is a chant that drowns your brain as you instinctively try to shrink into the shadows of the booth. 

You look away too fast, back into your drink like it could have a map in the ice, like if you pretended just hard enough, she’ll think you didn’t see her. That you’re fine, normal, just two strangers in a gay bar with you trying to disappear into a hole made of darkness and regret and the wish of never seeing the daylight again.

But it’s too late. Because Ellie did see you.

It’s in the way her entire posture shifts, the tension in her jaw breaking for a fraction of a second as she stops dead in her tracks near the bar.

Beside you, Jackie’s sipping her drink casually, like she’s pretending not to watch your very microexpression with the corner of her eye.

“So,” she says eventually, pretending not to know. “Wanna tell me what just short-circuited your entire nervous system or should I guess?”

You can’t even find the words to snap back at her, not even the energy to pretend you aren’t spiraling. Because when you risk another glance Ellie is still looking right at you: brows lifted slightly like she wasn’t sure she’d see you again.

And suddenly, you’re not the one walking in with perfect posture, eyes low, smiling like you know the ending before the story begins. You’re not looking at the room like it’s yours to take.

You’re just seated, caught. Vulnerable and – worst of all – in a fucking sweater.

You inhale slowly, try to cool the flush at the back of your neck and act like you’re not panicking, to remember how to breathe like a normal person while you look away again.

Until–

Jackie hums beside you. “She’s coming over.”

You blink, startled, your head whipping fast toward her. “What?”

“She just started walking.”

And when you glance again, Ellie’s making her way across the bar, slow and steady with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket.

Every instinct is yelling at you to run, to find a back exit, but as Ellie gets closer you find yourself trapped between a wall and your best friend and the realization that you have nowhere to run.

Ellie hasn’t slept right in two weeks.

Not that she’s counting. That’d be insane, that’d be something she would’ve done years ago back when she still believed wanting someone meant they’d want you back, when she thought timing and effort and chemistry all added up to anything that lasted.

Now, she doesn’t count the days since someone left her bed.

But still. Two weeks.

Days she’s spent tracing the silhouette of a night she can’t quite categorize, her mind constantly drifting on the memory of the way you felt – that electric, terrifying combination of sharp edges and soft surrender that seemed to rewire every nerve she’d spent years trying to numb. 

So she’s been to the bar on the 12th three times since then.

The first one the Friday after. That made sense, that was just in case. Just showing up, just a maybe, a one time thing during which she pretended she wasn’t carrying hope in her pocket.

She just sat at the bar, same high top table, same whiskey neat, same soundtrack of mediocre karaoke and a poor third attempt of Chasing Pavements blasting in her ears.

When you didn’t show up Ellie didn’t flinch, nor did she let it settle anywhere soft. Just sighed like she was expecting it and told herself it was just sex, a fluke, a particularly good night in a long stretch of nothings.

But then she came back the second time. Still no sign. But she still showed up at the same table and the same drink.

Jesse – of course – hasn’t let her hear the end of it. His voice has been a constant, amused commentary of her sudden and desperate descent back into the world of the living.

He’d cornered her at the community center three days after the hookup, asking her why she looked like she’d been “hit by a glitter covered freight train.”

She’d tried to downplay it, that it had been only a way to shake off the rust, but he has known her long enough to see the way her hands were shaking when she tried to light a cigarette. So he did what he always does, he tried to push her out of her comfort zone with jokes that hit close to home and shoulder nudges.

Too bad that lately it’s become something he’s doing out of a deep, aching feeling of guilt that he’s trying to mask as being there for his best friend.

But Ellie didn’t notice any of that, didn’t notice when he hid his phone before she could see a way too familiar name on his screen that has been there from way before the divorce papers.

Because all she could think about – or tried not to – was the way your tone shifted when you were pulling your dress back on, how your voice tried to stay detached even as you hovered in the doorway a beat too long. The way you said, “I got what I wanted, so did you,” and then added “You know where to find me” like it wasn’t a knife and a map at the same time.

The third time, she had felt like an idiot. Thirty-four years old and waiting for a girl who was probably out breaking someone else’s heart. But that glimpse of vulnerability she saw flashing across your face when she asked if you were leaving is what has kept her coming back. Because she craved to know that version of you who lingered at her door for just a beat too long.

Tonight, she almost didn’t come. Almost turned around right before the door and walked back home. But there was this tight feeling clawing at her chest that felt too much like hope and that brought her feet there regardless. 

So she walks inside, still not expecting anything different, prepared for the same disappointment, the same whiskey tinted silence, the same conversation with the bartender about the weather.

It’s muscle memory by now how her eyes scan the room the second she steps inside, slow and casual, as if she’s just surveying the crowd, not looking for someone specific. She’s perfected it, even when it makes her chest tighten. Even when it makes her stomach flip. Even when she’s preparing herself for another night of nothing.

But then, she stops.

Her whole body goes still, because you’re there.

And not at the bar, not in a dress.

You're sitting there in an oversized sweater, hair messy, face bare and Ellie feels like the floor is shifting under her feet in the tiniest, most precise way.

Like something realigned, like something cracked open.

You look smaller than she remembers. Or maybe just softer, maybe just real. Not the confident, unbothered girl who pulled her apart and then walked out like it didn’t mean anything, but you. With your drink and your eyes flicking up just once, just briefly, and your expression turning into sheer panic the second you lift your eyes and meet hers.

She swears her knees nearly give out.

She watches the way you fumble for your drink, the way the same friend you were with two weeks ago leans in to say something that makes your jaw clench, and for a second Ellie doesn’t move.

She just looks.

Because she expected either performance or absence. But not this.

And that scares her more than she knows how to admit.

Still, she moves. Starts walking toward your booth slowly, carefully, like if she steps wrong the whole illusion might snap.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to say. Doesn’t know what the rules are now. If you want her there. If you hate her. If you remember her the way she remembers you – not just the sex, not just the tension, but the way you said goodbye like it cost you something.

But she’s walking anyway, wondering whether it meant more than you said.

You knew that coming here, this would’ve happened.

And still – somehow – you’re not prepared.

Because now Ellie's walking toward you in a slow, steady walk like she’s got all the time in the world, hands shoved into the back pockets of her jacket like they’ve been holding onto something too long.

Her face is unreadable – not cold, not cocky, just… guarded. Like she’s here, but still deciding how much of herself she’s going to let show.

It’s almost a relief that she’s not smiling, you wouldn’t know what to do if she was.

She stops at the edge of the booth, shadow falling across the table, and your breath sticks somewhere low in your throat. Jackie glances between you and Ellie once, then immediately takes a long sip of her drink like she’s just become a very unlucky extra in someone else’s drama.

“Hey.”

One syllable. That’s all Ellie says.

It’s not even loaded. Not even meaningful. But somehow it still feels too real. Because it’s not a memory this time, not an echo or a ghost or a voice you thought you imagined. It’s her, standing right there at the edge of your booth, hair falling just a little over her brow, and that same unreadable look in her eyes.

There’s a beat of silence. One that serves you only to buy yourself time to force yourself to meet Ellie’s eyes and straighten your spine.

“Hey,” you say back, quieter than you mean to.

It doesn’t land the way you want it to. Not confident, not biting, not anything. Just quiet.

Ellie doesn’t move or take a seat. She just stands there for a beat longer than she probably should, looking down at you with a small tilt of her head, like she’s trying to figure you out.

Then, finally, “So… found you. Eventually.”

Your laugh comes out dry.

Jackie picks up her drink and mutters something about having heard someone calling for her, enough to earn her a glare from you. But you don’t even have the time to say something to her before she’s already gone and you’re left alone to face the consequences of your own actions.

“Wasn’t hiding,” you say too fast, staring down into your drink again.

Ellie’s eyes narrow just slightly. “Didn’t exactly make yourself easy to find either.”

You shrug, noncommittal, detached. At least, that’s how you want it to look.

So Ellie keeps going.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” she continues, voice even. “Especially after you said I’d known where to find you and then disappeared like the fucking rapture.”

You exhale slowly, trying so hard to act unbothered. “Didn’t realize that was an open invitation.”

“It sounded like one.”

You blink at the table. “Guess I didn’t think you’d take that seriously.”

She doesn’t blink. “You didn’t want me to?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

“It was just a line. I didn’t think it was, like… I dunno. A whole thing.”

She tilts her head, still watching you. Still quiet. Still not letting you squirm your way out of this. “Felt like a thing to me.”

You glance away, exhale hard through your nose, trying not to let it show. “I wasn’t trying to make it serious.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I know,” she repeats, and this time her voice is softer, more grounded, less sure and more curious. “But I wanna understand.”

You hate her for that too. For saying I wanna understand instead of what’s your deal?, instead of you’re weird, instead of you’re a fucking mess, which is what you were bracing for.

She’s not teasing you. She’s trying.

You shift in your seat, your palm flat against the condensation ring from your drink, and you say, “It was just one night.”

Ellie nods. “Okay.”

“That’s it.”

“Okay.” She repeats.

“And I didn’t come back because I didn’t think–” You pause. Swallow. Lie. “I didn’t think it was worth the repeat.”

Saying it aloud hurts, first of all because you don’t mean it, second of all because you don’t even sound convincing.

But Ellie just breathes in slowly, like she heard every syllable you didn’t say. Her voice is low when she speaks next. “What are you running from?”

You try to laugh, you really do. But the sound comes out cracked, half formed, too bitter. “Jesus. Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Ellie doesn’t say anything.

And that – that – makes it worse.

Because she’s not playing, not pushing. She’s just standing there like she’s got nothing to prove, and she’s waiting. And you hate that it makes you feel safe. You hate that it makes you want to tell her the truth.

And worse, you hate that something in you already is.

You sigh, rub a hand down your face, lean back into the booth like maybe the cushions can swallow you whole. “What do you want from me?”

Ellie watches you. Her expression shifts,  just barely, like something softening. “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Just wanted to see you again.”

You don’t say anything. Because what the fuck are you supposed to say to that? What do you do when the one thing you didn’t prepare for is someone who just wants you, without asking you to become something else first?

Then she says, “You said you got what you wanted. That it was nothing serious. But the way you’re not even looking at me right now… doesn’t feel like nothing.”

That’s when something folds.

You look away, but not fast enough. And she sees the shift, the way your eyes soften, the way your breath catches, the way your grip on the glass loosens just slightly like you’re surrendering, or tempted to.

You swallow.

And Ellie – patient, quiet, suddenly less steady than she was a second ago – speaks again.

“You wanna come back to mine?”

And somehow – somehow – it doesn’t sound like a power play or an invitation to pick up where you left off.

It sounds like a question. A real one. A soft one. One that asks more than just your body.

You should say no, tell her this was a mistake. That you shouldn’t have come. That it’s too complicated. 

But instead–

“Okay.”

Ellie’s apartment is the exact same, which is somehow not making things easier.

Same record player in the corner, same sketchbook spread across the cluttered desk, half closed pencil marks smudged by careless wrists, same hardwood floors you walked across in heels two weeks ago, back when your legs weren’t shaking and your confidence hadn’t split at the seams.

Back when this was a game and you were winning, glancing over your shoulder and daring her to kiss you.

What’s different, though, is the way you’re carrying yourself.

You walk in a few steps and Ellie doesn’t say anything as she closes the door behind you two. She doesn’t touch you yet, just sets her keys down on the entry table, kicks off her shoes, shrugs off her jacket and starts moving through the space like it belongs to her again, like she’s not unsure anymore.

And maybe that’s what rattles you the most. Because you remember a version of her that was hesitant, almost startled by her own need, kissing you like she had to learn the shape of pleasure all over again in real time.

That made you feel powerful, in control, like a switchblade with a beating heart.

But now?

Now she’s steady and you’re just standing there awkwardly, heart stuttering behind your ribs, your fingers twitching at your sides without knowing where to put your eyes because everything is reminding you of a version of yourself you can’t bring yourself to be.

You can feel her eyes on you, not with expectation or amusement. Just watching like she knows exactly what’s happening, like she’s seeing the shift.

You hate that she’s not kissing you already, that her hands are not at your hips. Because if she was doing all of that, it’d be easy to close your eyes and flip the script over, gain the power back, tease her with a smirk.

But all Ellie does is just say your name, soft. Just that.

You look up and she steps forward, right in front of you, letting the silence stretch until your lungs can’t take it anymore.

