a soft n smutty piece for fall coziness… <3 the changing seasons always make me feel melancholic and i feel like ellie would take care of r if she was the same :)
tw: depression, nsfw, 18+ only
the sun filters into your bedroom through the half-drawn curtains, a warm glow that paints everything golden. you stretch out under the covers, hand reaching for sunlight, palm open against the blankets as warmth envelops your fingers. numb with cold, you defrost.
even as your hand soaks in the warmth of the sun, guilt twists inside you, ice cold. your cell phone, somewhere out in the living room, has rung out three separate calls today, shrill and blaring in the silence of your apartment; you've melted too deep into the mattress to answer. the living room may as well be miles away.
she’s probably worried, you fret. what if she thinks i’m dead? i need to call her back.
but as much as you want to force yourself to leave the comfort of your duvet, the you-shaped crater in the bed, you can’t do it. you just can’t.
you’re not surprised when you hear the sounds of your girlfriend’s arrival, ellie’s key scraping the lock before she swings the door open. you’d given her your spare key months ago. she’d only used it on days like this.
you hear the rustle of plastic, the harried zips and thumps of ellie removing her boots at the front door. and then she’s appearing in your doorway, her face twisted with worry; brows drawn together, lips turned downward. she looks heartbroken.
“baby,” she says, voice tinged with a cocktail of equal parts relief and concern, “god, i thought you were—”
“dead?” you interject. your voice softens when you add, “i’m okay, el. i’m sorry i didn’t pick up the phone.”
“no, it’s okay, don’t worry.” she pads over the worn carpet, plastic bag crinkling at her side as she approaches you on the bed. “i brought breakfast.”
she holds up the bag for emphasis; you can see three to-go boxes inside. the smell of hash browns and scrambled eggs and pancakes wafts out towards you, and you hate the way it makes your mouth water. she knows breakfast is your favorite. you can hardly resist it, even this late in the day, as the sun sets outside your window.
“thank you.” you smile up at her. it’s forced—it doesn’t meet your eyes. she notices, because she always does.
“you don’t have to eat right now,” she clarifies. hazel eyes swoop over the bed, appraising the blankets splayed out over you in disarray, and she hesitates. you hold out your hand for her in encouragement. “come here, ellie.”
so she does. she sets the bag of breakfast food on the nightstand, then climbs over you with a clumsiness that seeps through her caution. you smile. genuinely. and then she’s kissing you, soft lips pressed to yours as her auburn locks tickle your cheeks. the kiss is gentle and languid, slow and soft and encouraging. she tastes like home, and you realize you’ve been aching for this feeling all day, body numb in the confines of your bedroom. you lose yourself in her kiss, sighing deep through your nose. her tongue is warm and wet against your lower lip; she works your mouth open and licks into you, sending heat rushing to your belly where it pools like molten gold.
you’ve found yourself in a haze lately: a fog so thick that it blurs out all feeling, leaving you spent in the silence of your apartment even after days of doing nothing. days of just thinking.
but ellie breaks through the fog as her hands cup your face, thumbs brushing soothingly over the apples of your cheeks. her tongue slides deliciously over yours and you moan without thinking. she freezes for just a moment. she draws back and you nearly whine, eyes barely opening to peer up into his.
“we don’t have to do anything,” she assures you as she leans forward to kiss the bridge of your nose. “not if you’re feeling down.”
your heart swells with affection for her: her disheveled hair, her soft gaze, her flushed lips swollen from kissing. her consideration for you. her love.
“but i want to,” you breathe. “i want it, ellie.”
so she disappears into the crook of your neck, the warmth of her mouth sending a shiver rocking through you as she presses kisses to your sensitive skin. each kiss gets more heated, her lips parting to suckle on the flesh right over your pulse. you moan and she pauses before murmuring against your throat, “are you sure?”
you nod almost frantically. “i’m sure, i’m sure.”
it doesn’t take long for her to undress you, which you’re grateful for. she works your shirt off and rolls your panties down your thighs, her hands smoothing back up over the supple skin.
on days like this, when you’re hardly afloat in the tidal wave of your melancholy, she tends to hold you with gentle wariness, as if you’d shatter if she moved too quickly. and you love it. the obvious adoration in her gentleness, in the need to take things slow.
but you decide you don’t want that today.
when her face is within reach again, you pull her in for a heated kiss. it quickly evolves into all tongue and spit and teeth, your lips smacking audibly as you trail your hands down her sides. you grip the soft cotton of her shirt and slowly pull it upwards, exposing inch by inch of pale, freckled skin, and when your fingers brush over her ribs, you feel the slow shudder that afflicts her. her body responding so instantly to your touch makes you dizzy with arousal; that pool of heat in your stomach grows ever-larger. it doesn’t help that she’s touching you too, the calloused pads of her fingers delicious against your skin. she grips and squeezes you in all the right places, drawing sharp breaths and high moans from your throat as her hands explore every inch of you.
suddenly, it’s hard to remember what came before this. the haze that had lingered over you for days. all you can think about is the feeling of ellie’s body against yours, her jeans scratchy as she rocks her hips down to yours. you hook your legs around her waist, bare cunt desperate for friction, even through a layer of denim.
you pull back from rushed, sloppy kisses to gasp at the sensation—you shamelessly rub yourself against her through her jeans, unable to find it in you to worry about the mess you’re making. ellie watches you in awe, your eyes half-lidded as your hips roll upward, your pretty lips parted in a delicate “o” shape.
“fuck it,” she rasps, and she’s lurching back to sit up on her heels, ripping her clothes off in a blur of fabric. her shirt falls off first, and then she works her way out of her jeans, so eager she stumbles a few times. you beam at her, eyes clouded with lust, and when she finds her way back between your legs, the feeling of her bare skin against yours has you gushing impossibly wetter. you find yourself in the same position as before, only now without the barrier of ellie’s clothes between you. you grind yourself up against her, twitching and gasping each time her pelvis glides over your clit; you can feel how wet you are, how messy you’re leaving her. and she can feel it, too, evident each time she moves her hips against yours and moans with her head tucked against your shoulder.
your impatience is a balloon that’s been filled and filled and filled, and it finally pops. you reach between your writhing bodies to ellie’s cunt; her teeth close around your shoulder when you give her clit a few slow strokes, fingertips pressing hard into the bundle of nerves. she soothes her bite with her tongue and then laughs under her breath, uttering lowly, “i’m sorry, fuck, just feels good.”
you hum in response, pausing to reach into the nightstand drawer, where you keep a harness and strap for situations like this. she draws in a shaky breath, turning her head to kiss your neck again, tongue circling your skin before she pulls back to slip into the harness. then she’s back on you, pulling you in for another heated kiss as she drags the tip of the strap through your folds and up to the bud of your clit. you’re soaked everywhere, and her cock feels so smooth as it glides effortlessly over you; you’re barely breathing.
ellie’s voice is in your ear, quiet but thick with lust. “let me eat you out first.”
and it sounds amazing, it really does. any other time, you’d relent, let her mouth at your cunt for hours until you’re so fucked-out you can’t think straight. but that’s not what you need right now.
“i need you inside me,” you tell her, voice low and sultry, almost unrecognizable from its usual timbre. ellie hears it, too, the husk in your tone making her grit her teeth with a low, gravelly moan. “shit, baby—can’t say no to that.”
she slides into you so easily, your cunt opening smoothly around her as she pushes in to the hilt. you both sigh in pleasure, you at the feeling of being so deliciously full, her at the satisfaction of watching your expression dissolve into pure bliss.
“so fuckin’ wet, goddamn,” ellie murmurs. she draws back only to fuck into you again, and you whine when she brushes up against the end of you. the spot that only she can find. that only spurs her on—she starts fucking you in earnest without much buildup, too pent up to be patient and slow and intentional. she knows what you want, you realize, flooded with arousal as her hips slam into yours. her strap drags perfectly through you, so deep you see stars behind fluttering eyelids.
“ellie,” you moan, brows pinched together, mouth hanging open.
she doesn’t slow down, skin smacking against skin as she fucks herself into you. “what do you need, baby? i’ll give it to you. i’ll give you anything.”
another moan tears out of your throat at her words, your arms moving up to snake around her neck and reel her in for another sloppy kiss. “more,” you gasp, your foreheads pressed together, slick with sweat. “more, please, more.”
ellie gives you one last, searing kiss, then pulls back to readjust. she stills inside you while she grabs hold of your legs, palms squeezing the doughy flesh of your thighs before she pushes them toward your chest. your knees are up by your shoulders like this, and you reach your hands around to support yourself, though your own touch can’t rival her. “good girl,” she praises when she notices what you’re doing, allowing your hands to replace her. she instead brings her attention to your hips, holding them still while she pulls almost all the way out and fucks back into you. and it’s rougher, now, more intentional. ellie moves faster, harder; you cry out a blissful oh my god, tears burning in your eyes from the sheer pleasure of it.
this is it—this is what you needed. and ellie gives it to you exactly how you want it, her body smacking against your ass and the backs of your thighs, her cock hitting that sweet spot within you so rhythmically that you find your brain is entirely empty. the ceaseless noise in your head has quieted, in its place is sheer pleasure.
your release sneaks up on you; you’re not thinking straight, overwhelmed with lust and the warmth it floods through your veins. you come suddenly but with so much force it nearly knocks the wind out of you. squirming and shaking under ellie’s towering form, your cunt spasms around the silicon cock and she groans out in delight.
spent, ellie lowers her weight on you, still careful not to crush you beneath her. you’re both catching your breath, but she can’t drive away the urge to kiss you. slower, this time. more loving.
“hey,” she says, “i love you.”
you smile against her lips, giving her another few pecks before you tell her, “i love you too.”
her arms are warm, lithe, and strong around you, holding you as close as she can. but when you start to wiggle underneath her, she groans in disapproval.
“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i just—i really wanna eat some pancakes.”
traveling with gf!ellie looks like you never having to carry your luggage, or any carry-on for that matter. gf!ellie who, despite this, will find some sort of way to hold your hand even if that means linking pinkies. gf!ellie who will reiterate that stupid pack with me to go to greece! tiktok audio every chance she gets. traveling with gf!ellie looks like shared entertainment, always. a movie becomes two across shared screens, insisting that the frames need to line up perfectly before the movie can start. her pulling a switch out of her backpack turns into fortnite duos. her music blasting in her headphones turn into a spotify jam (because yes, she will abuse that feature). traveling with gf!ellie looks like her having one of those snack boxes and her giving you a piece of everything she has. it can also look like her hand on your thigh at all prominent times, and when her arm starts to cramp up from remaining in that position for too long, she will (quite literally) pout when you tell her to move it. traveling with gf!ellie means that you do have to hold her hand when there’s turbulence, and she will have to lean on your shoulder when she feels tired, no exceptions. it’s just a part of traveling with gf!ellie.
‧₊˚ 🪦⋅𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ . ** MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS IS AN 18+ BLOGI DO NOT GIVE ANYBODY PERMISSION TO REUPLOAD OR PLAGARISE MY WORK. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING I'VE WRITTEN ANYWHERE ELSE OTHER THAN HERE OR MY A03, PLEASE LET ME KNOW VIA ASK **
₊˚ 𓂃 ₊ ˚ ✧ kinktober day nineteen: strap-ons, dubious consent and knife play
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : alternative universe - modern, ghostface!vi, dom!vi, dubious consent (reader is slightly drunk), haunted house and scare actors, knife play (reader rides the knife), strap use, bottom!reader, dom!reader, light coercion, rough sex, consensual non-consent
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 2,339k
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 : these are fucking headcanons. i repeat, headcanons. genuinely was supposed to be writing something short and it's the same length of my usual fics. anyway i was inspired by a scene from one of my fave books called lights out by navessa allen too [ read on ao3 ]
Scare Actor Vi who sees you around the park, shrieking with your friends as some of the free-roaming actors simply appear from behind you, the butcher sharpening his knives against each other making you and your friend jump into each other's arms and scurry away. You’ve got one of the orange bands on your wrist, neon enough that in the blacklight of the haunted house will still light it up for the actors to see. Your friends all wore similar ones, with varying colours of the traffic light system the company had implemented to let the actors know customers' comfort levels. With an orange band, you were letting them know that you could get scared easier than the one or two friends you have sporting green bands, but weren’t at risk of a panic attack or potential emergency situation like your friend in the red band currently trying to hold back tears after walking by the creepy doll currently following your group behind. Vi has to bite back her laughter behind her mask, just in case any customers notice her and hear the noise, because that creepy doll is her sister Powder — or Jinx as she’s been calling herself as the doll — and she seems to gleaming with delight at the reactions she’s getting from your group.
You wouldn’t say you were frightened by these things, after all if you were you simply wouldn’t have come. You prefer a slasher movie over a traditional horror, so the revving of a chainsaw simply brings a shriek of laughter past your lips instead of a scream but you still find yourself falling for the jumpscares, clutching your friends upon instinct before falling into a fit of giggles. Or, when one of your more easily frightened friends arms is the one you fall into, scurrying off out of the scare actors clutches. And, not that you’d admit it to any of your friends, secretly you found yourself getting turned on by the danger and fear these kind of movies and attractions created. It wasn’t uncommon, plenty of women had kinks for masked men and women, some books even dedicated to getting fucked by a masked killer or murderous creature (and you totally don’t have a kindle library full of books like this). It had seemed like a waste not to come when the attraction had popped up and announced they would be opening two weeks before Halloween and, with some convincing from your other friends, you’d bought a ticket. You’d scanned their website beforehand, comforted by the safety regulations and efforts their team went to so they could ensure customer comfort — but that didn’t stop you (and your friends) stopping by the make-shift bar to swallow down some liquid courage… Or three before finally making your way to the line for the main attraction: the murder house.
Two of your friends ditch the line before you’re even halfway through it, three don’t even line up for it — were already self aware at that point that they weren’t built for it — but by the time what remains of your group is at the front of the line, you’re partially regretting not ditching sooner. It’s not that you’re chicken, it’s that with the alcohol buzzing in your veins, your heart racing in anticipation and the recollection that this is literally designed for you to be chased like this is a life or death situation, you’re probably not in the position you would have been before the ‘liquid courage’. But still you listen as the guy gives you the explanation of what will happen, just in case you guys weren’t aware. A group goes in, a five minute headstart per group, chased around by multiple killers, picked off one-by-one, if somebody survives you get final girl or final boy sashes, or simply the last survivor if preferred. Actors are allowed to touch, grab to remove, etc but once ‘killed’ you are simply taken to one of the back tunnels and brought to the exit. Confirmation that no abuse, harm or injury will occur during the game. You suppose it’s something he’s contractually obligated to do, perhaps to ensure the company doesn’t get sued for not disclosing everything — now you’re wondering if anyone has ever sued one of these places… Your eyes wander off, unfocused as you imagine that case and how it may fare going to trial — only for your eyes to focus back in on one of the windows at the entrance of the murder house, to a cloaked figure with a ghostface mask staring blankly in your direction. Unconsciously you draw your bottom lip between your teeth, thighs shifting to relieve the ache that follows as your cunt starts to throb at the thought of getting fucked by the one behind the mask. You drop your gaze, trying to shake the thoughts out of your head (very much aware you’re surrounded by your friends) and focusing your attention back on the guy and nodding when you notice your friends doing so.
There’s a sense of unease over you the further you move through the house, the group's collective movements clumsy from the tipsy nature of the remaining five of you but otherwise an eerie silence. You had come in with confidence, well prepared for the jumpscare from the ill-hidden ghostface — only nothing had happened yet, and the further you move through the house the more uneasy you feel. The floorboards creek under each step you all take, each of you clutching onto someone. You’re trying to see where it is you’re walking into, but even with the blacklight in parts, it’s too dark to get a real idea of the layout.