“You good?” she asks, low.

You nod before you think about it, arms crossing at your chest. “Yeah. Totally.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just watches you like she already knows you’re full of shit.

You shift, try to re-center, to find your footing again. You’ve never been the nervous one, you don’t do nerves. You’re the tease, the one with the lines, the one who kisses first and walks out without turning back.

So you smirk – soft, practiced – and take a step closer to her too, head tilted just enough to feign control. “So what,” you murmur, “you brought me back here again to talk about our feelings?”

Her brow lifts a little, like she’s amused, but her eyes? Her eyes don’t move from yours as if she’s clocking every flicker of emotion you’re trying to hide behind your mouth.

“No,” she replies after a beat. “I brought you back here so you’d stop pretending like you don’t want this.”

Your smirk falters at that, making you glance away. “Cocky.”

“Not cocky,” she says, voice lower now. “Just paying attention.”

You don’t know what to do with that. You really don’t.

So you reach for the familiar. The only armor you’ve ever worn. You step in even closer now, barely a breath between your bodies  and you tilt your chin up, your voice dropping to that cadence you always use when you want to win.

“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d beg this time.”

Ellie doesn’t even blink at that, doesn’t laugh or even flinch.

Instead, she moves – not fast, not aggressive, just sure – and her hand slides to the back of your neck as she leans in close enough that her lips ghost the edge of your jaw when she speaks.

“Baby,” she murmurs, and your knees weaken. “You start with that bullshit again and I’ll stop before I even start.”

You swallow. Hard.

Her thumb brushes against the side of your throat, a gentle press against your pulse.

“You came back here for a reason,” she whispers, softer now, but still steady. “You don’t have to tell me what it is. But I’m not letting you hide behind a smart mouth if what you really want is to be seen.”

The air catches in your lungs.

Because fuck.

Fuck.

You can’t flirt your way out of this.

You can’t trick her into forgetting how your hands shook that first time, how your voice cracked on your way out the door. You can’t pretend this is just for fun anymore.

Not when she’s looking at you like she sees right through your cracks, not when her grip is firm but kind and when her body’s close but not caging you in.

You don’t know what to do with that kind of care.

She pulls back just enough to look at you again. Searching your face. Your breath. Your boundaries.

You don’t move, just drop your eyes to her lips.

And that’s enough of a tell for her to lean down and press them against yours.

It’s messy, intentional. Not rough, but not soft either. Just… real. Her hand slides into your hair, tilts your head back slightly. Her mouth moves like she’s not asking anymore. Like she’s taking you for exactly what you are: wrecked and undone and still pretending not to be.

And at that, the only thing you can do is melt, even if you try not to. Even if you try to deepen the kiss, tilt your head, slide into the seat you know well.

But the second your hand slides to her hip like you’re about to lead Ellie pulls back just enough, just to whisper against your mouth.

“Don’t.” You freeze. “I know what you’re doing,” she says. Calm. Clear.

Your breath stutters. “And what’s that?”

She smiles – just slightly – and kisses you again, this time with a little more pressure, enough to make your hands curl into her hoodie.

“You think if you take control, you won’t fall apart.” A beat. “Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer, which is an answer itself alone.

So kisses you again. Again. Until your knees are barely holding.

“You can fall apart with me,” she murmurs.

And then – effortlessly, without a pause – she picks you up.

You make a startled sound, legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, her mouth never leaving yours. You can’t even think straight, only cling at her, kiss her harder, try to remember how to breathe.

She carries you through the hallway like it’s nothing, slow and certain.

She doesn’t bump the doorframe, doesn’t fumble. Just pushes the bedroom door open with the side of her foot and steps inside like she’s done it a hundred times, like this, right here, with you in her arms, was always meant to happen again.

Your arms are still around her neck, your mouth still tastes like her kiss. Your thoughts are a slow, flickering mess of what the fuck are we doing and don’t ever stop.

She walks you to the bed and doesn’t throw you down. No, nothing like that. She lowers you gently, controlled. The backs of your thighs hit the mattress and she follows you down, one knee on the bed, the other foot still planted on the floor like she’s steadying you both.

You bring your hands down, about to peel off your sweater, trying to take some kind of initiative, but her hands stop you before you can.

“I’ve got it,” she murmurs.

You exhale slowly, arms falling back to your sides, and Ellie just moves.

Her hand slides under the hem of your sweater, not to rip, but to lift. Her fingertips drag across your stomach, pushing the fabric up your body inch by inch.

She pulls it off over your head, tosses it somewhere behind her before she climbs over the bed, one hand braced at the side of your head, her thigh slipping between yours just enough to make you gasp.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, but it’s not a tease. It’s a note, an observation. A fact she gets to unfold.

You swallow, try to say something – probably a quip, some last ditch attempt to claw your way back to whatever power you had that night – but it dies in your throat the second she pushes her hand beneath your bra and brushes her thumb over your nipple.

The gasp you let out is louder than you probably intended.

“Yeah,” she says, so low it vibrates against your mouth. “There she is.”

She undoes the clasp with one hand like it’s nothing. You arch up, letting her peel the fabric away, her eyes dragging down your chest. She doesn’t say anything not at first. Just lowers her head and mouths at your tit, tongue circling your nipple, lips warm and wet and slow until you can’t think straight.

Your fingers tangle in her hair before you can stop them and Ellie moans into your skin – not from your touch, but from hers. Like sucking on your tits gets her off all by itself. Like she’s savoring every flick of your nipple against her tongue.

You squirm, try to grind down against the thigh still slotted between your legs, but she shifts it away instantly, lifting her head up.

“Nah,” she murmurs, voice thick. “You’re not getting off on me yet.”

You swallow, chest heaving, biting down whatever voice inside your head that's screaming at you that it'd be so easy to just flip her and the script over.

Instead, you let her fingers move to your jeans and unbutton them. Let her mouth drop back to your chest, kissing her way down your sternum, tongue dragging a line to your belly, while the jeans come off slow as she sinks down to her knees – your hips lifted, thighs bare, and when she sees the wet spot on your panties she groans.

“Fuck me,” she whispers, breath hot against the fabric. “You’re soaked.”

She doesn’t even pause. Just kisses you over your underwear, tongue flicking the damp cotton, sucking at the center until your hips jerk up and your breath punches out of you.

You reach for her again, desperate, hands through her hair like you need that anchor.

“Ellie–” you moan.

She hooks her fingers into the waistband with a hum, pulls them down slowly, and when they’re gone, she just looks.

Eyes on your cunt like she’s starving for it.

She doesn’t dive in. Doesn’t go straight to it. She lays a hand on your thigh. Spreads your folds with just her thumb, the wetness catching the light.

“Shit,” she mutters. “You want it that bad, huh?”

You nod, frantically, pathetically, and she fucking smiles at that — not mean. Not smug. Just like she’s never wanted to be between someone’s legs more in her life.

She settles herself between your thighs like she belongs there and then — finally — she licks you.

It's long, deep. From the bottom of your slit to your clit in one drag.

Your back arches, your moans grow louder.

Ellie groans right into you, and does it again. And again. Until your thighs are shaking around her shoulders and your hands are pulling her hair.

But she doesn’t let you get there too fast.

She slows, keeps her mouth right on your clit, tongue flicking in soft with just enough pressure to make you cry out every time. And when her fingers ghost along your inner thigh you just blurt it out before you can even stop yourself.

“Ellie–” you pant. “Please.”

She lifts her head just enough to speak, lips shining. “You want my fingers, baby?”

You don't answer, can't. Just nod. And Ellie smirks like she was picturing this moment.

"I believe that last time," she murmurs, fingers just short of your entrance, teasing you. "You told me to use words."

You whine, buck your hips, desperate for friction. "Fuck– yes, I want your fingers."

She hums satisfied. "Good girl."

And then she's leaning down again, pressing a kiss to your clit before her hand replaces her mouth, she’s sliding one finger in without warning – and fuck, you’re so wet, she groans like she feels it in her own chest.

“Jesus,” she breathes. “So fucking tight.”

You squirm, try to move, to roll your hips to meet her rhythm, but her free hand flattens on your stomach, pinning you down.

“Nuh-uh,” she murmurs. “None of that.”

She adds a second finger, slower this time, eyes locked on yours as she slides in deep and curls – and your mouth falls open, head tipping back against the pillows.

“That’s it,” Ellie says. “Just like that. Let me.”

And you do.

You let her.

You let her fuck you open, slowly, fingers stroking inside you, palm catching your clit just enough to make you cry out every few seconds. Her eyes never leave your face. Not once. Like watching you fall apart is the only thing she’s ever wanted.

You’re panting, whining, so close it hurts. And Ellie leans in, presses her lips to your ear.

“You gonna come for me?”

You nod again, no words coming out of your mouth, and when she curls her fingers just right you break.

Your orgasm builds so fast it feels like drowning – wave after wave ripping through you, sharp and hot and blinding, your cunt clenching around her fingers so deep inside you it feels like they’re stitched to something you didn’t know you had.

You cry out loudly, unashamed, with Ellie’s breath brushing your cheek, her mouth grazing your jaw.

She fucks you through it, slowing down just by a fraction and watching you fall apart like that was the only thing she had been craving for since the second she saw you again.

You try – god, you try – to gather yourself, to find the version of you that knows how to tip the balance back, but your voice doesn’t cooperate, your body is still humming, and you’re still spread out beneath her with nothing left to hide behind, thighs trembling, body humming with the aftershocks.

Her voice is low when it comes. “You with me?”

You nod.

“I need you to say it.”

“I’m–” Your throat catches. You swallow, try again. “I’m here.”

She exhales through her nose, soft. Almost relieved.

“Good.”

Her fingers slip out of you slowly, carefully, and your whole body twitches. You bite down a moan, and she catches your jaw in her palm before you can look away, grounding you with the way her thumb grazes your cheek.

“Still wanna act like that didn’t just break you?”

You let out a breathless, wrecked laugh. “Shut the fuck up.”

And she grins.

But it doesn’t last long.

Because you’re looking at her again. Fully clothed. Calm. Solid. And you’re nothing but bare skin and flushed cheeks and sweat cooling along the backs of your thighs. And the sight of her like that – grounded, in charge – makes your stomach pull tight again, your breath stumble, your hips tilting toward her like you forgot what it’s like to want anything else.

And she sees it.

Of course she sees it.

Because this time you’re not trying to hide it. You’re not even trying to win. You just… want.

And then you shift, sitting up just enough to put your palms on her shoulders, fingers sliding down the collar of her hoodie, breath catching in your chest.

“Take this off,” you whisper.

Ellie lifts her brows.

You run your hand down her chest, curl your fingers in the hem, and say it again, this time with more breath than voice.

“Please.”

And at that Ellie doesn't even add anything else, only pulls her hoodie over her head along with her shirt and drops it behind her without looking. You sit up straighter, thighs trembling, and help her with the rest – hands dragging over the waistband of her jeans, tugging them down her hips.

She steps out of them and walks to the drawer by the bed, not saying a single word.

She pulls out the same strap. Black, sleek.

Last time, you made a whole show out of it. Laughed when she pulled it out. Bit your lip when she slipped it on, cocky as hell and twice as loud, back arched and mouth full of moans, riding her like you had something to prove.

Now?

Now you can’t stop looking.

Your body reacts before your mind does – a slow ache pulling low in your stomach, your hips shifting almost imperceptibly against the sheets – and Ellie sees it, oh, she sees it, but she doesn’t comment, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t break whatever fragile, electric thing is hanging between you.

She just steps into the harness, tightens the buckles with a practiced hand, but not fast, never fast, every movement deliberate, every adjustment made while her eyes flicker back to your face in between: checking, measuring, making sure you’re still with her and not drifting back into that place where you armor yourself to survive.

She moves toward the bed again and you feel your breath hitch as she climbs between your legs again, the heat of her body settling over yours, the weight of her eyes pinning you more than anything else ever could.

“Stay like this,” she whispers. “Wanna see you.”

You could laugh it off again, flip her over, climb on top, pretend you’re still the one calling the shots. But you don’t. Because that shit’s tiring and because fuck it– you just want to let go.

Because you want this, want her. Want the way she touches you like she doesn’t just want your body, but wants to know you, to touch the places no one's ever seen and pull apart every wall you’ve built until there’s nothing left but you.

You bite your lip and then – finally – you nod.

She adjusts her weight, the mattress dipping beneath it while her knees slide between yours, the strap brushing your inner thigh and your pulse going wild beneath your skin.

She reaches for a pillow, slips it under your hips. It tilts you up – just enough to feel open, exposed, vulnerable in a way that has your throat clenching and your cunt dripping.

Then she parts your legs, hands on your knees. “You gonna let me?”

You nod again. “Please.”

And it’s the please that does it.

Ellie groans, low and rough, her voice soaked in need as she lines herself up, head of the strap catching on your entrance. Your whole body locks up – in anticipation, in desperation – and you grip her back before she even pushes in, nails digging into her skin.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs. “Just breathe.”

Then – so slowly you could scream – she pushes inside.

It knocks the breath out of you. The weight. The pressure. The feeling of being filled like that. Of letting her take you, hold you, read you from the inside out. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Your hands scramble for her, one goes on her waist, the other one digging into her back. Your ankles cross behind her, pulling her in, your knees lifting instinctively as the strap pushes deeper.

“Fuck—” You gasp.

Ellie groans into your skin, hips grinding forward until she’s flush with you, strap seated all the way inside, and she just holds you there, doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust – just breathes, just lets you feel it.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Just like that.”

She starts moving in slow thrusts, shallow at first – just enough for you to feel it, the in and out glide of the strap rubbing exactly where you need it while your cunt clenches around it. Her hips grind, her hands slide under your thighs to tilt you up so she can reach deeper until your thighs are shaking and your stomach’s tensing and you can’t stop moaning with every stroke.

“Doing so good for me,” she pants. “Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

You gasp. Whimper. Arch into her.

And then the pace shifts.

Just a little faster, enough so you cry out and your hands grab her waist, her arms. Anything. Panting through broken moans spilling from your mouth with every thrust. 

“Ellie–” You sob.

Actually sob her name. It tears right out of you, your voice breaking around it, your whole body curling forward as your legs lock around her waist, calves flexing, heels pressing into her lower back like you’re trying to pull her deeper, deeper, deeper–

She groans. Low. From the chest. You feel it vibrate against your ribs.

“Shit, that’s it– there you go, baby, come on– come for me, come on–”

She tilts her hips, drives the strap hard into that place inside you that makes everything snap, makes your body seize and your hands fist in her hair, your throat rasp her name in a cry so ragged you almost don’t recognize it as yours.

And she loves it.

Her mouth drops to your neck. “You sound so pretty like this.”

Your thighs shake. Your toes curl.

“You gonna give it to me again?” she pants.

You nod. Breathless. Desperate. “Yes, fuck, yes–”

And she thrusts harder.

Deeper.

And you lose it again.

Right there. On her strap. With your face buried in her shoulder and your voice wrecked and your thighs clamped tight around her waist, cunt clenching hard as you come with a cry that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before.

And Ellie – god.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. Not yet.

Because the harness is pressed just right against her clit and the way your body squeezes around her – thighs quaking, nails digging, mouth open and panting like you’re wrecked beyond repair – it’s too much.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–” She gasps, one broken, stuttering breath.

Then her hips stutter, her arms shake, her eyes flutter shut and she buries her face in the curve of your neck, muttering your name like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

Ellie comes with a moan that sounds like surrender.

You're still trembling when she does, still clenching around nothing but silicone and her.

Her mouth is somewhere against your throat, open and panting. Lips dragging lazy and reverent over sweat damp skin.

You’re limp. Breathless. Boneless. Every nerve lit and spent.

Then everything slows.

Her hips ease, just barely moving – still buried deep inside you, but softer now, tender – like she doesn’t want to pull out until your body is ready to let her go.

Her nose nudges your jaw. “Still with me?” she whispers.

You nod, barely.

And then her lips brush your cheek. Your temple. The corner of your mouth.

It's soft. Not filthy, not teasing. Just soft.

Her hand smooths down your side, slides to the small of your back. “You did so good,” she breathes, hoarse, kissing your cheek again. “Took me so well. So good.”

And you – for the first time ever – let yourself linger in the moment that hangs just after the breaking.

The room is quiet again.

No more panting. No more moaning. Just the slow ebb of breath in and out, your heart still thudding too hard against your ribs as you stare at the ceiling like maybe – maybe – it’ll tell you what to do next.

But it doesn’t.

And neither does Ellie.

She's still above you – bare, breath warm, her skin damp with sweat, her hand is somewhere on your thigh, loose and casual, and her chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that says she’s calm.

But you're not calm.

You’re blinking slowly, trying to collect pieces of yourself from where they scattered across her sheets. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. Your mouth is dry and you’re flushed and spent and everything still smells like her.

Maybe for some the moments after are the ones that feel easy, the ones when you can just breathe and ease back.

Not for you.

Because this is the part where you get up.

This is the part where you make some half charming comment about needing to be up early, maybe lean in for one last kiss if you’re feeling sweet, and then pull your dress back over your shoulders like none of it ever mattered. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.

You leave before you can be left. That’s the deal.

So why the fuck can’t you move?

You shift slightly, still on your back, still staring at the ceiling like it might give you a clue. Like somewhere in the cracks there’s a line written out for you, some ancient inscription that reads here’s what to do when someone looks at you like they’d rather know your soul than your body.

But there’s nothing.

Just silence.

Until Ellie finally exhales against your neck, soft and low, and pulls back just enough to look at you. She shifts to her knees, reaches down, and unbuckles the harness with practiced fingers, slips it off like it’s no more meaningful than a sock and tosses it carelessly off the side of the bed, landing somewhere in the dark with a quiet thump.

Then, she moves.

Not away from you. Not toward the bathroom. Not to hand you your clothes or pull on her own. She just... slides under the covers and then pulls them back up over your hips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at her.

Then glance at the ceiling again.

Because what the fuck is this?

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” you blurt out, voice hoarse. “Like, seriously,” you say after a long beat. “What’s the protocol here?”

Ellie raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

You turn your head toward her. “I dunno. Do I stay for breakfast? Are we supposed to talk about our feelings? Am I supposed to, like… drink your shitty coffee in the morning?”

Ellie deadpans. “I don’t drink coffee.”

You blink. “That’s a red flag.” you mumble. But after a second, you snort. Soft and unbidden, like your body let it slip out before your brain could stop it.

Ellie’s mouth twitches at the corner.

You sigh. Turn onto your side, facing her.

“You know I don’t do this, right?”

Her voice is low. Even. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between your bodies. “Sleepovers. Cuddles. Post-nut intimacy.”

She huffs a breath. “It’s not that deep.”

You raise a brow. “Lying in bed together? Naked? You tucking me in like we’re girlfriends?”

She doesn’t flinch and you just sigh, the heels of your hands rubbing against your eyes.

“Whatever, I’m improvising, dude,” you say quietly. “I don’t know. Do I do something?”

There’s a pause.

Then Ellie shifts closer. And you feel her arm slide beneath your shoulders. Her palm grazing the side of your hip. The slow, deliberate way she pulls you in like she’s done this before.

“You could just let me hold you,” she offers.

And it shouldn’t work.

It should trigger every warning you’ve ever been taught. It should feel wrong, it should feel dangerous, it should feel weak because love is a lie, because closeness is a trick, because the second you let someone close enough to feel them breathe, they have the power to break your ribs.

But the worst part? The truly terrifying part?

It doesn’t feel dangerous.

It feels warm.

So you blink. Again. Slowly.

Then– “That’s it?”

She hums. “That’s it.”

You hesitate, chew your lip, look down at her hand on your hip.

“Okay,” you say.

It’s barely a whisper. It’s barely you.

But it’s enough.

Ellie shifts closer, one arm sliding around your back, the other under your neck, tucks her chin over your head with her body curling just slightly toward yours like she knew this shape before you did.

Your throat tightens, you stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, mind racing with every defense mechanism you’ve ever sharpened like a blade.

And yet, you don’t leave.

You don’t get up or make a joke. You don’t say something flippant or cruel or distant.

You just... let her hold you.

Breathe.

And – maybe for the first time – you wonder what it would be like to wake up without running. To stay in the warmth. To smell another's skin and not pretend it didn’t feel like something you want to remember when the sun will kiss the floor.

And it’s like Ellie feels the way your brain's working overtime, because her palm slides across your spine, her nose presses to your temple and she holds you like she knows exactly what it means for you to let her.

pictures from pinterest

perm taglist (check my masterlist post if you wanna be added!): @elliewmc @machetegirl109 @valeisaslut @imliterallyjustonegirl @iloveclairo2016 @rhian88 @mxchi-mxxn @sawaagyapong @angelz-void @seasonsofchaos @mischievous-darling @archersbows

part two tags: @chxrryvalxntine @yuripilledfemme @starduszt @soupinspector

a/n: sooo, yeah. as promised. part two. the angst is not really angsting i guess, but idgaf lmao. i kinda tried to end it with this just in case, but... i won't deny that i got part three in my drafts already. also, i think that by now you can notice my obsession with the number two lmao. hope you enjoyed this as always, sending you lots of love <3

[letmebeurbaby]

𝑀𝐸𝐸𝑇 𝑀𝐸 𝐴𝑇 𝑂𝑈𝑅 𝑆𝑃𝑂𝑇 ‧₊❄︎⊹

‧₊❄︎⊹ 𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 ~ it's a cold day in new york when you walk into the arena to shoot a commercial spot with the new york's rangers team captain. just a camera, a small crew and you and ellie trying out the other's sport. and maybe sharing just one little secret that the lenses won't catch on.

‧₊❄︎⊹ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 ~ 2.1k

‧₊❄︎⊹ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 ~ hockey player!ellie x figure skater!reader, swearing, based on this thing i saw a few days ago lol, remotely suggestive at some point, basically no warnings but me not knowing anything about figure skating or hockey, afab!reader, men and minors dni.

likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡

When you finally step into the rink your muscles feel relaxed from the previous warm up, the overhead lights make it impossible to hide the way your skin is flushed. There are skate guards at your blades, the leotard you’re wearing feels itchy and the slick bun you did yourself is just a little bit too tight.

But it all stops being something your mind is wrapping around the second you see her. Really see her.

Because the moment you first arrived at the arena you barely could keep eye contact with her. You just mumbled a "hello" under your breath and shook her hand. But this time… you do lift your gaze up.

And she’s there. Ellie Williams, New York’s hockey team captain, standing right in front of the Red Bull crew in full gear, laughing along to something they said, posture relaxed like she’s got all the time in the world for filming a commercial that you’ve been warming up for like this is actual practice.

As soon as you approach the rink board to slip off the skate guards everyone turns toward you.

And Ellie? She grins from ear to ear, like this isn’t just business but something she was actually looking forward to.

“Sorry, warm up took longer than I thought,” you murmur with a small smile, looking toward the crew. “Am I late?”

The art director flashes you a big smile and shakes his head. “Not at all! Just on time!” He replies.

“Nah,” Ellie chimes in. “We were just waiting for the ice princess.”

You roll your eyes, hiding the way you’re biting your lower lip and just glide towards the centre of the rink.

There are a few cones closer to the side, a red goal and a couple sticks balanced right against the metal of the post.

Your skates glide effortlessly with a quiet hiss as you try to adjust the skirt of the leotard. You try to keep your head down, not to show how much your heart is hammering behind your ribs and how actually – maybe for the first time in your life – being behind the camera is making you nervous.

And perhaps the reason behind it is the fact that Ellie is skating right toward you, with a smile on her face that can only be described as a shit-eating grin and because the whole Red Bull crew is prepping everything like this is just another business day.

For them, it is.

But not for you.

Guess first times have that kind of effect on someone.

The train of your thoughts gets interrupted by the art director clapping his hands once, smiling brightly.

“Okay, girls,” he starts. “First we need a short shot of the two of you back to back. Just position yourselves and we’ll get started.”

Are you fucking kidding–

“Sure thing,” Ellie says, amused, already turning around, but not before smirking at you and murmuring, just low enough for you to hear, “Promise I won’t bite.”

It’s hard to fight the urge to groan or roll your eyes again, or to just tell her to cut it off. But you manage to settle for a sharp breath through your nose and ignore the comment, turning around as well, your back pressed against her.

Thank god your leotard has long sleeves and that you can blame the goosebumps on the cold.