Two of your friends are ‘killed’ by the Butcher in what you now realise was the kitchen, one thrown down a chute that makes meat grinder noises after and the other thrown over his shoulder and taken to the meat locker behind the curtain. The three of you remaining have no shame about sprinting out of there as fast as you can and when you manage to make it to the upstairs, realising it splits to three possible exit routes you all do the one thing you curse movie characters for doing: you split up.
The blood curdling scream one of your friends lets out gives you the sick sort of relief that you chose a good path, the silence from another keeps the nerves rattling through your system that you haven’t. You’re not entirely sure how the hell the layout of this murder house works, are you supposed to make your way back downstairs somehow? Is there a secondary staircase — like the layout in That’s so Raven? No- No! Now is not the time to get distracted thinking about childhood tv shows. You make your way to what looks like a typical teenage girls bedroom, the lights killed except for a singular lamp at the far end of the bedroom illuminating an old home phone. You grit your teeth, waiting for the inevitable shrill ring of the phone but you still almost jump out of your skin when it does. You laugh shakily, more so at yourself for still reacting even when you knew it was coming and grab the phone to “answer”
You assume it’s an automated message, something they play for all visitors to ensure everything moves quickly but your breath catches when you hear your name from the receiver. It’s spoken through a voice changer and your eyes light up in recognition, Ghostface. The actor you’d seen through the windows earlier, who you’d anticipated earlier in the game — this must be their assigned room. You hear your name called again teasingly, trying to regain your attention. “That is your name, right? I just want to make sure I know who it is I’m looking at” Such a cliche line, ripped from the movie and yet you gasp in surprise when you feel a body pressed to your back, a blade coming up to your throat. The phone falls from your hand, bouncing on the carpeted floor of the bedroom set as a hand comes up to your waist to hold you firm against Ghostfaces’ body. You shiver at the hard press of something firm at their crotch, the thought of it turning you on more than the fear had done before. You crane your head to the side, feeling both a sinking sensation that you’re about to lose the game — be ‘killed’ off — and the unmistakable sensation of your pussy dripping so much arousal that you’re sure you can feel your underwear soaked, flush to your cunt. You murmur a soft, broken please — for what, you’re not sure; for the ‘killer’ to spare you, for them to fuck you? A shaky breath falls from your slightly agape mouth again as their hips grind against your ass, the ever present hard length pushing against you. “How about I let you live… If you do something for me”
Distantly you’re aware that, at any time, someone can walk in and find you… like this. They’d pulled you into one of the back rooms, some cold hallway and then another room, it was bare apart from some throw blankets and a couch but it had hardly mattered when you’d ended up with your pants shoved down, ass up and exposed while they played with your arousal, toying with your pussy almost as if torturing you.
You feel shame heating your cheeks when their knife, which you’re beginning to think isn’t as fake as you’d believed, is stabbed into the couch cushion and the familiar voice orders you to ride it. “Don’t get shy, slut. I saw how your cunt started dripping.” They say, hands coming to your hips to guide you down to ride the thick handle. It's hard, the plastic sinking into your tight heat with minimal issue and it’s stabbed into the couch far enough that you don’t have to worry about the blade being inside of you — but you’re still comforted by the other person's hand at the base making sure you don’t accidentally pull it out.
The knife is soaked by the time Ghostface decides enough is enough, a hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and ordering you to stop. Carefully you’re made to clean it up, lips wrapping around the handle and tongue laving at the taste of yourself. For each whimper, each moan that you let out around it, you can feel them rocking their hips and grinding their cock against your wet pussy hard. It’s a tease, the plastic head nudging your poor, oversensitive clit and every time you beg for them to just “Do it, fuck me, fuckmefuckme— please, jus’put it inside” you get a spank or a pinch, sometimes both, to your clit. “Demanding and yet—” the knife is brandished to your throat again and you don’t even notice it’s the blunt side of the blade, just needy whimpering and moans filling the air. “I’m the one in control.”
“If I want to fuck—” A ragged noise rips from your mouth, the strap sinking deep inside of you with one solid thrust and taking you by by such a surprise that you swear you almost cum right on the spot. “This tight pussy,” Another hard thrust, pushing you chest first into the back of the sofa, the cushions muffling your garbled slurring.“then I’ll fuck it.”
Getting fucked so roughly, pussy split by the onyx black strap beneath the costume that all you can really do is take it. The inside of your thighs growing tacky with your dripping arousal as it thrusts deep and fast inside of your cunt, so tight that they growl in your ear about how they’ll have to find you again and keep fucking you until you’re fucked open perfectly by them. Every slap of your pussy, your tits, squeeze of your throat has you getting closer and closer to your orgasm which has you squirming in an attempt to get off their cock. Are you still playing like you don’t want it, or that you don’t want to cum yet?
Wrapping their arms around you, keeping you still and fucking up into you until you’re cumming all over their cock, your moans echoing around the room. You’re lucky the ‘backstage’ area is soundproofed or the other guests would have heard you.
You leave about ten minutes later, looking a bit more presentable and snuck back into the room Ghostface inhabits as promised. Somehow it’s not questioned how or why you disappeared for 20 minutes but when you do make it to the exit, you don’t say a word as the final girl sash is placed over your head and across your body. It’s your secret, the workers and your friends don’t need to know you earnt it by whoring yourself out to one of the scare actors. And when your friends decide an hour or two later, after an absurd amount of carnival-like food and drinks, that it’s time to go home you wave off the offer for a ride home and tell them you’ve got other plans.
Vi gets off work twenty minutes later, a rogue-ish grin on her lips as she sees you sitting on one of the picnic benches in the assigned food vendor area. She’s got her work bag thrown over her arm, uniform and mask tossed in there ready for the next day as she climbs over the bench to sit next to you. It’s with practiced ease that she pulls you in for an easy kiss, which you happily respond to with a grin. There’s still enough people around that she stops after a moment or two, not deepening it or moving further.
“Thanks for waiting for me, baby. Did you have a good time?” She asks, but you can hear the underlying question your girlfriend doesn’t want to ask out loud — not here at least.
“Yeah, Vi. I had the best time. Think we might do it again”
‧₊˚ ⋅ ❤︎ . . . vi and ellie have been best friends since the dawn of time. they've grown accustomed to sharing everything over the years — secrets, clothing, immaculate taste in music and films ... and apparently, girls, too!
♡₊˚ ──── gf!vi x reader x ellie . soccer players!vi & ellie , they're besties too! lots of smut , threesomes , sharing is caring ♡ , see individual chapters for more warnings <3 minors & ageless blogs do not interact!
𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 . . . ౨ৎ collab with my love @cinnamongirlsev !!!! i am so so excited abt this!!!!
ˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡ ellie has every reason to despise anything concerning cliché, and every urge to reject a romantic conquest, yet you worm your way into her brain like ivy crawls up a trellis. it hurts her pride, but she can't deny what the others say; by all means, she may be wrong when it comes to love. you have taken her hostage, left her befuddled by a new outlook on romance that she is hesitant to trust.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ MINORS DNI (18+) 7.8k word count. wedding planner!reader x divorce attorney!ellie. flashbacks. cat x ellie being very toxic. divorce talks + breakup. arguments. joel + sarah are ellie's family <3 jesse and dina co-parenting. unavoidable usage of y/n, i'm so sorry. she/her pronouns for reader. ellie putting in effort. smoking, alcohol. horny!reader, suggestive themes, heavy kissing. reader’s insecurities and anxious attachment strike again. reader has body image issues + difficulty eating food. on the contrary, ellie is much nicer in this one :))
── a more ellie-centric chapter! for those upset with ellie at the moment, i hope this is what you needed ♡ big things coming!
꒰ CHAPTER TWO: 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏. ꒱
when ellie was younger, she had brighter hair and fuller cheeks.
she smiled more, charmed others with her dimples and softer eyes, passed through life like the rapids of a winding river. not tranquil, not turbulent either; simply powerful.
she didn't know what she wanted from life, but whatever she did, it was with haste and a stubborn sense that nobody could stop her. she came and went like a storm, leaving some beached, or she washed over others, cleansing them. her flow was inviting, and whether others drowned or flourished was not up to her. that was up to them.
but ellie rode the rapids far too long. she went with the same flow as many others—not her own, only because she didn't quite understand what she needed. and it was detrimental to her after long.
perhaps she swam too far and ended up in the wrong river mouth. perhaps she trapped herself, followed others down a different path than what was meant for her.
the lake she had found herself in was shallow. it lacked room for growth. she couldn't swim like that. she could only dream of finding something bigger.
she didn't realise until it was too late, but this lake, in which she was trapped inside with a brain-eating amoeba, had corroded her.
it was when she was about to propose. no amount of thought she had over her future with cat could kill the growing doubt in her gut. see, ellie had done exactly what she thought she was supposed to.
she was close to finishing her bachelor's degree. she lived with her long-term girlfriend, she had a ring set aside. all she needed was to pop that question and her life would be picture perfect.
she'd be married, and starting law school—a family and a career on the horizon.
that is the way life flows.
freedom was very important to ellie. it always had been, but now? she's rusted. set in her ways and as rigid as they come—and she honestly thinks it is better.
if before, she had been stuck in a shallow lake, now, she's in a stagnant little bubble.
and when she dares to think that maybe she is missing something, she finds it easy to stop it by reminding herself what once weighed her down.
she isn't in denial. she isn't pessimistic, nihilistic, or whatever else people say when they try to 'save' her. she's realistic.
the seeds were sown when she was very young.
if love was real, maybe ellie would have known her biological parents. her birth had been the end of her mother, and her father was nowhere to be found. why wasn't he there? did he know that he had a child in the first place? and why not?
if love was real, maybe sarah's mother would still be in the picture. she and joel were left in the dark when she was small, and when ellie came along, they seemed to have been over it for a long time.
because people are selfish. they do things to get things to benefit themselves. casual sex, ghosting, and all sorts; in the end, it comes down to the need to be free.
ellie never found herself understanding until she had been dating cat for a few months. but she was selfish. she wanted touch. she wanted belonging.
she doesn't know what cat wanted out of her her.
but she doesn't care what cat got from her.
what ellie got was a lesson. a long, drawn-out lesson that had grey hairs sprouting from the root at the ripe age of twenty, but it was a lesson, nonetheless.
they were doomed from the beginning.
ellie can admit she wasn't thinking when she asked cat to be her girlfriend. it started with a camping trip in which they ended up sleeping beside each other, and it should have ended there.
but it was too convenient.
in days she had asked cat on several dates. she was pretty, they had fun that night in her tent, and cat was clearly interested as well. to ellie, it was a no-brainer. a girl in her circle of friends was into her, so she took the opportunity as it arose.
and soon days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and incompatibility had began wearing their relationship. one by one, friends began to disappear from their increasingly busy lives, and ellie was stuck.
fight after fight, breakup after make up, the excitement of a relationship died.
but a relationship needs to leap over the occasional hurdle to work. nothing is without its hiccups. that's what she was told.
ellie could predict when something was going to cause a problem. she spent time away from home on those days. that time away caused many more a problem.
"where the hell were you all day?" cat asked. it was more of a demand, her chest heaving. her brows were pulled taut, lips shrivelled.
"it's finals week. i was studying." ellie shilled the same excuses every time. studying, spending time with family, yada yada—except, truthfully, it was always the former. the times she had seen joel or sarah were few and far between at the time.
"you can't have been studying all fucking day!" cat yelled. ellie sighed and looked down at the table. here we go again. she'd think to the ring hiding in the closet upstairs like a ball and chain. "you've gotta be cheating! who are you seeing?"
she tried to keep cat happy. it seemed a truly impossible feat.
the ring? yeah, it wasn't expensive enough.
the wedding? well, when it was over, she complained that it wasn't grand enough. they slept in separate beds that night.
she remembers thinking about what joel had said to her before cat walked down the aisle.
"are you sure you wanna do this, kiddo? there's still time to—"
"i know what i'm doing, yeah."
"alright. the ball and chain it is."
that day set a precedent for the marriage as a whole. ellie would spend more nights in the guest bed than her own. she'd lie awake and think of her father's words. he wasn't overly cautious. he was just seeing it for what it was.
a failure.
she'd been up all night searching for lawyers for weeks, musing over the process. she wasn't far from finishing law school herself by the time she'd began thinking of divorce.
ellie thought she had done everything that she was supposed to do. she sought love, and it backfired.
that led her to jesse's office.
jesse was the final push that she needed.
not only a great network for her going into her last year of school, but a new friend. someone humble, easygoing.
ellie left home without a trace but the papers and proceeded to go drinking with jesse that very night. come midnight, she had fallen on the couch at joel's place and slept lifelessly until noon the next day.
jesse received countless calls and emails from cat once informed that all communication was to go through him first. they were ignored. letters sent were chuckled at before being put through the shredder, every drunken 'you can't leave me!' like proof that ellie was making the right decision.
life had somewhat of a flow again.
somewhat.
ellie felt stuck after it all—she still feels stuck. something is in the way, she can barely move forward. the gears are locked in place beneath a layer of rust, unable to turn.
she still finds that the character she played in her youth is missing or tarnished. she can't bring it back; it doesn't feel authentic. but what ellie has learned since being an idiotic teenager seems to only hold her back.
"you okay kiddo?"
"huh, yeah." ellie raises her chin, eyes tearing from the ground and to joel. "fine. why?"
with nothing to do on weekends these days, ellie spends hours inside joel's workshop, where he busies himself on his carpentry. she studies him, and flinches when he bangs his hammer against the side of his project.
the older man stops, a slow and inconspicuous look forming as he turns to ellie—though it's nothing like he intended. that obvious, quirked up eyebrow is something she'd laugh at normally, but now it isn't funny. it never is funny when he's onto her.
"well, you know your old man's here to talk when you've got a problem." because joel knows ellie. and he knows that no amount of pressing will make her talk.
ellie huffs through her nose and crosses her arms over her chest, forcing the corner of her lips up. she leans against a workbench, shaking her head. "neh, it's okay. just a difficult case at work on my mind. what're you working on?"
joel stands up straighter, hands on his hips. his back cracks and he grunts lowly. "mr and mrs parks needin' a table for their grandson. it's a wedding present, or somethin'."
ellie gives a nod in response, eyes trailing away for something to see that isn't joel's surveyance. he knows, just like she does, that what's on her mind isn't work.
because god, no, it isn't work. that one ridiculous word—wedding—it makes her heart murmur. her mind flashes with glimpses of your curious gaze on friday night, your blissed out smiles, and then your quivering lips when leaving yesterday afternoon.
it's you. every waking moment, her mind whispers your name like a prayer, or a punishment, she isn't so sure. she'd like to forget. it's given her a headache of the worst kind, one connected to her heart. every beat, every thump, so heavy it makes her head pound.
it's been long since anything really affected her like that.
"here." joel pushes a sanding block into ellie's palms and guides her to part of the project. "make yourself useful for me. off your ass."
ellie bites the inside of her cheek and nods quickly, taking the work as told and beginning to sand down some wood. she rolls her sleeves up and the workshop is briefly quiet.
"the parks are good people," joel comments. "i ain't ever seen two oldies as spritely as them. i ask 'em what's the secret, you know i'm gettin' up there myself, and—"
"tsk, you're not that old," ellie says, looking up. "they're old. they were already old even when we first fuckin' moved here. and it's been years."
"now, now, you ain't heard me getting out of bed in the mornings these days," joel says, chuckling. "that's old. you'll understand one day."
"whatever, old man."
"they always say the secret to their kinda happiness is each other."
ellie scoffs. "sure. that's cheesy."
"they seem to be just about the only people on this earth i think are really in love," joel says offhandedly. "you know the story with them, don't you?"
"do i care what the story is with them?" she retorts. her hand slips, scrapes against a hard edge and she huffs, blowing some of the dust away from the wood. joel watches, more awake to ellie's fumbling and grumbling. "love doesn't exist," she mutters.
joel hesitates before giving a small shrug. "if that's what you think then so be it."