“Perfect,” the director calls out, smiling sharply. “If you could cross your arms at your chest that’d be great, and… roll.”

Ellie’s the first one to do so, with a smile so wide it gives away the fact she’s thriving. Maybe a little too much. And it’s kind of annoying given how much you – on the other hand – are struggling to not let the mask slip but to flash your brightest smile instead.

The director claps his hands, turns toward the camera man to check the footage and nods, whispering something to him.

You finally exhale, rolling your shoulders and gliding away from a contact that was feeling way too electric. Way too dangerous in this kind of situation where cameras are still rolling and people are watching.

Ellie turns around too, tilts her head. “Pulling back already?” she murmurs, teasing. “You wound me.”

You shoot her a look, tugging down your sleeves and she only raises her hands in surrender, but not without a laugh, one it’s clear she’s barely containing.

Thank God the director chimes in again. Something about power pulls, a gesture towards the cones at the side of the rink. You don’t even blink, you nod, give him a polite smile and skate toward them like it’s an escape.

The crew keeps talking about shooting, you keep nodding and smiling and laughing in the right places while you try to focus on anything but the way you can feel a pair of green eyes constantly on you, on the way your blades glide and scratch the ice beneath your feet, on the way which – without even trying – you make every single gesture and movement look effortless, almost ethereal. Even the ones that require strength.

It’s like, slowly, the rink’s shrinking, the lights are dimming, and everything stops being about doing a commercial and starts being about witnessing why you keep standing on podiums after every single competition.

And Ellie can’t stop staring, not for a single second.

It’s crazy how quick the tables turn. Because now the smirk on her lips is fully gone, replaced by a soft kind of awe – something that looks too much like admirement, like something simmering she can’t really say aloud right now.

And now, you’re the one looking at her like you’re winning something.

You glide your blades across the ace, almost floating as you move around the cones, only to watch her struggling the second after when her skates bend a little too much to the side because what she’s used to is not graceful balance but brutal force.

Her knees are too bent, her posture too forward, and one of the cones topples with a clack when her skate nicks it.

“God, how do you stay upright doing this shit?” she mutters under her breath, and you laugh, actually laugh, shoulders shaking.

Then comes the spins. You keep your arms pressed tight against your chest while Ellie looks at you like she has no clue on how the hell you’re not dizzy or falling onto the ice. Then you watch her try it for herself, standing awkwardly, one leg up and bent behind her for some reason like that could help her.

And you… can only bite back the laugh that’s bubbling in your belly. “That looks good though!” You tease.

The same look you shot her before? She’s now giving it back to you fully. “Shut up,” she huffs, wobbling again, and you swear she’s fighting back a laugh too. “This is rigged. Your ankles are made of steel.”

Filming continues, the director and the whole crew are all laughing along with you. And some of the tension from before has eased in a way that maybe you should’ve predicted. Because it’s something you’re familiar with. Something you’ve got accustomed to. Although if someone would ask right now, you’d say that it’s because you’re in your element, because there are skates at your feet and the ice feels good underneath the blades.

“Alright, swap time,” one of the crew calls, and suddenly there’s a hockey stick in your hands while you blink at it like it might bite. Ellie’s blade hits the ice with a dull clap behind you — just once — and you turn to find her already watching, already grinning.

“Try not to embarrass me,” she says, spinning her own stick between her gloved hands.

But despite the comment, there's something in seeing you holding the stick between your hands, in the way you’re letting yourself feel its weight and the rubber at the handle warming up in your palm that has Ellie go silent as she stands right behind you, hands on her own stick gripping it tight.

It’s not really because you manage to make the puck hit the net three times in a row. You actually miss the first two times. It’s more about the fact that you’re glowing from the inside out, because that nervous smile and that barely there shake of your hand from earlier when you couldn't even look her in the eyes is completely gone.

What’s left – when you finally manage to send the puck into the goal – is the way you turn around, lift the stick above your head, and your lips stretch into a smile so bright she swears she’s never seen before. Not like that.

“Score!” You exclaim, laughing so loud the sound bounces off the walls of the arena.

It takes Ellie a split second before she catches herself, swallows and huffs a laugh herself, shakes her head and forces herself to remember where she is and what she’s doing.

“Score!” She echoes, tapping the end of her stick three times on the ice.

The way she lifts her head up then though, the way her eyes turn soft, almost private, is something that makes you stop for a moment, that makes you slowly lower the stick from above your head and quiets the sound of your laugh just by a fraction.

But you, too, catch yourself before the lenses catch you.

Both of you.

And the way you’re looking at each other.

Later on – when the crew leaves, when more hands have been shaken and photographs have been made, when both your signatures are imprinted on the ice in a black marker that the zambonis are probably going to erase by the next day – you’re walking outside the arena, the cold of New York's December air biting at your cheeks despite your best efforts to bundle yourself up in your scarf and coat.

But you’re not walking out from the front.

You’re walking out from the back. For a reason that has come familiar for months. One that has you buzzing in anticipation every single time, no matter how much time has passed from the first one.

The reason is the same that had you keeping your head down at first during filming.

Ellie. Now standing against the brick wall right next to the door.

And now – unlike before – the second you see her you don’t waste time. You just stride toward her in three quick steps and grab her by the collar of her jacket.

It feels like breathing again the moment your lips touch hers, like you can relax, like your muscles aren’t sore and your knees have never been bruised before.

You sigh into her mouth, let your shoulders relax the moment you feel her hands gripping at your hips, pulling you flush against her, letting your breaths mingle together while the reflection of the moon glints on the snow beneath your feet.

“Hi, babe,” Ellie whispers eventually. “Fuck, I missed you so much.”

You laugh against her lips, a breathy little sound. “Missed you too, Els.” You reply, voice low. “Hated I couldn’t do this before.”

She brings one hand to your cheek, brushing her thumb across the apple of it while you lean into it immediately, closing your eyes to bask into the warmth of her palm against your skin.

“I know,” she murmurs, a small smile on her lips. “Hate it too. But it is kinda fun pretendin’ we don’t know each other.” A beat. “And that I don’t have you screamin’ my name almost every night.”

You roll your eyes, groan and flick her forehead.

“Ow!” she yelps.

You squint your eyes at her. “Don't get cocky now.”

“Excuse me? I'm allowed to have some fun!” She protests, mock offended. "You're the one who wants to keep hidin'."

You sigh, but eventually… you soften. Just a little bit. Enough to shift closer again, to rest your forehead against hers and leave a kiss on her nose.

“Fine,” your murmur. “I’ll allow it.”

She pulls back, raises one brow. “Oh, you’ll allow it?”

You hum, pleased, almost smug. “Yep.”

She laughs, a low sound just under her breath but that you feel right against your chest in the way it vibrates in hers. A feeling that you – slowly, through time – have learnt to cherish, to keep tucked into the crevices of the time you manage to carve for one another.

Ellie leans in again, her lips graze your temple, her hands roam across your lower back. “Good. Now that I’ve got your blessing again,” she teases, smiling against your skin. “Meet me at our spot?”

And you can only tilt your head, nose her cheek and whisper right into her ear, “Yeah. I’ll meet you at our spot.”

pictures from pinterest

perm taglist (check my masterlist post if you wanna be added!): @elliewmc @machetegirl109 @valeisaslut @imliterallyjustonegirl @seasonsofchaos @iloveclairo2016 @rhian88 @mxchi-mxxn @sawaagyapong @angelz-void @mischievous-darling @archersbows

a/n: i did promise i would've have written a blurb about that reel. guess i'm a girl of my word lmao. also, the pun in the title is fully intended. hope you enjoyed this short little blurb! lots of love <3

[durtyrascal]

Its time for a tumblr snow ball fight again. Tag and reblog. Heads up @darth-perineum

[niyana-the-ambiguous-mobian]

@multiisketch @star-stages @lucidheart3 @owoshrike @nortedwayfinder @thefanvideoer @crazyhalf2 @lotus-start @alfairy @mama-qwerty @piliiiiconfusionf @pewycert @mbrine @0vergrowngraveyard @anartistwhowrites @piko-rose @cosmoshard

GET SNOWBALLED SUCKERS!

[mbrine]

oof I have been snowballed

Snowballing @000marie198 @myymi @lazorbeanz @sparkles-rule-4eva @number-one-shadisper-shipper and @brainworms-all-night-long and anyone reading this

[brainworms-all-night-long]

Waugh💥💥

Get absolutely snowballed idiots‼️ /aff @000marie198 @0vergrowngraveyard @very-uncorrect @emerald--antssss @m3tr0n0m333 @erissaacorn and anyone unfortunate enough to stand in the line of fire

[emerald--antssss]

don’t try me 💥💥💥

@summerroseart @head---ache @somemismatchedsocks @whitecatindisguise @qwiopty @nortedwayfinder @nariyahcore

get snowballed

[summerroseart]

Aughe!! So many snowballs going by, tumblr keeps crashing

Uhmm

@niyana-the-ambiguous-mobian @lucidheart3 @aishutoon @supersonicslacker @i-am-a-cloud-44 @rosestthorns @oddogoblino or whoever wants to participate!

[oddogoblino]

OH MAH GAWH IZ CHAOS AND CALAMITY and I got tagged from someone i didnt expect to be oh joyous ehe...

Uh uh uhhh- SNEAK ATTACK!!

@xsugarxglass @limeybee @astrofhobia (you gotta get Husky) @ihearnocomplaints and anyone else because my object permance is really bad i cant remember help 😭 all my moots tho... after you

[xsugarxglass]

@vxncevis @maggotfurby @phasingthroughlife @cryingintheclubdhmu @ask-bad-habit

[vxncevis]

AYYY MAN

@phasingthroughlife @xsugarxglass @ptvtism

@cryingintheclubdhmu @vespariaa

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

#dodged

@pinknaijia @nymph-ette111 @wwwrottendotcom

[nymph-ette111]

HEY

@acecardexe @acexsmhking @weeping-willows-worms @silver-eyes-and-bloody-hands @bambucat

[weeping-willows-worms]

THE FUCK

@azzymakesbread @just-a-girl-who-loves-tmr @fosilizd @tbiggestman @tlockish @newtsbambi @theamberparadise

[tlockish]

OW!! WHAT WAS THAT FOR??

TASTE SNOW IDIOT!!

@ultimategazer @grasslandgirl @ultimatetattletale @pho-pho @d3ardaught3r @xxl1ly-1n-ch41n5xx @ellzsbananas

[ellzsbananas]

YO I THOUGHT WE AGREED NOT FOR THE FACE TOCS HOW COULD YOU

NAH NOW IM GONNA GET U

@my-little-universes @flew-like-a-moth-to-you-sunlight @musingsfromtheflowers @originalconstructtribute @clauloves5sosandgays

[musingsfromtheflowers]

OMG ELLIE AND WITHOUT WARNING TOO

better watch out babes i'm coming for you😈

@valeisaslut @cherrycokehair @wahterlemon @notlinearr @sapphicbae @vixenkii @kirammanss @poppycomplex @chaosgremlinnn @mischievous-darling @leemo-1

[notlinearr]

okay well thanks a lot for the tag now im in battle

@oddsandends-dirt-to-dust (char alr tagged her but im throwing one anyway) @andieprincessofpower @iceprincess333 @chaosgremlinnn @machetegirl109

[machetegirl109]

ouch!!! 🤕

[letmebeurbaby]

THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER ⋆｡:

ᯓ‎♪ click here to listen

⋆｡: synopsis ~ ellie doesn't even remember when things started to fall apart between her and dina, but two years after their divorce she still feels uneasy and out of place when jesse drags her out for a drink. but it all starts to fade away suddenly the second you enter that same bar and the first thing you do when your eyes land on hers is smiling like you know exactly how to ruin her.

⋆｡: word count ~ 9.7k

⋆｡: content warnings ~ older!ellie x reader, age-gap (ellie's 34, reader's 24), swearing, ellie's pov deep dive at the beginning, things start kinda sad and escalate pretty quickly, finally giving jesse the space he deserves in my fics, alcohol, reader is described as feminine presenting, dialogue packed and kinda unhinged, jackie's here too, SMUT, kinda subtop!ellie, kinda dombottom!reader, reader's a bit bratty, oral sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap-on sex (r!receiving), afab!reader, men and minors dni.

likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡

Ellie doesn’t remember when, exactly, the divorce stopped feeling like a bruise and started feeling like something more permanent. Not an ache, not a sting, not even a sharp, stabbing kind of pain. Just a dull, quiet fact that existed now. A contour of her life that couldn’t be erased, only traced over in thicker ink. Not a wound, not anymore. Just scar tissue.

The thing is — and she doesn’t say this out loud, not even to herself most of the time — is that she doesn’t really know how it all fell apart.

She and Dina had loved each other. That part wasn’t fake. Wasn’t some naive illusion. They had loved each other so much and for so long that when they finally got married — small ceremony, courthouse rings, Jesse crying harder than anyone else — it had felt inevitable. Like gravity. Like a promise they’d already made a hundred times over in the quiet way you live beside someone. Shared groceries. The dog. The coffee order memorized.

But it didn’t last. Not in the way they thought it would, just the way it feels like forever when you're inside it and like a slow leak when you're not. And it wasn’t messy, not really. No betrayal, no screaming fights, no plates shattered against walls. Just time. Just distance. Just two people who had outgrown the skin they built together and didn’t know how to crawl back inside it.

They split on good terms. Kept the friends. Split the furniture. Dina got the dog.

And Ellie…

Well, Ellie just got numb.

It’s been two years, and the divorce papers are still on her desk.

Not because she doesn’t know where to put them — she could burn them, shred them, bury them under all the other documents that live in her bottom drawer with the dried-out pens and the unopened envelopes from the health insurance company. But there’s something about the way they sit there, like an old bruise she keeps pressing. Not to feel it. Just to make sure she still can.

Ellie isn’t sentimental. At least, she likes to think she’s not. But when she looks at those papers, still half-folded like she never bothered to flatten them properly, there’s a quiet kind of pull in her chest that she doesn’t know what to do with.

Sometimes she forgets they’re there. Sometimes she doesn’t.

Sometimes she wonders if it would've hurt less if they'd broken something. At least then she could point to the wreckage. Instead, it’s just this slow, quiet unraveling she keeps reliving in the small silences of her day. The dinner table with only one plate now. The old photos tucked in a shoebox under her bed. The way she still flinches when she hears a certain laugh in the street, before her brain catches up and reminds her it’s not her.

It’s been two years and that’s also what Jesse tells her every time he calls her, which is often. That’s enough time, he says.  Enough time to feel sorry for yourself, enough time to sleep on the couch, to ignore your sketchbook, to stop trying. Enough time to stew in your own shit and rot like a leftover left too long in the fridge. His words, not hers. 

Ellie always rolls her eyes when he says that. Says she’s fine. Says she likes her own company. Says she’s just working a lot lately — which isn’t even a lie, not really. It’s the only thing that’s actually giving her a sense of normalcy.

And Jesse always sighs. Tells her to “get out of the fucking house”. To meet people. To stop acting like some grumpy old widower at thirty-five.

“I’m not thirty-five yet,” she’d muttered the last time, and Jesse had snorted on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, well. You sound like you’re seventy.”

Ellie had hung up after that.

Her apartment still looks like it’s waiting for someone else to move in. Blank walls. Blank bedsheets. Half of everything missing. Clean, but not neat. Lived-in in the way that says someone spends a lot of time there without really living in it. There’s a half-empty mug of cold coffee on the windowsill, two mismatched socks discarded near the couch, the blanket crumpled in a heap where she must’ve kicked it off in the middle of the night. Her desk is a mess of charcoal pencils, a sketchbook left open, eraser shavings, unopened mail.

Her ashtray’s full. So’s her head.

The record player crackles just enough to make the silence sound lived-in. She’s got some sad old Bob Dylan song on, something about broken hearts and empty highways, the vinyl slow and warm in the way Ellie used to find comforting. Now it just fills the air enough that her thoughts don’t echo too loud.

Outside, the sky’s the same gray it’s been for three days straight. That early winter kind of gray — heavy and slow and vaguely metallic, like the light itself is tired of showing up.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie sleeves stretched over her palms, her hair which she cut recently sticking in all the wrong directions. There’s graphite on her fingers anyway. She tried sketching earlier. Something. Someone. The frustration, the lack of finish is still all in the lines, in the way the paper right next to her thigh curls at the edge where her hand lingered too long.

She looks like exactly what she is: a woman who hasn’t gone out in months and doesn’t know if she even remembers how to be seen.

And she’s tired.

Not in the way that sleep fixes. Not in the way a night out could shake off. No. Ellie’s tired in her bones, in her blood. In that deep, marrow-level way that only comes from loving something so much you thought it would carry you forever and finding out it didn’t even carry itself.

She’s halfway through thinking about maybe making a sandwich when her phone buzzes on the arm of the couch.

Jesse 🖕🏻:

You alive?

We’re going out tonight. no excuses

9pm, that bar on the 12th

Come on, man. It’s been two years. you’re divorced not dead

She stares at the screen for a full minute before her hand moves. She doesn’t know why he still hasn’t given up on making her go out. He’s always doing that. Always trying to soften himself, like he knows she needs the extra cushion.

Ellie:

I’m fine

Jesse 🖕🏻:

That’s not an answer

You’re coming

She exhales through her nose. It’s not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh either. She types:

Ellie:

Hard pass. already got plans with Mr Dylan and my empty apartment

Jesse🖕🏻:

You’re 34 not 80

And I’m not letting you rot in your sad little sweatpants cave anymore

Pick a decent shirt and meet me at 9

Ellie:

Why do you even care

Jesse 🖕🏻:

Because I love you

And because you used to be fun. Remember fun?

Emotional constipation, swore like a sailor kind of fun? Ring any bells?

Ellie groans. She lets the phone fall to her chest, rubbing at her eyes like it will change anything. She knows Jesse means well. He always does. But the truth is that she’s not sure she even remembers who she was before the marriage, before the slow dissolve, before she became this version of herself that flinches at kindness and shrinks away from light.

Still. It’s been two years.

Two whole years of saying no.

And for what?

More nights alone? More takeout containers in the trash, more lines half-drawn on pages she never finishes, more dreams that don’t have room to stretch?

She groans again, says “fuck it” out loud even though no one’s listening.

By 8:53, she’s standing in front of her closet trying to remember what counts as “decent” anymore.

The bar is tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat with flickering overhead lights, the kind of place people only find if they’re looking for it — low brick walls, string lights hung up with no pattern, and a chipped rainbow sticker on the front door that’s been there long enough to lose most of its color.

The first thing Ellie notices when she steps inside is that it hasn’t changed, not even a little.

Same too-dark lighting, same sticky floors, same chalkboard wall announcing “Drag Queen Karaoke Tonight – $5 shots if you sing Adele.” She used to come here all the time, back when she and Jesse thought weeknights were meant for drinking and mistakes. She hasn’t set foot inside since before the divorce and somehow the air still smells like sugar, tequila, and a blend of too many perfumes clinging to the velvet curtains that separate the booths from the dance floor. 

The place is busy, but not packed. Bodies clustered near the bar, more around the stage in the back where someone’s doing a sparkly rendition of Rolling in the Deep. Ellie keeps her hood up until she spots Jesse waving at her from a high-top table near the corner.

He looks smug. He always looks smug when she gives in.

“Took you long enough.” He grins, already halfway through a beer.

Ellie shrugs her jacket off and drapes it over the stool. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it absolutely is a thing,” he says, gesturing dramatically toward her drink waiting on the table. “You, leaving the house? Wearing real pants? Historic.”

She glances down at herself — black jeans, some old button down layered over a tee. Not exactly red carpet. “You said decent shirt. Didn’t say anything about joyfully participating.”

He means it with love, and she knows it, so she lets it slide, sits right next to him, takes a sip of the whiskey he had already ordered for her and lets it burn all the way down her throat as she sips on it.

They talk. Or rather Jesse talks, catching her up on work stuff, community center gossip, some mutual friend who got engaged and another who started a dumb wellness centre and moved to Arizona. She hums and nods in the right places but her mind’s not all the way there. It’s drifting, always halfway back to the apartment, to the half-finished drawings and the Bob Dylan record she forgot to flip over.

He catches her staring into her glass. “Alright, moody. On a scale from one to full-blown emo playlist, how much are you regretting coming here?”

She smirks a little. “Somewhere between The Smiths and early Bon Iver.”

“Oof,” he winces. “Okay. But are you at least glad to not be ghosting around in your depression cave tonight?”

Ellie doesn’t answer. Not because she doesn’t want to. But because the door opens behind Jesse, and for the first time in a long time, something pulls her attention outward.

You walk in like you know exactly what you're doing, arm hooked lazily with a girl who’s taller than you, sharper around the edges, the kind of friend who probably pulls you out of bed with threats and iced lattes. You’re wearing something that isn’t trying too hard but still manages to knock the wind out of Ellie’s lungs — a short black dress, silk or at least what resembles it — something that makes it clear you know how to dress to draw attention on you but without actually needing it. You’re all warmth and danger and a way of walking that says I’m fun and I know it and I will fucking end you if you waste my time.

And then — you smile.

Not at Jesse. Not at the bartender. At her.

Just one glance across the room, done like you know exactly what you’re doing, like you’ve already had the thought. Like you want her to know it.

Ellie blinks.

“Earth to Williams?” Jesse says, turning to follow her gaze. And then he sees you, too. “Oh.”

Ellie looks back down at her drink like it will save her. “Shut up.”

“Wasn’t saying anything.”

“You were thinking very loudly.” She mutters.

He’s grinning again. The kind of grin that’s about to start pushing buttons just for sport.

“She looked right at you, man.” Jesse sing-songs while nudging her shoulder with his.

Ellie swirls the ice in her glass. “It’s a bar. People look.”

“Yeah, but she smiled at you.”

Ellie shrugs, trying to look bored. “Maybe she thought I was someone else.”

“Uh-huh.” Jesse leans in, elbows on the table. “Or maybe, and hear me out, she thinks you’re hot and wants to ruin your life.”

She throws another quick glance your way. “She’s a baby.”

“Oh my god,” Jesse lets out a groan and leans back dramatically in his chair. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Push away anyone who might make you feel something before they can even try.”

Ellie scoffs. “You sound like my therapist.”

“You fired your therapist.”

“Exactly.”

Jesse points toward you with his chin. “She’s not that young.”

“Dude. She’s what, mid-twenties? I’m pushing thirty-five.”

“Oh no,” he says, mock gasping. “Alert the authorities.”

Ellie glares at him. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re scared.”

That lands a little too close to home, so she doesn’t answer.

Instead, she looks back at you. You’re at the bar now, laughing at something your friend said, chin tilted up just enough to make your throat visible in the dim light. You’ve got your back to the room, but it’s like you know she’s still watching, like you’re doing it on purpose.

She doesn’t know what it is, exactly. Maybe the curve of your mouth, the way you shift your weight onto one leg like you’re settling in to be admired. Perhaps it's the confidence, the casual danger of it. Like a girl who’s always been good at setting fires and only recently learned how to enjoy watching them burn.

And Ellie hates how hard she swallows.

Jesse, still watching her, smirks. “You keep looking.”

“I’m just…” Ellie’s voice falters. “Wondering what her deal is.”

“Uh-huh.”

She shoots him a look. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying.”

“No, you’re implying.”

“Wouldn’t have to imply if you’d just—”

“Not interested.” she cuts him off.

He laughs. “Jesus. You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

Ellie opens her mouth to argue, but then — you turn.

Full body. Drink in hand. Eyes scanning the room again until they land, unmistakably, right back on her.

And this time?

You hold the stare.

Not too long, but just long enough to say I see you. Just long enough to let her feel it: the heat, the question, the quiet dare of it.

Then, you raise your glass.

Not a toast. Not a “hey”.

Just a gesture. Like you’re already writing the next move, like you’re waiting to see if she’ll follow.

And Ellie?

She forgets to breathe.

You’ve been to that same bar more times than you can count.

It’s not fancy, not even particularly good if you’re being honest with yourself. The drinks are always a little too sweet, the floor’s permanently sticky, and the karaoke setup in the back makes you want to claw your own ears off by the end of the night. But it’s your place. Familiar in that low-effort, shoulder-loosening kind of way. A queer space that doesn’t try to be cool: no lines, no pretending. Just girls with chipped nail polish, bartenders who know your order, and a rotating cast of half-decent drag queens who sometimes perform and sometimes just vibe.