"if you saw the kinda shit i'm seeing at work all the time, you'd definitely understand."
because there is no greater job for someone like ellie than that of handling divorce proceedings. tending to arguably the most severe and tiresome kind of heartbreak, working out the worst of the wrinkles in every scorned page in a love story. the negotiation of assets, the battle for custody.
"alright." joel looks ellie up and down, the cold frown on her face contrasting the trouble in her nonverbal language. the rigid movement, hunched posture, and flickering gaze all point to some other kind of turmoil—whatever it is, it's something that provokes nervousness in ellie. "is this really about something at work?"
ellie sighs, quickly holding a hand up to halt the conversation. "it's fine."
if she ignores it, it will go away. simple as that.
"okay." joel pipes down, but he keeps an eye on her for the rest of the hour. and it passes by in a blur.
the seconds fly by and soon enough ellie's running out the door after remembering she had planned lunch with jesse—now she's thirty-five minutes late.
a sorry look crosses over her face when she speeds into the lounge, the man sitting comfortably with his phone pressed to his ear. ellie pulls out her chair to catch his attention. "hey, fuck man, sorry—joel— you know. he needed some help at the shop."
jesse looks up, chuckling as he puts his phone down on the table again and runs a hand through his ebony hair. ellie mirrors the action herself, trying to focus less on the way the world spins around her like she's on a merry-go-round in hell.
"not a problem," he replies, "but i've gotta go pick up little spud for the afternoon. you're welcome to join us for ice cream."
"oh. oh, yeah, sure," ellie says. this day—no, no, this weekend has been the most exhausting of her life. it's all a great mess, and spending all of yesterday pretending that she wasn't hot and sick for you has burned her out. but she presses on, following jesse out of the lounge, his pace unusually too fast for ellie to keep up with. maybe, she's just unusually slow right now. "from dina's place?"
"from her shop," jesse corrects.
but that stops her in her tracks. ellie shakes her head quickly, "no, no, i can't go there. ha..."
jesse turns slowly, head tilting to the side to observe ellie's stature. she's hunching again. for such an uptight prick, she's being rather awkward today. "why's that?"
"just can't."
"what, because of one bad date?" he laughs. "y/n isn't going to be there. she doesn't work weekends. usually."
"well, it's— it's got a little more complicated than that now, you know, awkward situation, a hookup, you know— you know? i'd like to avoid her where possible." ellie's hand reaches too naturally for the pack of smokes in her back pocket now, slipping one between her fingers.
"how in the hell did she let you— okay." jesse sighs, but the thing about jesse that ellie is often grateful for is that he seldom cares about these things. he lets things rest. "she won't be in the office at this time. office ladies are out on the weekends. trust me. come see my kid. he likes you."
already lit up, ellie takes a puff of her cigarette before nodding. "fine."
the rest of the walk down the street is silent, her muscles loosening and face warming.
even approaching the business feels wrong. pristine white walls and large french doors, the charming little sign over the entrance. enchantment everlasting. everything dainty and pretty and professional and ellie feels like a whore in a church.
the bell over the door chimes to announce their arrival, the heavy scent of flowers hitting their noses, and little jj wastes no time in running to his father while chanting his name. but once he sees ellie, he skips right past jesse and to her.
"hey spud," she coos, crouching down.
jesse huffs, giving dina a shrug. "i'm not the coolest person in his life anymore, i guess."
"hey you," dina says after laughing quietly. she meets eyes with ellie, and her demeanour moves into something else. something lacking interest. "hi."
ellie clears her throat and nods. "hey."
while jesse and dina catch up, she busies herself with checking out the array of flowers and pre-made bouquets, until she finds herself wondering if you had a hand in the production of these, or if you have a favourite kind of arrangement. then, it becomes too much to handle.
dina knows everything. there's no way she wouldn't. ellie gets that. but fuck, if it doesn't feel a little mortifying...
"thought we'd take jj to get some ice cream," jesse says. of course, this throws the toddler into an excitable rager in which he runs circles around the flower shop as fast as those small legs will take him. "we'll have him back by dinner. and yes, we'll watch his sugar intake. so on and so forth."
dina nods squarely, already beginning to prepare jj's pack for his outing. "alright. back before closing, please. i'm not having him late to bed again this week."
"yes ma'am," jesse says before nodding to ellie. "promise. i'm with grumpy, she likes to be home early too. 'alone time' and all that."
"oh, i'm sure she does," dina retorts with a blank expression.
and just like that, there's a bold shift in the environment. ellie's eyes flit from dina to jesse and his sharp brows, then to jj who has also picked up on the sudden awkwardness and scrambled off to his playpen.
"alright, you guys need to tell me what i'm missing here." jesse leans his side against a table, clasping his hands together. "what happened?"
"uh, seriously, nothing," ellie mutters in a disgruntled fashion, looking down and scratching the side of her neck. but when she dares to look up again, dina gives her this look—the 'if you don't spill, i will' kind. so she looks down again. "dude."
"tell him."
ellie exhales deeply. hands wringing together, those two fingers she always fiddles with catching in her other hand. "sure, so... i hooked up with y/n twice this weekend. kicked her out of my house both times after, and, she's upset."
"and she is upset because..?" dina prompts.
"because— can you stop? i'm not a child."
"ellie. own up to your mistakes."
"what else did i even do?" ellie asks, shoulders tensing and voice biting.
"'do not get attached to me'," dina quotes. and she's holding back seething words, if only because her son is in the room. "and when she tried to leave, you somehow slithered your way back into her pants, huh? sleazy."
"okay, i'm not sleazy, don't say that," ellie mumbles. "everythin' else, yeah, alright, that's true..."
jesse's silent for some moments before speaking up, "i hate to say it, but that's really douchey."
she refrains from rolling her eyes, looking up to the ceiling. "yeah, i know. i feel bad. obviously."
"do you? i couldn't tell," dina replies.
"yes," ellie huffs. here comes that funny feeling again, teeth gnawing at the inside of her cheek as she averts eye contact with the two judging her. it hits, this time.
dina's pissed.
how terribly did it hurt you, what she did to you yesterday? if dina's this irate, you can't be in a good state right now. it's like confirmation to ellie, the ghostly visions in her head of your teary eyes are something to worry over.
"i made a couple of mistakes," ellie says, hand rubbing along the side of a table. "i shouldn't have let it go far at all. i shouldn't have taken her home on friday. i just shouldn't have talked to her at all. i don't know why i did. i'm not interested in this stuff."
"come on. ellie, your biggest mistake is and has always been refusing to let love into your life." jesse watches dina begin working around the shop again, clearing a workbench of its mess from prior arrangements in the day. "how many times do i need to tell you that you should try putting yourself out there more?"
"you've told me too many times," ellie says, shifting from foot to foot. she's never felt so cornered before. "i tried. i was fuckin' married once, is that not enough putting myself out there? and look how it ended. love is fake."
dina watches, eyes leering over the stacked boxes in her arms as jesse pinches the spot between his brows.
"you ended up with cat because you didn't even try."
"i— can you—" ellie stammers, knuckles whiting from her grip on the table. she looks down, chest heaving. "jesse. she was my high school— thing. high school sweetheart or whatever they call it."
"cat was your 'convenient option', or whatever you called it," jesse shoots back. "how about you put some effort into someone, yeah? and i think the best option is the woman whose name won't stay out of your mouth at work. that means something, doesn't it?"
she blinks owlishly, focusing on the wall art behind jesse's head.
perhaps, ellie's latest inside joke at the firm being 'take that, y/n' every time she works on a new teeth-grinding divorce has some deeper thought behind it. it started after the blind date and has gotten worse ever since, evolving into her grumbling and mumbling about your 'stupid, overly whimsy, princess fantasies' and 'you think i don't know love is a scam'. coworkers have started telling her to shut up, point blank.
ellie swallows hard, shrugging her shoulders. "okay, well, how do i fix it? i can't go on like this. everything reminds me of her. i fucking hate it."
"that's a good sign," jesse comments. "already doing good. you found someone you actually like. now all you have to do is try. put some effort in. woo her."
ellie's a bundle of conflicting energies at this point, shaking like trees in a rainstorm, but shifting her feet as nonchalantly as she can, and swearing to keep her expression as neutral as possible too.
"i don't wanna hurt her again."
"good. come here." dina somehow materialises behind ellie and begins pushing her to the open workspace, an apron folded on the bench and a variety of wrapping papers and tools set out. "we're going to make her something."
"oh, hey, no no, i don't know anything about this," ellie quickly mutters, shaking her head down at the equipment. "it's going to look like shit. i wanna give her something nice."
"apron on." dina takes none of ellie's protests, instead dumping a bucket in front of her and gesturing to the flowers around the shop. "she likes roses—pink ones—so that'll be our base."
"fuck me," ellie says under her breath.
coffee warms your throat, burying the stinging residue of your tearful weekend. with a steaming to-go cup in hand, you slip through the doors of enchantment everlasting, brows furrowing at the lights already being on. you peek into the next room over, searching for any sign of dina. "dee?"
the absence of dina and your receptionist, mabel, offers a pleasant silence.
until you finally hear dina calling back, appearing behind you with jj's hand in hers. "hey babe! you're early."
"i'm on time, actually..? you're early." you laugh dryly, tilting your head to look over your shoulder as you approach your office. "what are you two up to?"
"oh, nothing." dina sends jj off to play, following you into the doorway.
as you flick the light switch in your office, you spot a large, elegant arrangement of flowers sitting on the centre of your desk. the way that you freeze in places makes dina chuckle softly.
"what's this..?" you question, picking up the note left next to the bouquet. the white card dons the most perfectly imperfect handwriting, broad print all slightly smudged at the edges.
"uh, that would be twelve pink roses, each one opened up by hand, peonies, and baby's breath in cellophane all tied together with a big silk bow. all the work of an exhausted ellie williams, who really hopes you like it."
"ellie did this?" you ask, hesitant to speak or to smile, but dina catches the sound of your voice. you soak in pure giddiness. "she even opened up the roses for me?"
"oh yeah, i had to make her suffer a little bit," dina says with a shrug. "i told her you like the look. it was her that decided to go ahead with it."
"oh..." you whisper, picking up the bouquet now and taking a delicate sniff. "it's gorgeous."
each rose is unique, every layer pulled back and neatly set, the blushing peonies nestled sparsely between them and clusters of baby's breath.
next you take a full gander at the note, scanning each word and letting out a quiet giggle.
'what do you call an apology written in dots and lines? ...a re-morse code. i'm sorry for the way i've been acting. no excuses. i'll do better. are you free this week? i can make it up to you angel.'
"oh my god," you murmur, looking back at dina. she's grinning at you, and you grin back all the same, tapping your feet against the tiles. "she likes me!"
"she does—but babe, listen to me: be careful still, okay?" she meets your gaze seriously now. "what i said before. let her grovel. make sure she really fucking fixes herself. don't make it easy."
"of course," you hum, lifting your phone to snap a picture with the flowers.
dina already knows her warnings go in through one ear and out the other with you. to get you walking the world with an appropriate level of self esteem is about as easy as walking a tightrope. so she sighs, but can't help the pleasantness that comes with a very happy best friend.
"can't do, i've got another wedding that day as well."
"fucking hell, how many you got?" ellie asks in exasperation, voice peaking down the phone.
"spring weddings are really popular!" you whine. "it's not my fault. these things are booked months in advance, you know."
"yeah, by any chance, have you ever heard of this little thing called a work-life balance?" ellie laughs softly.
"...yes. shut up. mine is fine. okay, let's just do sunday night, i can make that." if this were a landline, you'd be twirling the cord around your finger. instead, you're kicking your feet back and forth in bed and giggling about. ellie's done nothing but humour you throughout this call.
"okay, sure," ellie says, a barely restrained glee in her voice. "can i tell you another joke?"
"yes if it's a good one, no if it's a bad one."
"they're all good, you shut up." ellie pouts, rolling over in her bed. you can hear the rustling of sheets, her quietly sniffling. "what did one plate say to the other?"
you pretend to think, letting out a heavy, inquisitive sigh. "i don't know. what?"
"'dinner's on me!'" ellie cracks up on the other side and you can only let out an aggressive snort. "i mean that, by the way. i'm paying."
"oh, that was terrible, and no you aren't," you say through a gentle yawn. and you have never heard her voice sound quite so plush until she speaks next.
"you should go to bed, it's gettin' late." ellie sighs, and you hear a bit more movement. "and yeah, i am paying. don't say no."
"mm, okay." you smile, eyes already half-shut and burning, but your heart beating too fast thinking about letting her go. "i don't want to sleep."
"you've got a big day coming up," ellie coaxes, "go to sleep, angel. i will talk to you tomorrow."
"you better."
"i will." she sounds almost irritated by the idea of failing to. and that fills you with delight. "goodnight."
"night night, ellie," you whisper.
sunday night came fast.
the rest of the week, you were swept up in extravagant celebration, handling four weddings without fear. maybe your best week in a long time, with not a single piece out of place. even your period couldn't give you any grief this week—it's like the world was in total balance.
and now you're with ellie. it's your second try at dinner, but within minutes she has done better this time than the last.
"after you," she says, holding the door open. once you're through, she places a hand on the small of your back, quietly leading you after the hostess towards your reservation.
and the chivalry doesn't stop with the opening of doors or her insistence at picking you up and driving you here. ellie pulls a chair out for you, fingers gliding casually across your collarbone and petting your shoulder when you sit.
with goosebumps left in the wake of her fleeting touch, you practically buzz, hoping that is the precedent for the night. the little things are what make you feel the greatest. it's the desperation behind them, how she could not help but touch you; she matches your neediness.
the restaurant sings with positive energy, the clanging of utensils on plates and the constant hum of chattering patrons over the smooth jazz in the speakers. a flickering candle on the table provides a glow that cascades over ellie's and your faces, and all ellie can do is be mesmerised at the shimmer of your highlighter and the curve of your cupid's bow.
"you look really beautiful, have i told you that tonight?" ellie says, the glare of a sniper piercing into you. it's dark and almost lascivious, her eyes falling to the neckline of your dress. "you always look nice, though."
warmth spreads into your face and a candid smile graces your lips. "thank you." she leans over and passes you a menu, but before ellie can open her mouth, you speak up with a cheeky smile. "are you gonna do the risotto again, this time?"
a quiet sense of alarm takes hold of ellie, her hand held in the air on pause, and a blush begins to blossom into her face. dear, she was a mess last time she had dinner with you. "uh, no. might do something else this time."
"right, right, i thought you said it was good though?" you ask.
"everything's good here," ellie murmurs, rubbing the back of her neck and chuckling awkwardly. everything is good—the risotto is good—but it wasn't that great to eat all by herself a couple of weeks back. "don't make fun of me."
you snort and shrug your shoulders, opening up your menu as you reply, "maybe i should get the risotto this time. that would be fun."
"babe, stop— i—" ellie cuts herself off with a heavy sigh before deciding to leave this conversation topic behind. "i am thinking alfredo."
"oh, yum. looking forward to trying some."
"who said i'm letting you have a bite?" ellie questions, a smirk growing. "greedy."
something really irks you suddenly, your smile falters, but you put a brave face on.
get a grip, you think. she didn't mean it like that.
"i'll let you steal some of mine," you reply. your voice carries more defeat than you wanted, but it comes across like nothing more than a pout to ellie, who chuckles.
"alright. deal." ellie begins to shrug her jacket off, giving a nod to your tight grip on the menu. "any idea what you want, yet? anything. don't look at the cost."
"ah... i should probably read the menu first, huh?" you laugh softly at yourself, and ellie rolls her eyes a little.
"what? i know i'm irresistible, but yes, you should probably read the menu," she says with a snort.
"oh, sure," you murmur, kicking ellie's foot under the table. she laughs, kicking you back.
"playing footsies with me now, babe?"
it definitely feels like some kind of game going on here, you're sure. there is some kind of invisible ball you keep kicking to each other throughout this date, wit battling each other's and humours matching. you have the upper hand one moment, and it's gone the next—whoever is in possession of the ball will flash a charming smile, the other with a hot face and mumbling about it.
"shut up and let me focus."
you keep your eyes down and you still can't silence the little voice whining in your head enough for you to be able to read. you can still hear her, always her and never yourself. i'm just looking out for you. you know that, right? you could never forget cat's voice. not even this many years on.
you're aware of a waitress appearing at the side of the table to get you some drinks, and ellie handles it before you can look up, ordering for you and herself.
the waitress leaves and soon ellie's looking at you, head tilted down to catch your face, partially hidden by the menu in your hands. she fidgets with the cuff on her sleeve momentarily, then holds her hand out to grab yours. "are you okay?"
"of course," you reply. your hand slides into hers, the feeling of it toasty enough that you could melt. "always."
it's safe, an unspoken intimacy in the way her rough fingers wrap around yours. she squeezes in reassurance, satisfied by the smile that's creeping back into your expression.
you meet ellie's eyes almost timidly, lifting the back of her hand to your lips. the residue of your kiss, a dusky rose, remains on her skin, and in her gaze you spot sunrise.
"mmh, what are you doing to me?" ellie asks in a feathery voice. "that was cute..." and left unspoken is the acceptance of the romantic gesture; she likes it.
"well, i am kinda the lover of love, so... i can be pretty romantic at times," you reply, shrugging one shoulder.
a wine glass is sat before you when the waitress comes back, pulling you out of your lovestruck staring contest. by instinct, your hand twitches away, but ellie keeps her grip tight so that you cannot escape.
"can i get you ladies an entrée or any mains?" the waitress asks, looking between you both.
"'course, yeah, i'll have the chicken alfredo, and she'll have..?"
"um— the steak salad for me, please," you speak up.
"alright, both great choices—can i get you anything else?" she jots down the orders with haste, flicking her eyes up every so often.
"no, thanks," ellie replies.
"awesome, your food will be out soon," the girl says sweetly, nodding, before disappearing again.
silence takes the table again. you could stay here quite comfortably for a very long time, ellie's thumb rubbing over your knuckles as you observe each other, taking the occasional sip of your beverages.
"did you pick up that comic you were after the other day?" you ask, resuming an old conversation that was had over the phone.
"yeah, i did. you know what i don't think i told you?" while you could always hear the smile in her voice when talking all things nerdy over the phone, it doesn't quite compare to this. ellie, who's grown up, smooth, and too terribly tantalising for your health. this ellie, with a big, cheesy grin, talking about geek shit. just like she did in high school. "they're making another savage starlight movie. got announced just last week."
"oh, yeah? you're really pumped?" you giggle. "and you're going to go see it in the theatre when it comes out?"
"okay, what makes you think you're getting out of coming with me to see it?" ellie asks.
"oh." you giggle a bit more, heart skipping a beat. "but i don't know it. i'm not up to date with it all."
"well it looks like i'm gonna have to update you on it then, doesn't it?" ellie starts to laugh as well, squishing your hand again, fingertips caressing your skin. "i have two copies of every volume of the comics—which are better, obviously—and we can watch all the movies."
"can we, now?" you muse, raising your brows at the sudden insistence. she's rattling your ear off about it now, as if the urge to share it has been lying dormant for years.
it probably has.
you remember the way that you would ramble to dina when you first met her. 'sorry, am i talking too much?' always, the answer was 'just enough.'
because cat could never listen when it came to another's interests.
"yes, we can," ellie says firmly. "we will. i promise you, you'll get it once you start reading."
having your lower lip caught between your teeth doesn't minimise the smile on them even a little bit, because the ellie that you knew was in there all along? she's in there.
"oh yeah? how many are there?"
"there's ten volumes," ellie answers quickly, "with, like, the sickest action scenes and plot twists you'll ever see. and a great art style."
"okay," you say, nodding and laughing quietly. "all i remember is that daniela star is hot."
"shut the fuck up," ellie mumbles. "do you remember my halloween costume in—"
"yes, i do, and i thought it was cute," you cut in. her reddening face, lips sealed tightly closed and narrowing eyes give you such a giggle.
before ellie can say anything else, the waitress from earlier approaches with two plates, handing them to you politely. she darts off, almost like the sight of ellie's whitening knuckles on your hand and deep blush scared her off.
"okay, you weren't lying, it looks pretty good," you say, quite reserved while looking over the food.
and like every time you eat, you think about how good it looks; how you should be salivating at the sight of it, but you aren't.
your own bowl, filled by leafy greens with croutons, tomatoes, and cucumber, mixed in with thinly-sliced pieces of steaks and drizzled in olive oil and balsamic. it's probably going to be excellent.
ellie's, a steaming hot pile of fettucine alfredo with a large piece of crumbed chicken resting along the side of the china. it should be making you jealous.
you don't feel that enthusiastic at all.
"try some before i devour it all," ellie murmurs. she cuts a piece of chicken, fork rolling a bit of the pasta up to ensure you a big mouthful of all the dish has to offer. "here."
her index and thumb catch your chin, holding you in place as she feeds you what's on the fork. you think she can now feel how hot your face is, the kind of heat that radiates the sun coming off your skin now. and despite yourself, and your grievances with the food, you giggle a bit.
"nearly missed me," you say after swallowing, "i would not be happy if you messed up my makeup with alfredo sauce."
"aw, shut up darlin'. you like it?"
"it's good," you answer, washing the taste down with some rosé. "want some of mine?"
"of course, i made a deal with you." ellie chuckles, tapping your foot below the table with her shoe, just like earlier. "i don't give a fuck about the salad, just the steak."
"no, you need a proper bite of everything." you laugh a little too loudly, trying to load up every possible piece of the salad onto your measly fork. it's just impossible.
"oh, i'm not allowed to mess you up but you get to do whatever you want with me, huh?"
"precisely, do you know how much effort it takes to be this pretty? you'd probably still look gorgeous even with dressing on your lips and lettuce on your shirt."
"don't be humble," ellie says lowly. "you even look pretty when you cry. that's effortless beauty to another level. my knees shake when you look at me, you know."
you scoff quietly, jabbing your fork in her direction with a frazzled grin, as though trying to shut her up. "eat."
"well, yes ma'am." ellie rolls her eyes, stretching her lips around the bite you've prepared on the fork, the damn thing loaded up with so much it might as well be its own mini-meal. "fuck."
you both laugh now, ellie snorting and huffing as she attempts to keep everything in and not look disgusting. it takes a solid minute to get the whole thing down.
"you're a menace to society," she mutters, reaching for her drink immediately.
you chuckle softly, glancing from your food up to ellie. "i thought i was an angel."
"you are." delicate, and gentle, ellie's voice is.
and that voice eases silence upon you both as you begin to eat, the occasional chatter sparking here and there in the midst of your dinner, because looking at each other is thought-provoking. you can't get away, neither can ellie.
she makes a lovely distraction from the flavours of your salad, something to gaze upon that isn't how big of a bite you're having, or how much you're eating.
and when finished, an hour passes, another passing just as quickly, because you're swept up by cozy conversation, the undying candle in the table feeling like a representation of your own flickering interest in each other.
you make slow progress from the restaurant to ellie's car, and then finally to your front doorstep, which she insists upon walking you to.
"was that better, you liked it?" ellie asks, helping you up the steps to your porch. "i'm a little rusty with all this dating stuff."
it's the first action towards her gaining some sort of worthy love life. she's tried her best, and made the first move towards heaven.
ellie's stupidly giddy.
"i had so much fun," you say, unable to diffuse some of the joy in your words. it comes out all over the place, bubbly but demure. "do you want to do this again?"
"of course," ellie replies. she watches you fiddle with your keys, then her attention is drawn back up; she finds your lips, takes a little step forward. "c'mere."
home for ellie's hands just happens to be your hips, their favourite place to rest without her interference at all, and when she kisses you, they squeeze. you sigh into her mouth, arms wrapping around her shoulders, seeking the little tufts of hair at the back of her neck to caress.
and ellie tries to pull away quite shortly, but you don't want to. you don't let her. your love of ellie's lips means you would drown in the taste quite comfortably, and she seems to find that endearing herself. she's teasing you with sloppy movements, your lower lip being sucked in between hers slowly and without escape.
and just as the moment started to get good—her fingers sliding across your rear and digging into your dress, making you gasp—she pulls away. you're left fighting for dignity after whining too pathetically.
"i would love to continue this, but... i have work tomorrow," ellie murmurs, looking at her feet like you're kryptonite. she pushes her hair back and sighs. "and so do you."
"yeah... yeah... we should not have picked a sunday," you mutter, a crooked smile on your face. "okay... well... let me know if you got home alright."
"i will." ellie watches you, focusing on your fidgeting hands again. she can't resist grabbing it and pressing a small kiss along the back, her voice falling into a whisper, "see you, angel."
it was all ups and downs. mainly ups, of course, but now...
you sit. you stare at the wall. a framed painting of two lovers on your living room wall is what you see, the women entangled in a kiss that closely resembles the feeling ellie's lips left on you tonight.
your home is silent. it feels like the aftermath of a party, when the speakers cut and it's almost deafening. ears ringing, head spinning.
mind racing.
you clutch your phone with a hand of steel, watching the numbers on the lock screen change. 10:36. 10:37. 10:38.
you unlock your phone. your text stares back at you. you read over it again.
you: thank you for dinner tonight, i really enjoyed it. i felt very special. did i do alright?
delivered thirty minutes ago. maybe ellie's stuck in traffic—but what traffic exists in jackson at ten o'clock at night? maybe she went straight to bed after getting home?
you start to think about texting again. it's this little itch in the side of your brain. i must have done something wrong. would texting another time do anything to fix whatever you did? or would it turn ellie off the same way it did abby, and clara, and chloe, and all the others? it's the first date and you're acting this clingy.
but what did i do? is this going to be another ghost without explanation?
so your fingers fly across the screen again. it's long, written sporadically and with tipsy pain poured into each word. you barely process any of it before you hear the woosh of it sending.
you: did i do anything off putting? is this overwhelming? i don't mean to bombard you or anything right now i just feel curious you know lol!! am i too much, should i tone it down? i definitely can if you want me to. i hope i didn't come on too strong. i can fix it i promise.
not even a minute passes and you're refreshing the app on repeat like it will do anything. it's so hot, your skin beginning to shine with sweat the longer this goes on, and your heart—your heart, palpitating like an animal out of control.
"i think i fucked up," you whisper to nobody, a broken gasp following the words. you've shot yourself in the foot.
maybe it isn't you. maybe you aren't the problem? you can't think of anything you did incorrectly. maybe it's ellie. maybe her motives are in the wrong place. does she see the past in you?
are you just a trip down memory lane?
you want to trust ellie.
you: i won't be offended if you tell me what i did wrong! it's good to know, ykwim ♡
now you feel your body seizing up, shaking and fidgeting, getting swept up in fear like a leaf down a river with a strong current.
after idling for so long, your phone slips into sleep. the black screen startles you with your own reflection; blurred irises, wide and rocky, with puffy cheeks and just a single tear trickling its way down.
and then your phone lights up.
ellie: hey angel. no. you did nothing wrong, you were perfect. i had a great time. time for you to get some sleep though yeah?
you tense up while scanning every word, waiting for the plot twist that never comes.
so anticlimactic.
so relieving.
you rise to your feet and through your home, up the stairs and to your room all while fussing over a response. you're calmer as you climb into bed now, lips curled upwards.
you: you're totally right, i should sleep! i am exhausted hehe
ellie: mhm :] sweet dreams. everything is going to be ok.
you: yes. sweet dreams baby ♡♡
scared of posting again. i wish that i could have got this out earlier, but i'm having it rough at the moment. sorry babies :(
𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠⎤Moving to Silver Lake was never your dream, simply the cage your boyfriend built to keep you contained. But those walls begin to fracture the moment you catch the obsessive eye of a striking stranger the first day. Bound by a shared madness and a fanatical devotion, the boundaries between predator and prey completely dissolve. Your intertwined obsessions bleed onto the canvas and through the camera lens, ultimately culminating in a masterpiece of murder.
︱𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡⎤19.3K
︱𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠⎤ artist!reader x photographer!stalker!ellie, domestic abuse/violence, graphic depictions of violence and murder, off the page mention of rape, extreme gore and blood, prolonged graphic torture, non-con drugging, stalking, body horror, mutilation, chocking, blunt forced trauma, asphyxiation, arson/burning, dark romance, isolation, obsessive and toxic relationships, desecration of a corpse, physical and physiological abuse, mutual stalking and obsession, vengeance, female rage, blood play, gray ending. minors and cis men PLEASE DNI.
Disclaimer: This fanfic contains very graphic and explicit descriptions of domestic violence, torture, and murder. These are serious and sensitive topics, and while l've done my best to approach them with care and respect, I want to prioritize your well-being above all.
If you are sensitive to these themes or if reading about them could be harmful to you in any way, I strongly encourage you to proceed with caution or consider skipping. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please take care of yourself first.
"Well, this is nice."
Oliver’s voice is a flat stone skipping across the stagnant surface of the room as he sets the boxes down with a grunt, dusting his hands.
The apartment is, in truth, a festering wound of a place. Necrotic could be more fitting. The walls are bruised with water damage, blooming in patches of mold. Two bedrooms, a bathroom akin to a cell, and a kitchen that is uncomfortably close to the living area. The architecture possesses an asphyxiating geometry and everything is gray and depressing.
But it is the air that makes the hair on your arms stand in a prickly salute. The atmosphere is heavy not with the dust of disuse, but with the chemical scent of chlorine that burns the back of your throat. It pulses with a very dark energy, whispering that something terrible happened here that time hasn't yet managed to forget.
Silver Lake, Utah, was never your dream. It was a city inside your state, inside the cage you were born in, disguised as a landscape. You hold no reverence for the mountains that wall you in, they are merely the teeth of the jaw that holds you. Nor had you dreamt of this domestic confinement, of playing house in a box with Oliver.
Your gaze drifts to the closed door of the spare room. At least there is a separate bedroom to paint, you think. At least Silver Lake has panoramic views.
Art was the only time you held the pen, the only violence you were allowed to inflict upon the world, the only control you possessed. You will paint the view, certainly. But you won’t paint the scenery. You will paint the suffocation. You will paint the rot.
“Yeah. It is.” You lie. "I'll go for the other boxes.”
You leave him, stepping out into the hallway to retrieve the rest of your life from the car, and descend the stairwell. This building is a fossil, perhaps the last in the city without an elevator, forcing a spiraling descent into the belly of the complex.
As you reach the foyer, your hand extends to push the heavy steel door outward but the door swings in.
Impact is immediate, a collision of bodies, a dull thud of bone against unexpected softness. A brown paper bag crumples, surrendering its contents, oranges and tins scatter across the dirty floor.
"Oh, God," the words fumble out of your mouth, breathless. "Sorry! God, I’m so sorry!"
You drop to your knees to help but your eyes betray you. They drift from the bruised fruit on the floor, traveling up the denim-clad legs, past the boyish flannel, to the face of the stranger you have just assaulted.
Your heart seizes, arresting the blood in your veins.
The girl standing in front of you is a striking slash of color against the grey world. Her hair is cut short, a jagged halo of copper and rust that frames a face of pale beauty and delicate features. Her skin is a canvas spattered with freckles—earthen constellations, as if a paintbrush loaded with river mud had been flicked across her cheeks and bridge of her nose.
She has pink lips that look bitten, and moles mapped out across her neck. Her eyes are a specific tone of stagnant water, deep and murky, hiding things that should stay drowned.
You are struck by her. It feels like a threat. A dangerous, forbidden threat.