You and Jackie come here almost every weekend.

Mostly to drink. Occasionally to dance. Sometimes to flirt, but never to fall in love.

You learned that lesson early. You keep things light now, fun. You wear the right dresses and the right perfume and you never check your phone when you’re drunk. You know your angles, know how to walk into a room and own it without even trying too hard — just enough sway to your hips, just enough skin, just enough of a smirk when someone looks too long. It’s not arrogance, it’s just math.

You’re hot, and you know it. Dangerous, and you know that too.

Tonight’s no different.

You’re in black, as usual — a mini dress with a lacy scoop neck and thin straps that are there only to draw attention towards the slope of your shoulders; hem high enough to make people stare and not high enough to get kicked out; boots that make your legs look long and your steps sound confident; hair down; lips shimmery red.

Jackie had catcalled you when you stepped out of your apartment, the kind of whistle that made a man on the street turn around before she yelled “get lost asshole, my heels are longer than your dick!”

Now you’re strutting into the bar like you always do, her arm looped through yours, the two of you moving like a unit just like it has always been since the moment she approached you in kindergarten.

“Five bucks says Gemma’s singing Adele again.” Jackie mutters as you walk past the stage.

“She’s been through a breakup.” You say, amused.

“She’s been through three this year.” she deadpans.

“Maybe she just likes the drama.”

Jackie snorts. “Yeah, well, if she sings Someone Like You again I’m dragging you outside for a smoke and pretend I don’t know you so we can get laid.”

You laugh as you reach the bar, hopping up onto a stool while Jackie flags down the bartender. 

You glance around the room out of habit, scanning the crowd — same old regulars, a few fresh faces, couples already too handsy in the corner booths. It’s still early, so the lighting hasn’t turned full red yet. Everything’s in that hazy golden state — dim enough to feel sexy, bright enough to spot the mistakes before you make them.

That’s when Jackie nudges your arm.

“Don’t look now.” She says, low and fast.

Naturally, you do look. A slow turn, just your eyes, and your gaze skims past the stage, over the bar, and lands — right on the woman sitting at a high-top in the back corner.

And oh.

Oh, fuck.

You don’t usually get flustered. You like attention, crave it even, but the second your eyes land on her, something shifts in your stomach. Like gravity remembering how to tug.

She’s definitely older, early thirties, maybe more. Gorgeous in that brooding, I’ve-seen-some-shit kind of way. She’s dressed simply — jeans, shirt, jacket slung over the chair like she didn’t even try, but her presence is loud: shoulders tense, jaw sharp, a tattoo peeking out from one forearm, hooded eyes that flick up toward you like she’s trying not to stare but failing miserably.

And yeah, she’s staring.

The kind of stare that makes your skin feel warmer, the kind that makes your dress feel shorter, that makes your pulse trip over itself for no good reason other than the loud thought in your head screaming holy shit at you.

Jackie whistles low under her breath. “Told you.”

You keep your gaze fixed on the woman, smile slowly tugging at your mouth.

“She looks like trouble.” You murmur, half to yourself.

Jackie snorts. “She looks like she only comes out at night and listens to sad lesbian records in a dark apartment with a single lamp on.”

You grin. “My type, basically.”

“She’s undressing you with her eyes.”

“Let her.”

“She’s also, like… definitely older.”

You shrug. “So am I.”

Jackie gives you a look. “You’re twenty-four.”

“Exactly. Mature.”

“She probably pays taxes on time.”

You sigh, delighted. “God, I hope so.”

Jackie laughs, leans in closer. “You gonna go talk to her?”

You don’t answer at first. Just keep watching.

Because now that you’re looking — really looking — you can see it.

The way she’s trying to look away and failing. The way her fingers tap restlessly on the glass in front of her. The guy next to her is talking, clearly trying to get her attention, but her eyes keep coming back to you.

She does it in a way that makes her look like she’s annoyed by it. Like she doesn’t want to want to look. And somehow that makes it even hotter.

There’s a kind of tension there you don’t usually get. Not with the girls who flirt back too easily. Not with the ones who are already halfway out of their dresses before you get your second drink.

No. This one’s different. This one’s thinking about it. This one’s imagining it already and hating herself for it.

And that’s when the power shifts, that tiny flicker behind her gaze, the exact moment she realizes she’s not hiding it very well. Her shoulders square, her mouth tightens. She looks like she’s about to stand up or bolt or do something dramatic.

You decide to spare her the decision.

You raise your glass.

Just a tilt. A tiny smile. Nothing aggressive. Just enough to say I see you.

She doesn’t smile back. But her eyes flare — wide, dark, like someone just struck a match inside her ribcage.

And that’s when you know.

She’s fucked. Because now you’re setting your drink down, slow and deliberate, like you’ve just made a decision you’re not taking back.

Jackie watches you with one brow raised, the curve of her mouth already spelling trouble. “Don’t tell me—”

“I’m going.”

She blinks. “You’re serious?”

You’re already slipping off the barstool, smoothing the hem of your dress down with a sweep of your palm that’s more muscle memory than modesty. “Deadly.”

Jackie cackles behind you as you walk away — something loud and obscene that makes the couple next to her turn. You don’t care. You’re already crossing the floor, hips swaying just enough, footsteps steady and sure like you’ve been doing this your whole life, like seduction’s just another language you’re fluent in.

You don’t need to rehearse your opening line. You don’t even need one to be fair.

And Ellie sees you coming.

She tries not to — she tries so hard — but the second you start making your way over, something shifts in her posture: her fingers go still on her glass, her spine straightens, her mouth presses into a line like she’s prepping herself for impact. And she knows that and knows Jesse is smirking at her from the rim of his beer bottle.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, clearly amused. “She’s coming over.”

“I swear to God—” Ellie mutters back, glaring at him.

“I’m just saying. If you start sweating the reason is walking towards you.”

“I—“ she starts, but it’s too late.

You’re already at the edge of their table, one hand resting casually on the back of the empty stool beside her, chin tilted just so, a slow smile tugging at your mouth like you’ve got all the time in the world and no intention of playing fair.

 And just like that, it’s too late to pretend she doesn’t see you.

“You always stare like that or is tonight special?” you say, voice smooth, warm, unbothered.

Jesse lets out a muffled “oof” behind his beer.

Ellie looks up at you like she’s trying not to — like she’s still hoping maybe you’ll change your mind and walk away before she does something stupid. But when her eyes meet yours, there’s a split second — a flicker — where she forgets how to pretend.

You see it. That shift. That inhale. That little fracture in her poker face.

But it’s gone again just as quickly as it surfaced.

Her eyes narrow just slightly. “I wasn’t staring.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Oh. Sorry. So you just look angry and sexy for fun?”

Jesse actually wheezes a “Jesus Christ” under his breath, but has the decency to slide off his stool and clap Ellie on the back as he gets up.

“I’m gonna go grab another beer,” he says, obviously trying not to grin. “You kids play nice.”

She shoots him a death glare, then looks back at you, eyes narrowing all over again. “Do you flirt with everyone who looks emotionally repressed in this bar, or am I just lucky?”

You laugh — not giggle, not chuckle. Laugh. Full-bodied, gorgeous. Like you know you’re pushing her buttons and loving every second of it.

And then you’e taking his seat

You don’t ask — just slide in with the kind of ease that says you belong there, like you’re not just crashing her bubble, you’re replacing the air inside it.  And Ellie up close? She’s even better — sharp jaw, a scar cutting through her eyebrow, the design of her tattoo now clearer, and those tired green eyes that make her look like she’s seen more than she’ll ever say. She smells like smoke and leather and something distinctly hers. She feels like a dare, like she’s trying to see if you’ll flinch.

You won’t. 

“I only flirt with the ones who can’t stop staring at my legs.” You say, matter of fact, crossing one over the other just to prove your point and making the hem of your dress shifts. Ellie’s eyes drop for half a second too long before she catches herself.

She watches you with wary eyes, hand still curled around her drink like it’s the only thing tethering her to her own self-control.

“Should I be flattered?” she asks after a beat, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before she catches herself and looks away. “Or just concerned you make a habit out of harassing older women at bars?”

You grin. “You’re not old.”

“I’m thirty-four.”

You tilt your head. “Think I can't handle it?”

She scoffs. “You’re, what, twelve?”

You fake a gasp. “Wow. That’s rude. I’m twenty-four, thank you very much.”

“That’s basically twelve.” She mutters, but it’s half under her breath, and her mouth twitches when she says it like she’s trying not to smile.

You lean your chin on your hand, elbow on the table, eyes still fixed on hers. “You always deflect this hard, or is it just when a pretty girl makes you nervous?”

Her jaw tightens.

You can see it, the effort, the sheer physical strain of trying not to let you under her skin. But it’s too late. You’re already there, because her pupils are blown, her posture taut in that ready to bolt but frozen in place kind of way, and god, she’s still trying to hide it, still trying to look bored.

But bored people don’t stare like that

So you smile, all teeth now. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

She snorts. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“You're right. I bite very well,” you say sweetly,

That earns you a real laugh — brief, barely there, but genuine. And when it fades, something softer takes its place. She glances down at her drink, fingers tracing the rim like she’s trying to ground herself in something physical.

You let the silence stretch, just for a second. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just… charged.

“Look, I’m divorced, still tryna get out of it,” she says eventually, voice lower now. More real. “I’m not looking for anything,”

You nod. “Cool.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She finally looks up at you again and something in her expression has shifted. Less resistance now, more curiosity. Like she’s still not sure what game you’re playing but she’s starting to suspect she might want to lose it.

“You always like this?” she asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Confident?”

“Relentless.”

You smile. “Only when someone stares at me for ten minutes and then pretends they didn’t.”

Her face does something at that. A twitch, a breath. A glitch in her system that gives her away entirely.

You lean forward slightly, enough that Ellie feels the heat of your thigh through her jeans.

“Look,” you say, voice lower now, smoother, the performance giving way to something a little more real. “If you’re not interested, that’s totally fine. I’ll go finish my drink, let you get back to whatever brooding you were doing before I walked in.”

Ellie doesn’t move.

“But if you are interested,” you continue, now close enough that your breath kisses her jaw. “Maybe we cut the age-gap self-loathing bullshit and just… see what happens.”

Ellie’s heart is hammering.

Her brain is saying don’t do this, but her body? It’s already betraying her.

She glances at you again — confident, patient, clearly enjoying this little game, but not pushing.

Not begging.

Just waiting.

And god help her, she wants to say something cool. Something unaffected. Something that keeps the last two years of walls from cracking right open.

But all she manages is:

“…What’s your name?”

You smile like she just handed you the keys to her apartment and tell it to her.

Ellie nods, like it matters. Like her mouth isn’t dry and her palms aren’t sweating and her knees aren’t seconds from giving out under the weight of how badly she wants to touch you.

“…Ellie.” she says back.

You grin again and she hates how much she wants to kiss you for it.

“Okay,” she says, repeating your name in a way that sounds sarcastic, trying for cool, but it comes out hoarse instead. “What exactly do you think’s gonna happen here?”

You shrug, unbothered. “I think I’m gonna sit here a little longer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I think,” you add, letting your fingers just barely trail against her arm, featherlight and dangerous. “You’re gonna keep pretending you don’t want me to.”

Ellie swears just under her breath.

You laugh again, softer this time, and it lingers in the space between you like smoke.

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” Ellie says after a beat, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to collect whatever’s left of her composure. “I’m not… good at this. Flirting. Whatever this is.”

You tilt your head. “Are you good at other things?”

Ellie blinks. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re blushing.” You muse.

“I am not.” She mumbles.

“You absolutely are.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You nudge your knee against hers. “Ellie.”

She meets your eyes.

“Come home with me.”

The words hang there — no pressure, no desperation. Just that same quiet confidence you walked in with. Like you already know how this night ends, and you’re just giving her the option to join you in it.

Ellie stares at you, at the shimmer of your lips, the sharpness of your smile, the heat in your eyes that could melt steel.

She’s always been good at holding back.

It’s never been about virtue, or restraint, not even dignity. Nothing poetic like that. She just learned over time that nothing good ever came from wanting too much. That needing someone was a risk and allowing them in was a bigger one. And when it all crumbled under the weight of its own impossibility, she’d rather be the one left standing with her hands in her pockets than the one crying on the floor.

So she got used to waiting, to walking away, letting things pass. To ignoring her own hunger and calling it maturity, healing even. She called it space and “just not being ready.”

But now you’re sitting next to her, warm and wild and wicked in that too-short dress, and all she can think about is how long it’s been since someone looked at her like they wanted her — not just politely, not just in passing, but with intent. With precision. Like they’ve already imagined what she’d sound like moaning their name and are wondering how long it’ll take to make her do it.

You, who smile like you already know how this will end and aren’t in a rush, because you’re the one choosing when it begins.

And that’s the difference, Ellie thinks, in the space between her thigh and yours. That’s what makes this so impossible to shake.

You don’t give a damn about the version of her from too many years ago — the bright-eyed, soft-tongued, newly-married girl who thought forever was something you could build with a single wedding band. Not the version who packed up her guilt into boxes and left it in a one-bedroom apartment with nothing but a mattress and a cracked record collection. Not the one who stopped drawing. Not the one who never cried. Not the one who decided silence was safer than grief.

You don't even know that version of her. You just want her. Now. For some reason she can’t understand.

And just like that — for that same reason — she forgets how to say no.

So when you ask again — voice low, eyes unreadable — “So? Your place or mine?” — Ellie finally lets herself breathe.

And she says it, not loud, not confident. Just… honest. “…my place.”

Your smile sharpens. “Yeah?”

She swallows once, hard. “Yeah.”

You don’t ask why. You don’t even tease her for it. You just slide off the stool in one smooth motion like you already know she's following and toss a quick wink to Jackie on the other side of the room, like you've won. Maybe you did.

Ellie stands too. Doesn’t look for Jesse, doesn’t say goodbye. Just grabs her jacket and follows you out into the street, heart pounding in a rhythm she hasn’t heard in a very long time.

The walk to her apartment is quiet.

Not awkward, not hesitant. Just thick with something else: anticipation, heat. That kind of held breath before the drop, before the kiss, before the first sharp inhale when the rest of the world slips away.

You walk beside her like you’ve known her longer than an hour. Your steps are sure and there’s a faint smile that hasn’t left your mouth since you got out of the bar.

Ellie can feel the buzz in her skin, in her fingertips. In the space between her shoulder and yours. She wants to say something — anything — but her brain’s too full of static, your perfume, and the image in her brain of your fingers curled around her belt loops as you pull her in.

And underneath all of it — under the noise, under the chaos, under the tension — is one singular thought she can’t shake: it’s been so long.

So long since she’s felt like this: since her breath hitched at the thought of someone’s mouth, since she cared what her body looked like under a stranger’s gaze, since she wanted like this — full, hungry, total.

It’s terrifying.

And maybe that’s why she wants it so bad.

When you finally get there, her place is exactly what you probably expected.

Dimly lit, minimal, lived-in but not messy. One lamp in the corner. A sketchbook open on her desk with nothing finished inside. A record still spinning, even though the song ended hours ago.

You step in first, eyes sweeping the space like you’re cataloguing the details. Ellie shuts the door behind you with a soft click, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are now. How alone. How quiet it is.

The silence is almost loud.

You walk slowly into the living room, turning halfway to face her, hand still holding your purse.

“You gonna kiss me,” you ask, voice softer now. “Or am I gonna have to beg?”

Ellie blinks.

You’re still smiling. Still calm. But there’s something new in your eyes — not uncertainty, not hesitation. Just… realness. Something grounded. Something sincere.

She steps forward.

One pace. Then another.

And then her hand is in your hair and your mouth is on hers.

The kiss is slow at first, meant to be soft, measured, cautious. A way to test the waters, to give herself an exit if it gets too real too fast. And she always starts slow, always stays in control. She’s good at that, it’s her thing.

But the second your lips part under hers, the second your tongue brushes hers and you kiss her like you’ve done her before — familiar and curious all at once, not rushing, not pushing, like she’s something worth studying — Ellie breaks.

Because this is what it’s like to be wanted. This is what she forgot. This is what she almost convinced herself she didn’t need anymore. This is the kind of kiss that rewires something. The kind that makes you press closer just to make sure the other person’s real.

It stops being gentle and slow and becomes just heat, roaring up her spine, all at once, like her body suddenly remembers what her mind’s spent two years trying to forget.

Desire. Real desire, that throat-tight, gut-low, soul-starving kind of want that has you both kicking shoes off and shrugging jackets off like they're on the way of something neither of you can explain and has you chase the other's lips like they're oxygen.

And just like that, Ellie loses the plot.

She groans — low, feral, almost embarrassed by how loud it comes out — and the next thing she knows, her hands are under your thighs, scooping you up like you weigh nothing, like she’s been waiting to carry you like this her entire life. And you gasp — delighted, surprised, laughing against her neck while you drop your bag on the floor.

“Damn,” you grin. “You always pick girls up like this?”

“Shut up.” Ellie mutters, already walking the two of you toward the bedroom. Her grip tightens just to hear you squeal.

You’re warm against her. Legs around her waist. Arms around her neck. Breath against her collarbone. Her whole body’s lit up like she’s been wired wrong and you’re the one thing rearranging her.

She doesn’t say a word when she kicks the door open. Just walks straight in, drops you on the bed, and stares.

You land with a bounce, laughing softly, hair messy now, lipstick smudged, your dress riding up your thighs — and you don’t bother adjusting it. You just look up at her with that same smirk like you already know what she’s thinking.

Ellie runs a hand down her face. Her voice is rough when it comes. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

You tilt your head. “So dramatic. We haven’t even started.”

And then you stretch, letting your arms fall above your head, back arching just a little, hips tilting in a way that's inviting, flaunting, knowing. You’re in complete control and you know what it’s doing to her.

Ellie makes a sound somewhere deep in her throat, guttural and raw, like it got dragged out of her against her will.

And then she’s on you, looming over with both her hands braced on either side of your head.

Her mouth is on yours again — messier this time, open and hot and desperate — one of her hands gripping your waist, sliding up your dress, tugging the hem higher and higher until she takes it off your body, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. She's fast on bringing her hands on your skin again, sliding them down until her fingers catch the waistband of your panties and pull.

You gasp, then grin against her mouth. “Didn’t even take you out to dinner first.”

“You’re so annoying.” She mutters, voice tight.

You hum, breathless. “And yet your fingers are in my panties.”

“I told you to shut up.”

“Make me.”

That does it.

She moves fast.

Shifts down your body, hands dragging your panties off in one quick tug, letting them fall to the floor like they offended her, and you laugh again until she spreads your thighs and looks at you like she might never recover.

“Oh, fuck me.” She breathes.

You’re already wet. Of course you are. You’ve been wet since the bar, since that first glance, since the second she looked away like she couldn’t handle what you were doing to her. But now — spread open, glistening under the soft glow of her lamp, legs bent just enough to show her everything — she goes silent.

Not from hesitation. From awe.

She sinks to her knees, exhales slow over your cunt, eyes half-lidded while she whispers almost to herself, “God. It’s been so fucking long.”

You reach down lazily, brush your fingers through her hair, tug just enough to get her attention. “I'm not gonna come on my own, y'know.”

The look she gives you then is like you’ve awoken something. Something old. Something deep. Something hungry.

“I forgot what a little brat looks like spread open,” she mutters. “Thanks for the reminder.”

And then her mouth is on you.

Hot. Slow. Desperate. Reverent.

It’s not perfect — not at first. She’s out of practice, tongue tentative in its rhythm, fingers unsure of their pressure, like she’s relearning the geography of someone else’s pleasure. But she becomes bold fast, memory kicking in as soon as she hears your breathing hitch.

You moan as her mouth seals around your clit, slow pressure building with every suck, every kiss, every little “fuck” whispered into your skin like a prayer. One hand holds your thigh down, the other slides up, up,  and then in — two fingers slipping in so slow, so deep, that your breath stutters in your throat.

She moans when she feels how tight you clench around them.

“Christ,” she mutters, voice slurred with spit. “You’re fucking soaking.”

You whimper — actually whimper — at the sound of her voice that low and raw and wrecked between your thighs.

She works her fingers in a rhythm that’s filthy, slow and thick and dragging along your walls like she’s trying to memorize the way you feel. Her tongue doesn’t stop — drawing circles, lazy and deliberate, lapping up everything she’s pulling from you, like she can’t believe you’re real.

“You’re good at that.” You manage to gasp, barely coherent.

Her brow furrows against your cunt. “Don’t fucking patronize me.”

You laugh breathlessly, hips starting to buck. “Not my fault you’re rusty, old lady.”

Her teeth graze your clit and you shout. “Say that again.” She growls.

She shoves her fingers deeper — just the right curl, just the right pressure — and her mouth goes feral.

Your moans get higher, messier, less controlled. Your thighs try to close and she pushes them wider with her elbows. She doesn’t stop. Not when you gasp, not when you writhe. Not even when you pull her hair so hard her neck jerks. She takes it. She lives in it.

The rhythm gets faster. Her fingers move harder. Her mouth never fucking stops. You’re close. So close. You’re half-cursing, half-praising, hips grinding against her face like you’re trying to keep her going forever.

“Fuck, Ellie— fuck, I’m—”

She groans like she’s about to come from the sound of it and you—

You crash. Hard.

Your body jerks, voice catching in your throat, thighs trembling around her shoulders as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train. You cry out — loud, wrecked, beautiful — and Ellie doesn’t stop. She keeps going, licking and worshipping until you twitch and shudder and push at her head because it’s too much.

She finally pulls away, chin wet, eyes wild, breathing like she just ran a mile.  And when you finally open your eyes again, she’s staring at you like you’re divine.

She’s is still catching her breath when you finally stop trembling beneath her mouth, your body soft and spent and humming in that loose, boneless way that comes after being undone properly, her fingers still slick and shining as she drags them slowly from between your thighs like she’s reluctant to part from the proof of what she just did to you.

She doesn’t look away from you when she straightens, eyes dark and blown and a little wild, like she’s still half-lost in the sound you made when you came apart, like your voice is echoing somewhere inside her chest and she doesn’t want it to stop.

“Again?” she asks just above a whisper, rougher now, confidence settling back into her bones as something familiar and grounding, something she remembers how to wear.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you prop yourself up on your elbows, lazy and smug and still glowing, your mouth curled into that infuriating little smile that’s been ruining her night from the moment you walked into the bar, your eyes dragging over her face, her shoulders, the way her shirt clings to her chest from the way she’s breathing.

“You sure?” you ask softly, like you’re admiring a piece of art you're done with yet. “You look wrecked.”

Ellie scoffs, but there’s no heat in it, just something low and fond and dangerous all at once. “You don’t get to say that after I made you come.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” you reply, voice sweet and sharp at the same time, legs still parted, utterly unashamed of the way you’re laid open for her. “You’re the one shaking.”

She becomes acutely aware of her hands then, flexing once at her sides like she don’t quite know what to do with them anymore, of the way her pulse is still pounding low and heavy in her gut, of how her jeans suddenly feel too tight, too restrictive, like they’re in the way of something inevitable.

So she steps back from the bed slowly, deliberately trying to get some control back while her eyes never leave you as she discards her button down. And when she reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it up over her head together with her sports bra, you don’t even try to hide the way your gaze lingers.

You stare.

Openly and unapologetically so. Like the sight of her bare skin has knocked the air clean out of your lungs.

Ellie tosses the clothes aside, fingers already working at the button of her jeans, the sound loud in the quiet room, every movement unhurried, practiced, like suddenly she knows exactly what she’s doing to you by giving you time to look.

She doesn’t turn around when she steps out of her jeans, doesn’t bother covering herself when she reaches back and pushes them away with her foot, leaving herself bare except for her boxer briefs, muscles tense and defined in the low light.

When she finally glances back at you, she catches you staring at her tits like you’ve forgotten how to blink.

Her mouth twitches. “Like what you see?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

You hum thoughtfully, dragging your gaze back up to meet hers, your smile slow and devastating. “I think I’m gonna have fun with you.”

Something sharp and pleased flashes through her chest at that, a thrill that feels a little like pride and a little too much like relief. She turns toward the dresser without another word, reaching for the top drawer like muscle memory.