"Don't worry," she murmurs, her voice a low scrape that burns your insides.
She reaches for a tin can and only then lifts her head. Her eyes lock onto yours, and you can see the apology dying in her throat.
She is stricken, paralyzed by the same brutality that has pinned you to the floor. For a second, language is extinct. You watch as her pupils dilate, swallowing the green until her eyes are black voids. The air punches out of her chest, an audible exhale, as if you have just sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
You hang there, suspended in the amber of the moment. It is a paralysis born of recognition of a disaster you have been waiting for. A connection that feels archaic, inevitability written in the code of your DNA. A curse finally finding its target.
You sever eye contact first. Scrambling, fingers clawing at the dirty floor as you snatch up the tins and fruit. You force them back into the paper of the bag, moving with jerky motions, doing anything to keep your hands busy, anything to avoid looking directly into the sun again.
"You're new here?"
Her voice again. It is a rough texture that drags against your nerves. A sound that vibrates in the marrow of your bones, a sonic brand searing itself into your auditory cortex. You know that you will remember the exact frequency of that question for the rest of your life.
"Yes," you breathe, staring fixedly at her boots, unable to lift your head. "I just moved in this morning."
She descends to the floor to help you, her movements calm and silent, a stark contrast to your frantic scrambling. Her fingers are long and pale as they snatch up a rolling tin of soup.
"I figured you were new."
She reaches for a bruised orange at the same moment you do. Your fingers brush, sending a shockwave of absolute zero up your arm. Your skin burns with a phantom frost that makes you recoil, but she doesn't. She simply watches your hand retreat, her gaze dissecting.
"How?" The word is a whisper, barely escaping your constricted throat.
She picks up the fruit and offers it to you. Held in her pale palm, the orange looks incredibly bright.
"I've been living here for a while," Her irises drill into your prefrontal cortex, seemingly peeling back your skin to evaluate the meat beneath. "It's all filled with old people, never saw a girl my age.”
She places another orange in the bag, her knuckles grazing the back of your hand again.
"Honestly, this place is ass," she says, her voice devoid of the polite filters usually applied to strangers. "Why the hell did you move here?"
You let out a fragile laugh. "Well, it wasn't exactly my ideal plan, but here we are."
"Here we are…" she echoes, "At least the misery photographs well."
"You're a photographer?"
"Yes, I am." Her eyes snap back to you, pinning you in place. "You?"
"Artist," you breathe out, "Painter."
A corner of her mouth lifts, a sharp hook.
"Oh. So we both have a thing for the arts."
The bag is full now so you hand it to her, your fingers brushing against the rough paper, frightened to touch her skin again.
"Well, it was nice to meet you..."
You trail off, realizing you are desperate for a noun to attach to this face, a word to summon her in the dark of your mind.
"Ellie."
Ellie.
Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.
“And you?”
"Y/N," you return. The syllables of your own name feel foreign in this new air, reinvented just by her hearing them. "I have to pick up the other boxes," you gesture vaguely to the door behind you.
"Want me to help?" Ellie asks.
The offer hangs there, casual. Your soul is already screaming yes. You want five minutes. You want five hours. You want five lives. You want to carry boxes up and down these stairs until your legs give out just to keep this beautiful stranger in your orbit for a little longer.
"Babe! The boxes, what happened?"
Oliver’s voice booms from the top of the stairs like a hammer destroying a hand, shattering the world you had just built. You flinch, physically recoiling from the sound of his voice.
Ellie’s gaze goes to the stairs, then back to you. The warmth evaporates from her face, replaced by a wall of cool, impenetrable glass. But there isn't any surprise in her features. Like she already… knew about his existence?
"It's okay," you say quickly, stepping back and putting physical distance between you and the danger, retreating toward the door. "Don't worry."
"You sure?"
She stands there, holding the paper bag, her head tilted to the side. She is dissecting the micro-tremor in your hands, the way your shoulders have hiked up toward your ears at the sound of his voice. She senses the slight, acrid scent of fear that blooms on your skin—a fear of violence, a fear of him.
"Yes," you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. "It's okay."
"Coming!" You scream the words up the stairwell, desperate for him to hear you so he doesn't come down. "See you around, Ellie."
You turn and shove your weight against the heavy door, stumbling out into the biting cold wind of the street. Gulping the freezing air does nothing to cool the heat in your face and your hands are shaking, a tremor that rattles your bones.
Inside, the door clicks shut and Ellie begins her ascent. Her boots strike the stairs with a heavy thud as she reaches the fourth floor.
Her door is 4B.
And there, open, is the door to 4A.
The apartment that has sat waiting exactly for you and only you, is now breathing. She stares at the open door, then at her own. They are separated by nothing but a thin membrane of plaster and wood, so thin you could hear a heartbeat through it.
You will be sleeping inches away from her head.
Perfect.
Night has colonized the room, swallowing the corners in oppressive shadows. You sit on the sofa colored in a maroon velvet, limbs with the exhaustion of a pack mule. You have dragged up weighty boxes for four flights of stairs alone while Oliver did absolutely nothing.
"You gonna cook dinner, or what?" he demands.
You look at him.
Oliver is not a bad man in the way a war is bad. He is a bad man in the way venom is bad. Invisible until it is too late. The human equivalent of static—a relentless, eroding force that wears down the sharp edges of your soul until you are smooth, round, and easy to swallow.
But there are cracks in the static where the monster bleeds through.
It started in high school, when he was the golden boy, the boyfriend every girl envied and every parent praised. Back then, his love felt true, and he was all about grand gestures. Bouquets of peonies left in your locker, long letters written in a script that seemed too thoughtful for a teenage boy. He would drive forty minutes just to bring you your favorite tea when you had a cold, defend you against every perceived slight with a chivalry that seemed heroic. It was a slow-burn seduction, a masterful fantasy of a "perfect" man.
But perfection is a performance, and the flowers became apologies for his "passion." The acts of care morphed into a meticulous surveillance of your time. He isolated you from your family and friends, meticulously brainwashing you to cut contact with everyone that wasn't him. And by the time you realized his love was actually a cage, the bars had already been painted gold and bolted to the floor.
It is the shifts in his temper that have trained you to walk on broken glass, the way his benevolence can snap into a serrated cruelty over a spilled drink or a wrong look. You remember the first grip of his fingers on your bicep squeezing just shy of a bruise, but deep enough to leave a memory in the muscle. The way his voice drops an octave, stripping away the affection to reveal the steel skeleton beneath. You have learned to read the barometer of his silences and flinch internally before the thunder even rolls.
He waited for you to finish art school as a spider waits for a butterfly to tire itself out against the glass. The moment the diploma was in your hand, he snapped the trap shut.
A job in Silver Lake, he had announced, his eyes devoid of negotiation. A new start. Us.
Us as a singular organism, a parasite looking for a host. He speaks of a family—of children—in a way that makes your stomach turn over. To him, it is the American Dream. To you, it is body horror. He wants to plant roots in this dead soil, to bind you here with heavy hands and the chains of biology, trapping you where his volatility is the only law.
"Sure."
You stand, moving toward the kitchen like a marionette with tangled strings. Chopping vegetables and meat, the knife rhythmically striking the board with practiced obedience.
First day, and the walls are already closing in. Your mind, desperate for escape, flees the room. It runs straight back to the stairwell.
Ellie. The stranger with the rust colored hair and the eyes akin to stagnant water. The questions begin to spiral, a feverish force that takes over your mind.
A photographer. How interesting. In which apartment does she live? your mind whispers, craving the intimacy of the specifics. How did she end up in this building?
You replay the conversation on a loop, dissecting it frame by frame. The exact scrape of her voice. The way the light caught the moles on her neck. Her personality, so honest, so mysteriously devoid of the social performance everyone else seems trapped in.
She is too beautiful to be lonely. Does she have a someone? The thought is a jagged splinter. Or does she live alone? What is she doing right now? Is she on the other side of the wall, breathing the same air?
Your mind is suddenly flooded with her, a sensory invasion. You remember her scent with clarity, pine and cheap laundry detergent, clean and earthy.
I wish I could bottle it. I wish I could drink it. I wish I could—
Fuck!
The scream tears out of your throat.
The knife has slipped and a bright line of crimson opens up on your index finger. Blood wells up instantly, fat drops splashing onto the chopped onions, violating the scene. You rapidly place your hand under the faucet, the cold water turning pink as it swirls down the drain, the blood evaporating into the stream.
"What happened?" Oliver asks. He doesn't move from the couch and there is no concern in his voice, only irritation at the interruption of his football match.
"Nothing, nothing," you stammer, clutching your hand. "I just cut my finger."
"Are you fucking stupid?"
"I—"
"Just get it ready," he snaps, his face twisting into that familiar mask. "And do it quick."
You stay looking at the blood running in the water, at the vermillion ribbon unspooling into the drain. The pain in your finger is a grounding wire in a house that feels like a hallucination.
The static in your mind rises to a deafening roar as a thought, traitorous and sweet, blooms in the center of it.
What would happen if one day I could simply… get rid of him?
It is a thought you snuff out immediately, scared that he might read it on the back of your retinas.
Later that night, torture begins.
There is a specific tang to Oliver’s desire: it is a land where no is unpronounceable and punishable. You cannot remember the exact date the silence started, but the memory of the first time you tried to deny him is branded on you—a lesson taught in bruised skin and the weight of his disappointment, which felt heavier than his fists ever could.
So you lie back and become the mattress, become the sheets. You detach your soul from your skin and float somewhere near the ceiling, watching the body that belongs to you serve its purpose as a vessel.
On the other side of the wall, the world is bathed in red.
Ellie stands in the claustrophobic embrace of her darkroom, the safe light casting the space in the color of a developing bruise. She is rocking a tray of chemicals, coaxing an image out of the void, when the sound begins.
The repetitive assault of a headboard against the shared wall.
The sound is an auditory intrusion, a gross violation of her sanctuary. She huffs, sharply expelling the air, and closes her eyes. But she cannot close her ears.
Static floods her mind, mirroring yours. She stands there in the dark, listening to the cadence of your submission. She wonders what you are thinking, wonders if you are staring at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster. She wonders if you are feeling anything other than the weight of a man who sounds as if he is trying to break you rather than please you.
Her memory summons you—your beauty, stark and terrified in the hallway. The way you looked like a prey animal waiting for the teeth to sink in. You looked helpless, waiting to be saved.
The chemicals lap against the sides of the tray. Ellie’s mind drifts, unmoored by the rhythm next door as a dark fantasy begins to uncoil in her chest.
She imagines kicking down the door. She imagines peeling him off you. She imagines being the one to pin you down. To be the one who makes those sounds leave your throat for the right reasons. To be the wall you are pressed against. To be the only one.
She feels a possessive, dangerous heat rising in her gut.
Mine, the shadows whisper.
She could be mine. She should be mine. She will be—
Fuck!
She curses as the tray slips in her hands and liquid sloshes over the edge. Her mind had drifted too far, and looking down and the photo in the bath had turned entirely black. Overexposed, ruined.
Staring at the dark square of paper, it is a perfect reflection of the thoughts rotting her brain.
The morning sun bleeds through the blinds, casting bars that feel like prison across the floor. Oliver is gone, his absence the only mercy the universe grants you. The place is silent, save for the ringing in your ears that hasn't stopped since yesterday.
You move through the ritual of waking up as a ghost haunting its own life. Coffee, black and bitter. You set up the easel in the spare room, the “studio”.
You don't really have a plan on what to paint, yet you need the motion, need your hands to do something other than shake. The charcoal scratches the grain of the canvas, a frantic transcription of your subconscious. You lose time as the world narrows down to the friction of carbon on fabric, art being the only time your mind doesn't drift to horrendous places.
When you finally step back to look, the face staring back at you stops your heart.
Ellie.
Your hand has memorized the stranger before your mind gave it permission to. The charcoal has captured the soft slope of her nose, the scattering of freckles that look like dust kicked up by a storm. You remembered the exact moles in her skin, the one tucked near the hairline, the one guarding the corner of her mouth, a punctuation mark to her words and silences.
You reach for the paints, desiring the face in color.
Mixing burnt umber and alizarin crimson, a search for the color of her hair. Cooper. Rusty cooper, left in the rain to oxidize. Not brown, not red, but a dark auburn. Lay it down in thick, aggressive strokes. Her skin. Titanium white with a drop of yellow ochre and a touch of violet to capture that translucent pallor.
But when you reach the eyes, the spell begins to curdle.
You need green, but not the green of grass, or spring, or life. You need that stagnant water green. A pond that has swallowed things and never given them back. Deep olive but strangely light, illuminated from within by a cold hunger.
You mix sap green with a touch of black. Too dark. You add chrome yellow. Too bright. You try to dull it with red. Too intense.
Panic begins to rise in your chest as you scrape the palette knife against the wood, mixing, blending. You need the color of algae, or the color of a bruise when it's healing. The color of the look she gave you that peeled back your skin but made something inside you light up in fire.
You mix and the color ends up being a muddy brown. You fucked it up. It's not here. You cannot capture it.
You cannot possess it.
A scream rips through your throat, animalistic. You lunge forward, your fist connecting to the canvas. The wood cracks in the sickening but satisfying sound of a bone snapping. The fabric tears, bisecting the face, destroying the image before you could finally see it in all of its glory.
The easel topples over across the floor, paint splattering everywhere, leaving you standing there. Heaving, your knuckles throbbing, staring at the ruin of the only thing you wanted to keep.
And across the window, your muse is watching you back.
Ellie knew this would be perfect. She had calculated the distance of her obsession long before you signed the lease. She knew the layout of 4A intimately, the way light created a spotlight in the spare room, the window faced the north and made it the only logical choice for an artist. She had predicted your movements.
The apartment was a cage for you, but it was a theatre for her.
Her having the only seat, logically.
She stands in the shadows of her own bedroom, the lens an extension of her eye. The glass on her window is open a bit, enough for the barrel of the camera to protrude, staring right at you. Through the viewfinder, you are her composition.
Adjusting the focus, the world blurs and sharpens until you're crystallized in the center of the frame. She cannot see what you are painting, the canvas turned to her, a teasing wall of white fabric hiding your secrets. She cannot see that you are currently butchering her own likeness in a fit of colorful rage.
All she sees is you. You, and the delightfully agonizing tension in your shoulders. You, and the morning light that filters through the dirty glass, dancing around your head akin a halo of debris. She zooms in, encroaching on your personal space from thirty feet away.
She focuses on the furrow of your eyebrows—beautiful, focused, etched with a frustration she aches to understand. The slope of your nose, the bite of your lip as you mix colors. You look divine in your distress, as a martyr waiting for the first stone.
Her finger hovers over the shutter, and air in her lungs suspends. It is a moment of predatory intimacy, pure in its feelings yet immoral in its manners. You are alone, you think. You are safe, you think.
Click.
The shutter snaps, a guillotine that severs the moment from time, and now she owns this second of your life forever. And as your fist connects with the canvas, burying itself in the fabric, she captures it too.
She presses the shutter with fervor. Click. Click. Click. A rapid fire, an applause for your breakdown. To anyone else, the sight of you destroying your own creation would be alarming. But to Ellie, peering through the eye of her lens, it is the most thrilling moment she has ever witnessed.
She watches the images freeze on her digital display; the blur of your arm, the snarl contorting your lips, the raw energy of your frustration.
Not even in the most feverish of her lucid dreams or in the sickest of her fantasies did she imagine that having your presence so close would be this visceral, this exciting. She expected to steal glimpses of you painting, doing normal things around the house, to hear you talk and breathe through the wall, yes.
But she also knew, she didn't get fixated on you because you were a normal girl. The violence you suppress inside is what raptured her, months, months ago. And seeing it now, displayed before her eyes, is a gift.
Lowering the camera slightly, her breath hitches, her pupils blow wide in the dim room. An electric shiver cascades down her spine.