You watch her every move: the way her shoulders roll when she bends, the way her back flexes, the faint lines of old scars you catalog without thinking, because you’re already learning her body in the way people do when they intend to remember it. Even if you don’t want to, even if you know you shouldn’t.

Then she pulls the strap free.

Black, thick. Familiar weight. There’s no hesitation in the way she holds it, no embarrassment, just that same grounded confidence sliding back into place like she’s finally standing on solid ground again.

You suck in a breath. “Oh,” you say softly, eyes lighting up, grin turning wicked. “So that’s why you picked your place.”

Ellie smirks, glancing over her shoulder as she steps into the harness, adjusting it with practiced ease, her fingers sure, almost bold.

“What? You don't want it?” she asks, voice calm, low, in control again.

“I do,” you reply, settling back against the pillows like you’re about to enjoy a show. “I'm just.. impressed.”

She steps toward you then, stopping at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with that look again, the one that makes your stomach tighten and your thighs shift without you even meaning to, her hand closing around the base of the toy like she’s grounding herself.

“Turn over.” She says, firm and sure.

You laugh.

Not nervous, not unsure. Just delighted.

“Oh, hell no.” You reply, sitting up in one smooth motion.

Before she can react, you reach out, your fingers hooking into the harness at her hips and pulling her toward you with a strength that surprises her just enough to make her suppress a gasp.

Ellie stumbles forward a half-step, hands coming out instinctively to brace herself on the bed on either side of you, her eyes flashing with something startled and unmistakably affected as you wrap your legs at her hips and flip her in one fluid, confident movement.

You straddle her slowly, deliberately.

Your hands settle on her chest, warm and steady, thumbs brushing over her nipples just enough to make her suck in a sharp breath she definitely hadn’t planned on letting you hear.

“You don’t get to put me where you want me yet.” You murmur, leaning down until your mouths are almost touching, your breath warm against her lips, your hips rolling just enough for her to feel the weight of you, the promise of friction.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.” She mutters.

You smile, slow and sharp. “I know.”

You pull back again, fingers sliding down her chest, teasing and exploratory, squeezing just to make her groan under her breath, and then you lift yourself just enough to guide with one hand the strap where you want it, lining it up with aching patience without giving her the satisfaction yet.

Ellie’s breathing is ragged, her thighs tensing beneath yours, every inch of her screaming for something she’s not allowed to have yet.

“Fuck,” she whispers, voice cracking just a little. “You’re killing me.”

You don't answer, just smirk while murmuring, “You gonna be good and let me ride it?”

She nods, fast, breath stuttering.

You click your tongue, sliding one hand slowly from her chest up to her jaw, holding it to make her look at you. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” she rasps. “Fuck, yes. Please—”

You hum, pleased, a breathless laugh escaping your lips right after. “Good.”

Only then you sink down, painfully slow.

You take it inch by inch with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips , moaning with your head falling back as the stretch builds, both your hands tightening on her chest again, nails scraping just enough to make her hiss, her hips jerking up instinctively before she forces herself to stay still, because she’s learned that lesson before.

Your body fits her like you’ve done this together a hundred times already, the angle perfect, the connection electric, the heat between you almost unbearable once you’re finally seated fully on her, your bodies flush, your breaths tangled.

It’s thick, deep. Perfect. The strap drags against you in all the ways you need — no friction lost, every movement sending sparks up your spine. You bottom out with a gasp, thighs already trembling again, body electric with tension and the aftershock still coursing in your body from earlier.

And Ellie? Ellie’s wrecked.

Her hands keep tightening, relaxing, tightening again on your hips like she’s trying to ground herself, like she doesn’t trust she’s still breathing right.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she pants. “You’re so— fuck, look at you.”

You do. You look down to where your cunt kisses the base of the strap and smirk.

You ride her slow at first — lazy, sensual, deep — dragging the strap all the way out and back in with every roll of your hips, your nails digging into her shoulders, her scalp, your moans raw and breathy with every movement.

Her eyes never leave you. Not once. They’re wide, dark, reverent in a way neither she does understand. Like she’s watching something holy. Like she still doesn’t believe it’s really happening.

You keep your pace just slow enough to make her ache, your rhythm calculated, hips rolling down in just the right way that your clit rubs on the base and your thighs keep clenching, chasing that high.

And when you lean down once more, your hands on her tits, your mouth trailing hot, open kisses down her throat, Ellie shudders hard enough to nearly come from nothing.

She whimpers. You smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice rough and sweet, breath hot on her skin. “Just like that. Let me fuck you.”

She moans — high, desperate, just the tiniest bit whiny — and she nods like she’s pleading, like she’d say yes to anything in this moment.

You don’t even realize how your rhythm is starting to get faster, how loud you are until your own moans start bouncing off the walls while your thrusts become messier, more frantic.

It’s not performative — nothing about this is. It’s raw. Guttural. All instinct, no filter, no control. Just the wet sounds of you moving up and down her strap, letting it disappear inside you again and again.

Ellie’s head hits the bed frame behind her, head tipped up, mouth open, chest heaving, her hands gripping your hips like she’s barely holding herself together. Her knuckles are white and her eyes keep flicking down to your tits bouncing in your bra, to your cunt taking every inch of her strap, to the mess you’re making all over her lap, slick and heat and need and everything she thought she couldn’t feel anymore.

“Fuck,” she gasps, voice breaking. “You’re doing so good.”

“You like it?” you breathe, your forehead pressed to hers.

Ellie nods too fast. “Yes— shit, don’t stop— don’t stop—”

You bite her neck. “Then make me come.”

Her hips jerk up into you before she can stop herself. It's reflex, need.

You cry out — loud, desperate — and she swears, dragging her mouth down your jaw, sucking a bruise into your neck as her hands slide up your back, anchoring you to her like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Ellie’s thighs are shaking beneath you, her abs flexing hard with every thrust up, every shift of your weight grinding the thick ridge of the harness against her own clit in perfect rhythm.

You don’t even mean to time it, but suddenly the rhythm clicks and something changes in her face, her breath catches, her eyes fly open and her head snaps back against the all.

And it's enough for you to know.

“Oh,” you whisper, breathless and amazed. “You’re gonna come.”

Ellie’s eyes flutter, her jaw clenches, her hands dig into your waist.

"Just— fuck— keep riding it, please, I’m—”

You slam down and her mouth drops open as your thighs lock around her hips.

The world fractures.

Everything crashes over you like a freight train: deep and hot and all-consuming, a full-body quake that rips through your spine and sets your nerves on fire. You cry out loudly, almost pained, grinding through it with your eyes squeezed shut, your nails digging into Ellie’s shoulders, your cunt clenching hard around the strap, pulsing with wave after wave after wave.

And Ellie?

Ellie shatters.

She doesn’t even mean to, she actually tries not to. But the second she feels you come, the second your moans pour into her neck, your body trembling in her lap — the strap base grinds just right against her clit and it breaks her.

She gasps — high and sharp and helpless as she comes. Just like that. Her hips jerk, her thighs tense, her hands clamp down and she moans into your skin like she’s being dragged under.

It hits her harder than she thought it would, faster. She hasn’t felt something like this in years — not with her own hands, not with anyone else, and especially not like this, not the kind that leaves her gasping, back arching, walls fluttering around nothing but against her harness and the gravity of you.

You’re still moving when she breaks, still rolling through the aftershocks, grinding and drawing out every last drop of your own pleasure as long as possible. Until finally — finally — your thighs give out and you collapse into her with a ragged cry.

The room is silent except for your breathing, your chest heaving against hers with both your bodies still trembling in each other's arms.

Her mouth is somewhere against your temple, open, panting, lips brushing your sweat-damp hair.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you can.

Until Ellie eventually exhales, murmuring, “…Jesus fucking Christ.”

You laugh, breathless, eventually swinging off her body with your legs still shaking. “Told you I could handle you.”

She groans — exhausted, ruined, completely wrecked. “Yeah, yeah.”

She watches you grin as you crawl to get your dress and panties off the floor, blinking slowly, trying to keep in check the way her heart is beating way too fast beneath her ribs.

"You leaving?" she asks low, almost like she's afraid of those words traveling past her lips.

You snort before glancing at her from over your shoulder. The answer clear in the way you raise one brow at her. “Didn't we say it was nothing serious?” You ask as you tug your dress down over your head. “I got what I wanted, so did you.”

There's a beat during which neither of you speaks, the only sound coming from the sharp breath Ellie takes in and the rustling of your clothes as you adjust them on your frame.

And Ellie's caught somewhere in between not knowing how to ask for someone to stay anymore and wondering whether this is how things go now — bars, one night stands and someone's touch she'll have to pretend it didn't feel like it belonged to her skin.

Because that's how you touched her the whole night.

And yet... you're leaving, walking through her bedroom door like you didn't just teach her that she could still be looked at as she's still worth being needed, like you don't even know what it feels to crave someone to hold onto but who will never choose her whole. Maybe just for one night, yes. Maybe just for enough time to pretend this meant something it didn't.

But then you stop, suddenly, right at the door and with your hand on the frame. You don't even know why your body stilled, breaking every single rule you've ever given yourself in nights like these and why you're tilting your head just enough to glance back at her one last time.

Yet, there is something that you don't understand — like a thread pulling toward her for a reason you can't quite name.

“But hey," you murmur. “If you wanna do this again... you know where to find me.”

Ellie straightens up just a little bit, sitting up with her back pressed against the pillows. She clears her throat, tries to look unbothered. Fails.

“Is this your way of tellin' me you wanna see me again?” She asks, more vulnerable than she probably intended it to be.

You don't answer, just laugh through your nose and pat the frame. “G'night, Ellie.”

You're gone just like that.

But maybe that hollow feeling that had been haunting her for so long has finally loosened. Because her bed is warm, because there's a scent in her bedsheets that isn't just hers anymore.

pictures from pinterest

perm taglist (check my masterlist post if you wanna be added!): @elliewmc @machetegirl109 @valeisaslut @imliterallyjustonegirl @iloveclairo2016 @rhian88 @mxchi-mxxn @sawaagyapong @angelz-void @chaosgremlinnn @mischievous-darling @archersbows

a/n: yes, i listened to older by isabel la rosa all the time writing this if you were wondering lmao. fun fact: this was supposed to be a whole ass series before strings attached rooted in my brain permanently and i think you can kinda see that in some sections. anyway, as always i really hope you enjoyed, lots of love <3

[machetegirl109]

i adopted some babies last night ♡

(first pic) (left) tarot and (right) haru 💖🙏🏻

[machetegirl109]

when my schedule gets too busy and i barely have time to read fanfics on tumblr ughhhh fuck my asssssss

[98oceans-deactivated20260215]

⠀⠀ do not lie about your age to get into adult spaces. do not, as a minor, go out of your way to seek adult content. you are not missing anything, you’re not being sneaky, or cool, or funny—you’re being damaging, not only to yourself but also to everyone else involved. mdni ( minors do not interact ) is not a display—people put that as a boundary, as a warning. heed it.

[kosmogrl]

[femmefatales]

[machetegirl109]

"as easy as riding a bike" well, idk how to ride one so..

[machetegirl109]

just a little message for my 🐁 nonnie, ily and your secret is safe with me - dead and buried 💖✨🐁

[machetegirl109]

be honest. if i do a face reveal will y'all gimme attention or leave me high and dry like a little loser

[machetegirl109]

let's get this fucking bread i guess...

[c3ruxi3-deactivated20260207]

Dealer!Ellie x Smoker!reader 🍃 PT 10.

🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿

Synopsis: You’ve got a crush on your best friend’s dealer. She knows you exist, and you’ve tried to shoot your shot multiple times but she keeps ignoring you. Will you stay persistent?

Tags: WeedDealer!Ellie x Smoker!reader, fem!reader, lesbian!ellie, sfw, smau, suggestive comments, suggestive language, drug usage mentioned

A/N: been busy 🥹….

🍃🌿🍃🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿

🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿🍃🌿

TAGS!: @ellies8fingies @kitwithsomecat @ar1-angel @pinkhoney5 @rhian88 @eclipcee8 @claralikesellie @kenziekart38-blog @liztreez @incog-nizo @angelynn-nicole @elliewilliamskisser2000 @lez-zuha @machetegirl109 @yvanill @crucifiedfem @elliesfavtoy @h2pinky @joyispunk @dollagangsta

[machetegirl109]

babe, can you support me? financially