She wants it all. The hunger in her chest only expands, a black hole demanding to be fed. She wants to archive the entire spectrum of your existence. Capture the way your features shatter in grief, soften in their sleep, contort in hatred. To document the tectonics of your face, how the skin stretches over the bone when you scream, how your eyelashes flutter when you are confused, how your eyes gloss over when you are subjected to violence.
Ellie finds herself unable to look away. She focuses on your hands, those enchanting instruments. She wants to study the anatomy of their grip, the way your knuckles whiten around a brush, the way the veins in your wrist pulse with blood.
Tracing the outline of your silhouette in the viewfinder, her thumb strokes the camera body as if it were your skin.
Weeks bleed into a singular timeline. In the meantime, Ellie passes her days with a hunger that has been metabolizing her insides for much longer than yours.
You have been her muse for longer than you could even imagine.
It began three hundred and sixty-five days ago in your hometown. She was there visiting a friend, the ones she used to have, a fleeting trip to a place she didn't care for.
She saw you in a grocery store—mundane, domestic, boring. You were reaching for a carton of milk. But when she looked at you, her world collapsed.
She felt something primal awaken in her chest, filling her senses with a frequency she had never tuned into before. She saw something inside you. A soul trapped under your skin, a repressed fire that attracted her the way light attracts moths.
But she didn't speak to you that day, or the three hundred and sixty-five days that followed.
Her plan started as an attempt to let you go, to treat you as a stranger she found enrapturing but fleeting. But when she returned to the gray slush of Silver Lake, her mind refused to release the negative. She thought of you. Over, and over, and over again.
That led to the hunt.
The internet is a vast vein, and Ellie knows exactly how to bleed it. She found you after some weeks of deep searching. She remembered the smudge of cerulean blue on your knuckle in the store, so she scoured the university art rosters. She looked up at every face until, finally, finally, the screen glowed with yours.
She almost cried. The name was the key that unlocked the vault to become the historian of your life. She found your birth records, the hospital, the exact minute you entered the world. She found your primary school, your high school, your family members, your friends, your embarrassing Facebook photos from 2012, your likes, your dislikes. She consumed your digital footprint until she knew you better than you knew yourself.
And, inevitably, she found Oliver.
She didn't pay him much mind at first—he was just statically interfering with the signal. But she scrutinized the photos and in seconds, she saw what your mother, your father, and your friends were too oblivious to see.
The timeline of decay. The high school sweetheart phase, all puppy love and soft focus. Then, the slow change. Your eyes devoid of happiness and their past glow, the long sleeves in summer, the turtlenecks in spring, the fake smiles that didn't reach the crinkles of your eyes.
She saw his hands, always too tight on your waist. Always possessing, never holding. She saw your hands, always soft and fragile around him.
She realized then that he was violent. And she realized, with a surge of holy purpose, that she was a miracle. She was not a stalker, she was a savior. She was here to pull you from the nightmare and bring you into a dream of bliss by her side.
But she couldn't just go to you. The prey has to come to the trap.
So, she orchestrated your destiny.
She found Oliver’s LinkedIn. Hacked, manipulated, pulled strings and ended up recommending him to a headhunter for a business firm in Silver Lake—her city. Handing him the job on a silver platter, she knew his greed would do the rest.
And the apartment?
4A had been occupied for forty years. Edgar and Marta. They were sweet, in the way rotting fruit is sweet. A quiet elderly couple with no children to check on them, no grandchildren to miss their birthday calls. They were languid in a world Ellie needed to be dynamic. A bump in the road, an error in the grand design of your future that needed correcting.
The eviction was supposed to be a whisper, Ellie had designed it to be a mercy. A loose valve on the stove and a long night where carbon monoxide would gently escort them out of existence. Elegant and undetectable, a drift into an endless sleep.
But insomnia is the curse of the aged and at 3:00 AM, the kitchen light flickered on. Through the thin wall, Ellie heard the shuffle of slippers, the rattle of a glass, and the confused, rasping cough of Edgar smelling the gas. The hiss of a window being forced open shattered her carefully constructed scheme.
The plan dissolved and necessity took its place.
She had to do it herself.
Killing them wasn't the clean silence she had hoped for. Real life is cumbersome and the human body, even one nearing its end, clings to survival with stubborn panic.
Edgar had tried to fight, his strength surprisingly wiry, born of terror. But he was brittle. When she stabbed him, he fell, the sound of his bones hitting the floor startling. It echoed too loudly. Marta woke up and tried to scream, a high wail that Ellie had to smother with a pillow, pressing down until her own triceps burned, watching the life thrash and fade beneath her weight.
The cleanup took the rest of the night. It required three bottles of industrial bleach and a wire brush. She scrubbed until the sun threatened to rise, scouring the floorboards until the smell of iron was replaced by the sterile scent of chlorine. She didn’t stop until her own hands were raw, the chemicals eating into her cuticles, leaving her skin burning.
Getting them out was a labor of grim necessity. Dead weight is heavier than anything living, and extremely uncooperative. She dragged them down the four flights of stairs in the dead hour before dawn, their bodies thumping softly against the steps, sounds she prayed the sleeping building would mistake for a dream.
Silver Lake was waiting under the cover of a moonless sky, an indifferent mouth. She walked into the freezing water until it lapped at her waist, numbing her legs, soaking her jeans.
After weighting their pockets with stones from their own plants—a poetic touch, she thought, she pushed them out into the drop-off. Watched as the dark shapes bobbed for a moment, indecisive, before the water accepted the offering. They slipped beneath the surface with a sucking sound.
The water washed away the blood, the sweat, and the guilt. It swallowed the past so the future could begin. She stood there for a long time, shivering violently as the ripples smoothed out, restoring the lake to an innocent glass.
But looking at it now? Looking at the empty space where you now paint, unaware of the history beneath your feet?
It was a small price to pay.
She would kill the entire building, every single beating heart in this complex, from the crying baby in 2B to the insomniac in 5C, if that’s what it took to keep this proximity. To keep you close. Close enough to hear you breathe. Close enough to save you.
And after the first, comes the second part, the phase where she steps out of the shadows and into the light of your life. But Ellie has learned that patience is not just a virtue—it is a weapon.
You do not rush a frightened animal, you do not sprint toward a deer. You wait. You let them graze, you let them think they are safe.
So in the meantime, she has constructed a shrine.
Her own spare room, the one mirroring your studio, becomes a kaleidoscope of your existence. The walls are no longer visible because now they are papered in glossy, high-contrast prints, taped up with the meticulous care of a detective or a fanatic.
There are hundreds of them. You painting, mostly, because those are her favorites. She knows you are in your element when you are holding the brush—the only time your shoulders drop, the only time the haunted look in your eyes is replaced by a creative divinity.
Then there are the domestic tragedies. You cooking, the knife glinting in the harsh kitchen light. You cleaning, wiping down counters with a lethargy that breaks her heart.
But Oliver is never in the frame, since she has surgically removed him. He is a disembodied hand on your shoulder, a shadow looming over you, a blur at the edge of the photograph. In Ellie’s world, he does not exist as a person, he is merely the negative space around your light.
She has recordings, too. Hours of silence punctuated by the rare, precious sound of your voice. You are so, so quiet. Quiet in the same way prey animals learn to be to avoid attracting the predator's attention. She listens to the intake of your breath, the hum of a song you don't realize you're singing, the stifled sob when he yells or sleeps.
You. You. You. You and only you.
The obsession has become tactile. She has bought your perfume—a floral scent with vanilla undertones—and splashed it in every corner of her room. It soaks her pillows, it stains her sheets. An olfactory hallucination that makes it feel as though you have just left the room.
Every night, surrounded by the mosaic of your face and the scent of your skin, she touches herself. Her hand slides down her stomach, her mind feverish. She imagines they are your hands, imagines it is your mouth. She imagines opening the door between your apartments and simply taking you, dragging you out of the fire and into her cold, dark water.
She has followed you, too. On the rare occasions you were allowed to leave the apartment for groceries, she was there. She photographed you under the buzzing fluorescent lights, looking at cereal boxes with a devastating sadness. She photographed you in the parking lot, sitting in your car for ten minutes before starting the engine, your head on the steering wheel, shoulders shaking. Crying.
Those photos are the hardest to look at, and yet, she stares at them the longest. They are the proof of your pain. They are the justification for what she is about to do. They fuel the rage that will eventually liberate you.
As for you, oblivious to it all, the days do not pass so much as they get eaten away by a hunger that has taken up residence in your bones. While Ellie is swimming in the deep currents of a year long obsession, you are starting to dip your feet in the water of a newfound infatuation.
It is a rapture, a growing tidal wave that swallows logic and reason, leaving only this visceral need in its wake. The spare room has metamorphosed into a reliquary.
You have started to paint her, every day. A compulsive liturgy of oil and turpentine. You paint her hand holding that bruised fruit, obsessing over the contrast—the brightness of the orange against the alabaster of her skin. You paint the defiance of her jawline, the curve of her neck, a study in vulnerability.
The walls are beginning to disappear beneath the papers and canvases. All of the different parts of her, a gallery of a stranger.
You keep the door locked, the deadbolt the only privacy you have left. It is the only territory Oliver cannot conquer. His prying hands, which touch your body with such careless ownership, are barred from this sanctuary. He would never understand. He would see it as madness, you know it is the only thing keeping you sane.
At night, when the suffocating weight of him presses you into the mattress, you escape.
He claims the flesh, but she has colonized the mind.
As his breath—hot and smelling of stale routine—hitches against your neck, you squeeze your eyes shut and summon her. You excise him from the narrative. It is not his rough palms bruising your hips, it is her long, pale fingers tracing your spine. It is not his stubble grazing your cheek, it is the phantom touch of her bitten pinkish lips. It is the scent of pine and cheap laundry detergent filling your lungs, drowning out his musk.
Her. Her. Her. Her and only her.
You cannot hold this intensity anymore; it has breached the levees of your soul. Ellie is the only thing filling your world, a dark sun around which your shattered life orbits. You haven't seen her since that collision in the hallway—a fact that causes an agony so sharp it feels like swallowing glass. You feel ridiculous, pathetic even, for building an obsession this intense around a stranger, but this obsession is exactly what your soul has been starving for your entire life.
She fills your days with bliss. She is the anesthetic that allows you to endure Oliver’s violence. She is the muse that guides your hand, your technique getting better under your devotion.
You don’t know what to name this pathology. Infatuation feels too small, too teenage. Limerence implies a fading. Passion is too messy.
Haunting could be more fitting, but you don't care about the labels. You only know the feeling is a living thing, feeding on your isolation. The desire to see her again is a desperation that borders on physical pain, so you draw her to keep her real. You trace the memory of her voice, the copper fire of her hair, the specific geometry of her body, frightened that if you stop, she will vanish and leave you alone with him and yourself.
But in every portrait, the eyes remain blank.
They are twin voids of white, staring back at you with an accusation you cannot answer. You have mixed every variation of viridian, sap green, and raw umber, but the alchemy always fails. You cannot replicate the depth of that stagnant water, the bioluminescence of her gaze. They say eyes are the window of the soul, and having to leave them empty is a testament to the one thing you cannot possess.
And the search for the color had become a sickness. You have spent all these weeks looking for it in the local supply stores, standing on aisles for longer than usual, staring at tubes until your vision blurred. You have bought them all. Sap Green, Viridian, Terre Verte, Chromium Oxide. You have mixed them in every ratio conceivable, wasting ounces of expensive pigment on the palette.
It was never right. Too grassy, too chemical, too dead. Her eyes weren't just green, they were a submerged world. They are the color of moss under ice, of a lake bed seen through silt, ancient and preserved.
Late last night, scrolling through art forums, you found a specialty supplier, a shop that imports pigments from Germany. They had two shades—Volterra Green and a specific, rare Malachite grind. In your mind, you saw them swirl together, and you knew. That was it.
The catch? The store is in a mall three hours away. Three hours there, three hours back which results in six hours of unaccounted time. How do you make a man like Oliver let you drive three hours just for paint supplies?
Short answer, you don't. You ordeal a plan.
You woke up at 4:30 AM, slipping out of bed while Oliver still snored. Creeping out to the freezing driveway, the concrete bites through your socks as you pop the hood of his old sedan, hands shaking so violently you drop the wrench twice.
You disconnected the negative battery terminal, enough so the connection severed yet was a small fixable paralysis. Your uncle taught you that one.
And at 7:00 AM, the performance began.
"Come on, you piece of shit!"
His voice booms through the parking lot, followed by the sound of the ignition failing to turn over. He slams the steering wheel, the horn letting out a pathetic bleat.
You appear in the doorway, clutching your robe tight, feigning sleepiness. "What's wrong?"
"The fucking battery!" he spits, raking a hand through his hair. He looks at his watch, his face reddening with that heat you know too well. "I have a presentation with the regional manager in forty minutes. I can't be late!"
"Maybe I can jump it?" you offer, making your voice small, knowing he will reject it.
"You?" He laughs, a sharp, barking sound devoid of humor. "You’d probably blow the engine. No. I don't have time for this."
He gets out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattle. He kicks the tire.
"I can call an Uber," you say quickly, already holding your phone up, the app open. "It says there's one three minutes away. You’ll make it."
He glares at you, then at the car, then back at you. He is weighing his anger against his ambition. Ambition wins.
"Fine," he snaps. "And deal with this piece of junk later. Call a mechanic or whatever, just fix it."
"I will," you promise. "I'll handle it."
You watch him get into the Uber, his posture rigid with irritation. You wave until the taillights disappear around the curve of the complex. The moment he is gone, the act ends.
Sprint back to the car, wrench in hand, and in thirty seconds, the terminal is tightened. The engine roars to life on the first turn. You grab your purse, check the road, and peel out of the driveway.
It is crazy what lengths obsession drives you to.
You push the sedan to eighty on the highway, the mountains of Utah rushing past like gray ghosts. Usually, these peaks make you feel claustrophobic, trapped. But today, with the engine humming and Oliver three cities away, they feel weirdly freeing.
You check the time obsessively. 10:15 AM. You have to be back by 4:00 PM to ensure the car is cool in the driveway and dinner is started before he returns. The math is tight. One traffic jam, one flat tire, and your life is over.
But fear is secondary to hunger. When you finally reach the store—a dusty, unassuming storefront sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a vape shop—you almost weep. You run inside, ignoring the bell that chimes above the door.
"Hi. The German oils." you breathe to the old man behind the counter.
He looks at you, startled by your intensity, by the wind-blown hair and the wild look in your eyes as he points to a glass case in the back.
And there they are. Tiny, expensive tubes of pigment. You buy them all. You don't look at the price. You would pay in blood if they asked.
You hold the tubes in your hands as you walk back to the car. Volterra. Malachite. Opening the cap of one and squeezing a tiny bead onto your thumb, it looks exactly like you pictured it. Perfect.
You get back in the car, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Three hours to get back. You have to speed, lie, pretend this car never moved. But as you merge back onto the interstate, clutching the plastic bag like it contains the cure for a plague, you smile. A genuine smile that feels foreign to your lips.
You have her eyes in your pocket.
When you finally arrive at the complex, the heavy steel door swings open, and for a fleeting, delusional second, you think you’ve won. You step into the foyer, already reaching to kick the door shut, planning the lies you’ll tell about the mechanic who came and went.
But the world turns sideways.
The shadows in the hallway coalesce into a nightmare. A hand, heavy and calloused, grabs your throat. The force hurls you backward, your skull rebounding off the solid oak of the door with a force that sends a white-hot spike of lightning through your vision. The plastic bag falls from your hand.
"Where," Oliver’s voice is a low vibration, "the fuck were you?"
He doesn't actually want an answer. His fingers sink into the tissue of your neck, his thumb pressing directly onto your windpipe. The world begins to narrow, the edges of your sight fraying into static.
"I—Oli—" You wheeze, but the oxygen is cut off at the source. Your lungs burn, panic expanding in your chest.
You claw at his wrists, your nails digging into his skin, but it’s like trying to move stone. You can't breathe at all, and his grip is painful.
"The meeting ended early," he snarls, his face inches from yours, his pupils blown wide with the dopamine hit of total control. "I walk in, and my car is gone. The car I was told was dead. And here you come, sneaking in like a goddamn thief."
He leans in closer, his forehead pressing against yours, forcing you to look at him.
"I asked you a question. Where. Were. You?"
"Paint," you wheeze, the word barely a rasp. "...paint."
"Paint?" He lets out a condescending laugh that makes your skin crawl. His thumb presses harder into your carotid artery, and the edges of your vision begin to blur even harder. "You disappeared for six hours... for paint?"
He looks down at the tubes on the floor, then back at you. His expression shifts from anger to a twisted pity.
"You really are pathetic. You’re obsessed with this little hobby, aren’t you? This little fantasy world where you’re an artist and not just my bitch."
He releases his grip on your throat just long enough for you to draw one sobbing breath, only to grab a handful of your hair and yank your head forward. The pain is a sharp scream in your scalp.
"I gave you this place, and this is how you thank me? By lying? By playing games?" His voice drops to a serrated whisper. "Don't ever think you can outsmart me. You belong in this house. You belong to me. You're not an artist, you're a pathetic, lying little bitch."
He throws you, a full body heave. You fly across the narrow hallway, your shoulder hitting the doorframe of the kitchen before you collapse onto the floor. The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping, curled in a fetal position on the cold tile.
Oliver stalks toward you. He picks up one of the tubes—the Malachite, the one that looked like her eyes—and crushes it under the heel of his shoe. The metal tube pops, and the expensive pigment oozes out across the floor like blood.
He looms over you, the light from the kitchen casting him in a monstrous silhouette. He reaches down, grabbing your face and squeezing it to force you to look at the ruined paint. "Look at it. That’s your 'life.'. Garbage. Just like you."
He then grips your face harder to make you look at him, your skin burning with his ferocious hand.
"If I find out you’ve been out there meeting someone, or if you ever touch that car again without my say-so, I’ll break your fucking hands. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," you sob, the word a shattered thing. "Yes."
¨Good, now clean this shit up," he says, his voice returning to that terrifyingly calm monotone. "And get dinner started. You have an hour before I’m hungry. Don’t make me ask twice."
He lets go, standing up and wiping his hand on his trousers as if you were something foul he’d accidentally touched. He walks into the living room, the floorboards groaning under his weight, leaving you alone in the dim light of the kitchen.
You stay there for a long time, your throat throbbing with the panicked rhythm of your pulse, staring at the smear of Malachite on the floor.
It’s precious.
Even crushed, even ruined, the color is perfect.
The laundry room of the building is as grey and depressing as the rest of it. A subterranean concrete box, smelling of humid lint and the chemical bite of bleach. The fluorescent lights overhead hum with a migraine inducing frequency.
You are standing by a row of churning machines in the morning, the vibrations rattling through the soles of your sneakers. You chose the maroon turtleneck specifically to hide the handprint—the yellowish-purple ghost of fingers that now decorates your throat like a morbid necklace.
The heavy door opens, and you turn because of the sound.
Your heart stutters.
Her.
Ellie stands in the doorway. She looks different than the goddess in your paintings, more grounded but no less lethal to your senses. She’s wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Her hair is tied up in that same loose, copper half-knot you’ve memorized, strands of it escaping to frame her face.
She’s holding a plastic laundry basket. It’s empty, save for a single black hoodie she threw in for the sake of the performance. She has known for months that you are here at 9:00 AM every Sunday. She has watched the schedule of your domesticity from the shadows, but today, the air between you is different. She has decided that she needs to start slowly approaching the deer.
The tension in the room is a physical weight, a pressurized vacuum that makes it hard to swallow. For a moment, you don't believe she's real. You think the trauma of last night finally cracked your psyche and you’ve conjured a hallucination out of her scent.
Her eyes—that impossible, stagnant water green—lock onto yours. They track the way you're holding your breath, the way your fingers are white knuckled against the towels.
"Hey,"
Her voice is a low rasp that vibrates in the pit of your stomach. It’s the first time you’ve heard her speak since the stairwell, and the reality of it hits you like a physical blow.
"Hi," you whisper. Your voice is thin, cracked from the pressure of Oliver’s grip the night before.
The silence stretches, filled only by the mechanical sloshing of the washers and the occasional hiss of steam. You turn back to your machine, movements nervous and uncoordinated. Ellie moves to the machine directly next to yours, setting down her basket. She moves with a slow and calm grace, tossing her single black hoodie into the drum as if it were a full load.
"Stupid machines," she mutters, as she fumbles with a coin, dropping it. It rolls toward your feet, silver flashing under the light.
You look at the coin, then up at her, heart a drum in your ears. As you reach down, your fingers brush the cold floor, picking it up. When you hand it to her, your fingertips graze her palm. It’s a spark—an electric jolt that makes your breath hitch. Her skin is cool, but her gaze is a furnace.
"Thanks," she says, her eyes lingering on yours for a second too long before she turns to the dial. "I'm Ellie. 4B. We... bumped into each other a few weeks ago in the hall."
"I remember," you say, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears. "I'm in 4A."
"I know," she says. She catches herself, a small, subtle shift in her expression. "I mean, I've seen you around. Coming and going."
She leans against the machine, crossing her arms. Through her reading glasses, those greens look more analytical.
"The light in this building is shit," she says, shifting the conversation so seamlessly it makes your head spin. "But the morning sun hits your side of the floor perfectly, I bet it’s good for painting."
Your heart hammers against your ribs. "How did you know I paint?"
"You told me so," she replies simply, pouring the liquid into the machine. "And I saw you carrying a canvas in last week. Or someone was. I assumed it was yours."
It’s a logical explanation, but the way she says it—as if she’s been cataloging the details of your life—makes the air feel thin.
"I do," you whisper. "I mean, I try to."
"You should keep at it," Ellie says. She turns the dial on her machine, the water beginning to hiss into the drum.
The machine beside you enters its spin cycle, the floor vibrating under your feet. The noise is a wall of sound, giving you an excuse not to speak, but the eye contact remains unbroken. She is looking at you with a terrifying sort of devotion, a look that says she sees the artist, the victim, and the stranger all at once.
She offers a small, crooked smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It’s a look of unsettling understanding.
"If you ever need to borrow some sugar... or a better lightbulb..." she says, picking up her empty basket.
"I'm right beside you."
She starts toward the door, then stops, looking back over her shoulder.
"See you around, neighbor."
The door snaps shut, the steel frame echoing in the small concrete room as a final punctuation. You are left standing in the silence, your heart thundering against your ribs with a violence that makes your vision swim. The wounded bird of your heart is beating loudly, threatening to escape your chest and chase after her, following that scent of pine into the hallway.
You feel a strange, hollow lightness, but you attribute it to the adrenaline. The sheer thrill of being seen by her. You even let out an enamored sigh, those ones teenagers let out in movies.
Ellie slips into 4B. She doesn't turn on the lights, she doesn't need them as she leans back against the door, her breath coming in shallow hitches. Her hand reaches into the backpocket of her jeans.
She pulls it out, a scrap of thin, black and lacy fabric. Your panties.
The theft had been a masterpiece of sleight-of-hand. While she had distracted you with the coin, crowded your personal space and forced you to focus on the intensity of her eyes, her fingers had moved with the invisible speed of a career pickpocket. Fished them from the top of your laundry basket, a silent snatch and grab executed in the seconds of your distraction.
She holds the fabric up to the light filtering through the blinds. It’s dirty, unwashed. It carries the intimate biological signature of your body—the scent of your sweat, the chemistry of your skin, the lingering ghost of the person that has filled all the corners of her life.
To Ellie, it is the most precious thing she has ever held.
She closes her eyes and brings the fabric to her face, inhaling deeply. Her nostrils flare, drinking you in. With a reverent fervor that borders on the religious, she presses the fabric against her lips, eventually pulling it into her mouth. Her tongue tracing the weave of the fibers, tasting the reality of your body.
A guttural moan vibrates in her throat—a purr of pure, unadulterated possession. It is the first piece of you that she has successfully torn away from the world, and from him.
In the dark of her living room, surrounded by the hundreds of photos of you taped to her walls, Ellie stands with your essence between her teeth, a predator savoring the first real taste of the prize.
You are still paralyzed in the laundry room as your gaze, unbidden and magnetic, drifts to the machine next to yours. Inside the glass porthole, the lone black hoodie was being tossed in a violent aquatic ritual. You watched it tumble. It was the only thing she had brought. A decoy, perhaps, or a sacrifice. To you, it was a piece of her left behind in the tall grass.
The final spin cycle died with a high-pitched sound.
You didn't think. Logic had been a casualty of this house long ago, replaced by the primitive instinct to possess. You reached out, desperate, your hand trembling as you yanked open the door of the machine.
The heat hit you first—a humid gust that smelled of the detergent she used. You reached into the drum, your fingers sinking into the heavy fabric. It was warm. Startlingly, unnervingly warm, as if it had retained her body heat despite the cold rinse.
You couldn't help but pull it to your chest, burying your face in the steaming fibers. You inhaled until your lungs burned, catching the sharp, top note of her detergent and, beneath that, a deeper, more elusive scent, clean air of a forest.
With a frantic motion, you shoved the wet hoodie into the very bottom of your own laundry basket, burying it beneath your dry towels. You piled the rest of your clothes on top of it, patting them down until the bulge was invisible.
When you finally reached 4A, you didn't go to the kitchen to start dinner. You ran straight to your studio, the room where her face stared back at you from a dozen canvases.
The fabric was dripping, staining your carpet with circles of water. You didn't care. You sat on the floor, surrounded by your art and your obsession, and draped the wet hoodie over your shoulders.
You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of her presence pressing down on you, a shroud that offered more protection than anything ever could. You had a piece of her. You held it to your heart, a silent prayer in the dark.
The next morning, the ritual resumes, but the air in the apartment has changed. Today, the world will stop being a sketch. Today, you will finally color the eyes that haunt you, granting sight to the hollow irises that have stared at you from the void of the canvas for months. You are about to exhume the soul you could never possess.
You begin the moment the door clicks shut behind Oliver. You haven't spoken a word to him since the violence of two days ago; you have existed as a ghost in your own home, drifting through a Sunday spent under his surveillance. But now, the silence is yours.
Across the shaft, Ellie is already at her station. She is a cartographer of your habits, a scholar of your routine. She knows the exact sound of your floorboards, the precise minute the kettle whistles, and the sound of Oliver’s departure. She readies her camera with the precision of a sniper, settling behind the lens.
In the studio, you approach the altar of your easel. You retrieve the tubes of Volterra Green and Malachite—the ones he tried to crush, the ones that cost you the skin on your neck. You squeeze the wounded tubes, and as the pigments swirl together on the palette, the miracle occurs.
It is the color of a forest floor after a torrential rain. It is the color of stagnant water. It is her.
Your eyes ignite with bliss. The brush becomes an extension of your pulse, darting from palette to canvas with hunger. As you work, your mind is a sanctuary. You think of the black hoodie, now dry and hidden, a heavy secret draped in the back of your closet. You think of the rasping music of her voice—“If you need me, I’m right beside you.”
How kind. How divine. How perfect. You imagine a life where the universe finally grants you a truce, where the hands on your neck are hers—gentle, creative, understanding—and not the leaden weight of his possession. You smile at the canvas, a genuine, fractured expression of love, even as your bruised limbs ache with every stroke.
Ellie watches through the glass, her heart a hammer. She zooms in, her knuckles white against the camera body. She sees you smiling—a look she has never seen you have and the frantic movement of your hand, the green smear on the palette.
For a moment, a jagged jealousy pierces her. She can’t see the image, only your devotion to it. She wonders, with a sickening dread, who or what you are painting. Is it a memory? A past lover? Another person she failed to erase?
But a sudden cloud rolls over Silver Lake, plunging the room into a gray gloom. Frustrated, you stop. You need the light to see the nuance of the colors. Grabbing the heavy wooden frame and flipping the canvas, you turn it toward the window to catch the last dying rays of the sun.
Ellie’s finger freezes on the shutter. Through the lens, the image snaps into a high definition clarity. It isn't a muse. It isn't a memory.
It is her.
Her face, rendered with a level of intimacy that feels as a physical touch. She sees the exact tilt of her own nose, the constellation of freckles she hides with her hair, the specific, defiant curve of her lips. And the eyes. The green is so accurate, so vibrantly alive, that she feels as if she is looking into her own soul through your hands.
The camera nearly slips from her grasp. A hundred new feelings—raw, violent, and holy—erupt in her chest at once. This is why you locked the door. This is why you scoured the earth for pigment.
She retreats into the shadows of 4B, her back hitting the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She thinks of the hoodie she thought she’d lost to some random thief in the laundry room. A predatory realization dawns on her. It wasn't a stranger.
It was you. You took her, just as she took you.
In the dark, Ellie begins to laugh—half-sob and half-triumph.
She always knew you were extraordinary, but she had certainly underestimated how deep your shared connection actually was meant to be. You have been building a shrine for her in the dark, just as she has been building one for you.
The original timeline of her plan was incinerated the moment she saw her own green eyes staring back from your canvas.
For the next forty-eight hours following the sighting, Ellie does not sleep. Her apartment becomes a cathedral of divine justification. The guilt that should accompany the snapping of brittle bones or the disposal of human cargo in a freezing lake dissolves completely, washed away by the holy water of destiny. She is absolved.
Everything sin her hands have commited—every lock picked, every life ruined, every boundary shattered—has been forgiven by the sheer, undeniable gravity of your union. Washed clean in the holy waters of this shared madness.
She always knew. She knew from the grocery store aisle a year ago that there was a galaxy inside you that the rest of the world was too blind to see. A world that Oliver only wanted to possess and that your parents only saw as a quiet daughter. She was the only one who could truly understand you.
She was no longer your savior, nor just a sick stalker. She was a collaborator in a masterpiece of destiny.
The deer is no longer just grazing near the trap. The deer has put its teeth on the wire, and it is time to pull it taut. The haunt is over, and the union has begun.
The acceleration begins on a Tuesday.
You opened your door to find a package. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a set of professional-grade brushes made of the finest Kolinsky sable. The handles are polished, midnight-blue wood, perfectly weighted, cool to the touch. They are breathtakingly expensive, and tucked between them, a cream-colored card. The handwriting is pressed so deeply into the paper you can feel the indentations of the pen.
A soul like yours shouldn't have to work with blunt tools. I see you.
Your heart drops into your stomach. I see you. You have no idea who left it which makes your mind race through impossible scenarios. Did the art store owner track you down? Did Oliver find out and is playing some twisted psychological game to break you? Or is it a stranger? You touch the bristles of the brushes and a terrified thrill shoots up your arm.
You stood in the hallway looking left, then right. The hallway was a canyon of closed doors and carpet, yet you felt a prickle of heat on the back of your neck, the unmistakable weight of a gaze.
Over the next fourteen days, the world outside your apartment begins to shrink.
You begin to feel the weight of a pair of eyes on you wherever you go.
Everywhere you went, the perimeter of your safety felt breached by an invisible, benevolent pressure. On Thursday, you were at the local market, reaching for a carton of eggs, when you saw a flash of copper hair at the end of the aisle. By the time you turned, there was only the rattle of a shopping cart and an elderly woman.
Three days later, you are walking to take the trash out. The concrete echoes with your footsteps as you hear a second set of footsteps that perfectly match your cadence. You stop. They stop. You look over your shoulder into the gloom of the concrete pillars, seeing nothing but the shadows. The darkness feels alive. Someone is standing just beyond the veil, breathing your air, watching the fast rise and fall of your chest.
Ellie is closing the distance, no longer satisfied with the view from her window.
You became a creature of pure nerves. At home, Oliver was a dull roar of irritation, his presence a gray fog you drifted through, but the "other" presence was an electric ghost. You felt her when you brushed your teeth, you felt her when you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while Oliver slept his entitled sleep.
The paranoia began to bloom like a dark flower. You started checking the locks twice, then three times, not out of fear of a break-in, but because the boundary between your apartment and hers felt increasingly porous, as if the walls were made of gauze. You would catch your own reflection in the window and for a split second, you wouldn't see your face—you would see her eyes, green and stagnant, watching you from the glass.
Isolation only amplifies terror, but underneath the terror, something darker is taking root. When Oliver yells at you for a spot on the glassware, his voice sounds hollow. His static is being overpowered by the invisible current of your watcher.
You find yourself wearing the stolen black hoodie every time you are alone. You find yourself using the anonymous sable brushes, the strokes on the canvas feeling like an intimate conversation with an entity. You are terrified that you are being hunted, but for the first time in your life, you are utterly, entirely the center of someone’s universe. You are frightened, but you are finally, truly seen.
Ellie had moved from the shadows to the periphery, and now she was standing on the very edge of the light. She had watched you unwrap her gifts, she had watched you smell her clothes, she had watched you flinch at every shadow, and her heart had swelled with a kind of motherly pride.
You were being caught.
Over the next three weeks, the escalation is immediate. The space outside your door becomes an altar, and you are its sole deity.
The gifts start to evolve from the practical to the intimate. A vintage copy of a poetry book you had only briefly thumbed through at a secondhand bookstore . You hadn't bought it, or mentioned it to anyone, yet there it was on your mat. A fer marking the exact poem you have been reading. A week later, on a morning he had grabbed your wrist to have left a bracelet of bruises, you found a glass vial of linseed oil sitting by the door frame.
You stop fearing the watcher. A sick, beautiful dependency takes root in the dead soil of your heart. You crave that surveillance. When Oliver's temper flares, when he backs you into the kitchen counter and spits his venom, you no longer dissociate. You look at the wall shared with 4B and imagine her standing on the other side, her ear pressed to the plaster and her hands turning into fists. You survive his cruelty by wrapping yourself in the invisible armor of care.
You are no longer a victim, you are a prized possession being temporarily and unjustly held by a thief.
After finishing the biggest portrait of her face, her colored irises stare back at you with omniscient love.
And the final act of the plan breaks.
The sky over Silver Lake has turned into a torrential purple, and rain is lashing against the windows. Oliver is gone, an overnight conference in Denver. The apartment is entirely yours. You are standing in the kitchen, listening to the storm, when you hear it.
A sound coming from the foyer. There, resting on the tile just inside your threshold, is a black envelope. It has been slid under the door, a breach of the boundary you have guarded.
Your hands shake as you pick it up. The paper is textured and thick, smelling faintly of chemicals and your own perfume. You break the wax seal.
Inside is a single photograph that has been developed just now. It takes your breath away. A picture of you, taken through the crack of the blind some minutes ago. But it doesn't look predatory or wrong, it is a masterpiece of lighting and shadow. You don't look broken, or bruised, or afraid. Framed by the lens of absolute devotion, you look like a saint. Ethereal. You look loved. Behind it, is a handwriting the same as the other notes that accompanied the gifts.
The storm is too loud to weather alone, your sanctuary is right beside you. The door is unlocked. Come to me.
You stand frozen for a long time. Looking back at the apartment, the cage built around you, the walls that have absorbed your sorrow and echoed with his screams and your apologies. Then, you look at the door that separates you from the abyss.
The answer is simple. After living with the devil, you don't fear anything else. You don't put on shoes, or grab your keys as you unlock your door. The hallway is empty, illuminated by the flickering and jaundiced light of the dying bulb. And right beside you, the door to 4B is slightly ajar, a sliver of absolute darkness calling your name.
The hinge makes no sound and it yields as you push the oiled silence of a vault. The air inside is different from the sterile purgatory of your place, it is amniotic and thick with the scent of fixative chemicals, pine needles and storm.
The door clicks shut behind you.
“You came.”
The voice comes from the immediate darkness to your right. It is the tectonic murmur that bypasses your ears and vibrates directly in the ribs caging your heart. She was waiting right beside the door, standing in the pitch black, listening to the erratic rhythm of your breathing.
Before you can turn, or gasp, resounds the click of the light switch.
The light flickers to life, a series of warm, targeted gallery track lights. They do not illuminate the furniture or decoration, they illuminate the walls. Your stomach drops out of your body, falling into a bottomless pit. The breath is violently punched from your lungs.
The walls do not exist. They have been entirely eradicated and replaced with a floor to ceiling mosaic of your existence. There is no blank space or visible plaster visible between the hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of photographs taped edge to edge. A panopticon of your like, a taxonomy of your captivity in Silver Lake.
You stagger backwards, your shoulders hitting the solid wood of the closed door.
You are everywhere.
There is a glossy eight by ten of you on the day the moving truck arrived, looking small and defeated holding a box of silver kitchenware. A candid shot of you in the laundry room, your head tilted back as if praying for an escape. An intimate sequence of you painting, the progression of the malachite green, the exact moment the light hit your face as you smiled at her portrait.
Darker photos that make your knees threaten to buckle, she has documented the violence. Zoomed in, high definition captures of bruises blooming on your body, a picture of you crying on the kitchen floor while a blurred silhouette stands over you. In every photo where Oliver appears, his face has been scratched out with a ballpoint pen, his existence reduced to a black boid, leaving only you in agonizing sharp focus.
“I know it's a lot to process.” Ellie finally says.
She steps into your line of sight. Wearing a simple white tank top with dark jeans, her copper hair falling loose around her the face of your paintings. She doesn't look ashamed, or a monster caught in the act. She looks like a devout priestess welcoming a pilgrim into her temple.
“I…” your voice is broken, a reedy whisper. You can't tear your eyes away from a photo of yourself sleeping, taken through the sliver of your bedroom window. “How… how long…?”
“Since the first day,” she answers softly. Her feet make no sound as she closes the distance between you, moving with the grace of a predator. “Even before we met.”
“You have been watching me…” you choke out. A tear hot with terror and awe spills over your eyelashes, stretching down your cheek. “Every day.”
“I haven't been just watching you,” she corrects, her voice a serrated grasp. She stops inches from you and the heat that radiates from her body is pressure in itself. “I have been learning from you, bearing witness. I see the god nobody else but me can see in you.”
You tremble, pressing yourself harder against the door. Ellie reaches out, and you flinch, expecting the bone bruising grip of him.
But her touch is revelation. Her fingertips, calloused from the camera dial, brush lightly against the fabric of your turtle neck. Her hand traces the line of your arm, her eyes transfixed.
A smile curves her lips, a one of total awe.
“You are so, so beautiful,” she whispers, her gaze now meeting yours, the green of her irises shining with hunger.
She steps into your space, her chest almost brushing yours as she lifts her palm to your face, her thumb gently wiping away the tear on your cheek.
“You don't have to be afraid anymore,” Her lips are so close to yours that you breathe in her words. “He’s never going to touch you again.”
The expected reaction of any logical human being would be to scream. To claw at the door, run into the stormy night, to find a police officer and stutter out a tale of stalking and madness. To scream at Ellie that she is a sick monster freak.
But as you stand against the door, surrounded by the dizzying evidence of your own stalking, you realize with a cold crystalline clarity that logic abandoned you years, years ago.
It is the most terrifying thing you have ever seen. Yet, underneath the icy spike of fear, a wretched flower of relief blossoms in your chest. You are not invisible. You have never been invisible. Every tear, stroke of a brush, and silent scream in the dark—she has caught it all. And she has kept it, and deemed it worthy of a museum.
You look at the photos with a profound and wretched awe. In the amber glow of those lights, the pictures do not feel like a violation to you. For the first time in your life, you aren't a background character in some else's sterile American Dream. You are the absolute center of a universe. You feel necrotic safety in the predator's touch. The warmth of her thumb against your skin is the most loved you have felt in years.
Nobody has loved you, not as much as Ellie, in her own twisted but divine kind of way.
“I´ve been painting you, Ellie,” you whisper, and the confession tastes bitter and sweet against your tongue. You have nothing to hide anymore. “Every day.”
“I know,” she murmurs, stepping even closer. Her scent envelops you, drowning out the sterile memory of 4A. “I saw.”
She reaches up and her hands, gentle as if touching the most precious of things, cup your face. She looks at you as if you were holy, delicate yet incomprehensibly powerful.
“There is something so… extraordinary about you. I knew you would understand me the same way I understand you. We’re meant to be. And he…”
Her face changes, a violent sparkle crossing her eyes. Her thumb brushes lightly over the fading yellowish bruise she knows hides under your turtleneck.
“...he would never understand the beauty that is within you. He is a parasite that feeds on you.” Her gaze drops to your lips, then to your eyes. “But he’ll be gone. You just have to say yes, and we can be together. I’ll handle everything."
The room is silent save for the drumming of the storm outside that rattles against the windows. You stare into those stagnant water depths, feeling the sheer gravity of what she is offering you.
“What…” Your voice trembles, a fragile thread in the intense air. “What do you mean?”
Ellie offers a smile that is devoid of light. It is a promise written in blood.
“I know you know what I mean,” she murmurs, her forehead coming to rest against your own. The intimacy of it makes your heart almost stop beating. “I know you want the same as I do. You want him dead and buried. And I would do that for you, I´ll make sure to wipe him from the earth. You don't have to move a single finger.”
She is offering you salvation. She is offering to absorb the sin, to become the monster so you can remain her muse. It is the ultimate act of twisted absolute devotion.
But surrounded by the shire of your suffering and sorrow, something ancient and dormant snaps awake within you. You think of his hands on your throat, of the sleepless nights, on the years long torture he has put you through, shrinking yourself until you were nothing but a ghost. He stripped you of everything you were, only to make you a dead woman inside a living body that no longer belonged to any soul.
You look at the wall of photos, specifically the ones where Oliver's face has been scratched into a black void.
An unfamiliar sensation floods your veins. It isn't fear, or terror, or pain. It is absolute power.
“No.”
The word is soft, but it cuts through the air akin to a guillotine cutting a head. Ellie's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of confusion breaking the perfect and calm stillness of her features. She pulls back just an inch to look at you, her hands still cradling your face.
You reach up and place your hands over hers. Your fingers interlock, and you feel the sudden spike of her pulse against your palms.
“I want to do it myself.”
The silence that follows is deafening. She stares at you, your gazes almost forming sparkles in the air with an electric and unholy communion. The confusion of her eyes fades away only to be replaced by profound and staggering worship. She hasn't just captured a muse, she has awakened a partner.
Gravity is what follows after. Ellie surges forward, her hands sliding from your cheeks to tangle fiercely in your hair, pulling you flush against her. The kiss isn't tender, or sweet, it's the collision of two starving animals. It tastes of saltwater, adrenaline and the tang of absolute ruin. She kisses you, pulling the breath out your lungs and the blood out your veins as if trying to fuse your bodies together. You kiss her back, your fingers gripping the worn cotton of her tank top, anchoring yourself to the only real thing in this fucked up world.
When you finally pull away, her chest is heaving, your forehead rests against hers, and you both breathe into the murder in the space between you.
What happens then is that she outlines the plan. It was originally designed to be sterile. For months, Ellie had tracked the telemetry of Oliver's life, mapping his blind spots, his strengths and weaknesses. The scheme relied on his arrogance and his routine. She had charted the treacherous, winding crayon roads he took through the hills to bypass traffic. The concept was clean, an untraceable puncture to the brake lines of his sedan coupled with sedatives slipped into his morning travel mug to blur his reflexes.
He would plunge over the guardrail in a haze, the impact spontaneous. To his family, to the local police, it would be framed as a pedestrian tragedy. An overworked, stressed executive who took a curve too fast.
But as you listen to her scheme, the cold power inside you beats. A quick death is a privilege Oliver hasn't earned. You don't want a sudden plunge in the dark, you don't want just a knife slipped quickly under his back in a fleeting burst of rage.
“No.” you say, your voice breaking the hypnotic rhythm of her explanation. Your tone sounds foreign to your ears, steady and calm. “I don't want it to be an accident, I want him to feel it. I want to take him apart just like he took me apart, to watch his eyes when he realizes he has no power left. I want to torture him.”
Ellie looks at you, her breath quickening. A tremor of awe crosses her features and her green gleam with euphoric pride.
The plan evolves instantly, warping from a clean assassination into a chef d'oeuvre of cruelty. You will use the very apartment he paid for, the cage he built to trap you, as the slaughterhouse. The sedative Ellie procured will still be used, but not to kill him. It will be used to paralyze him. And for hours, in the plastic sheeting of your studio, you will dismantle his arrogance piece by piece.
When the vengeance is finally executed, when there is nothing left but his ruined meat and silence, the fire will hide your sins.
Under the cover of the 3:00AM dead hour, you will dress the remains and drag him into the trunk of his sedan. You will drive to the deepest, most desolate ridge of the forest, a place where the ravines swallow light. Place him in the driver's seat, douse the upholstery in gasoline, and leave a half empty bottle of his expensive bourbon. A pushed car, a steep drop, and a single match.
The ensuing inferno will burn with the ferocity of a cremation. The heat will obliterate the ligature marks, incinerate the lacerations, and melt away his suffering. By the time the fire deparment extinguishes the smoking metal at the bottom of the canyon, there will be no forensic evidence of torture, only charred bone and dental records.
His family, cold and status obsessed people, will readily accept the narrative of a man who cracked under corporate pressure. The police will see the skid marks, the whiskey bottle, and the fiery wreck, and close the file as a tragic suicide. They won't dig deeper. They won't look for conspiracy. They will only see a grieving widow in black, weeping tears that the world will mistake for sorrow, completely.
Ellie traces your lower lip with her thumb, a proud smile blooming across her face.
“My beautiful girl,” she whispers, “Your wishes are my commands.”
And just like you planned, by next Friday the trap is laid with the mundane precision of his routine. You and Ellie have been meeting every day that followed, planning the murder and falling more twistedly in love with each other. The studio is prepped, the floor lined with translucent painter’s plastic. The Kolinsky sable brushes rest on a silver tray.
At 6:15 PM, the door of 4A opens.
Oliver steps into the apartment. He drops his leather briefcase, and doesn't even look at you as he walks into the kitchen, his tie already loosened.
“Pour me a drink,” he demands, rubbing the back of his neck. “The meeting was a nightmare.”
You move to the crystal decanter with the calmness of someone who knows everything will end soon. You pour three fingers of his favorite whiskey, swirling it over a single cube of ice. Into the liquid, lays stirred the colorless and tasteless paralytic Ellie produced. A chemical designed to sever the brain's commands to the muscles while leaving the sensory nervous system entirely and agonically intact.
He takes the glass without a thank you, throwing back half the liquid in a single swallow.
“Dinner ready?”
“Almost.”
It takes exactly four minutes.
You watch his dominance collapse with delight. First, there was a slight tremor in his hand. The crystal glass slips from his grip, shattering against the hardwood and splashing the amber venom across the rug. Oliver looks down, his eyebrows furrowing in irritation, and tries to step forward. His knee buckles.
A painful sound escapes his throat as he crashes to the floor, dead weight pulling him down. Trying to push himself up, he realizes his arms are leaden, useless meat.
“What... What have you done to me?! You fucking—help me!” The words are slurred, his tongue suddenly thick and uncooperative in his mouth. He thrashes his head, the only part of him that still freely moves, his eyes wide. “Call an ambulance! Are you deaf, you stupid bitch? I’m having a stroke!”
You stand completely still, looking down at him from an immense, unbridgeable height.
“Why the fuck would I help you?”
Your voice is cold and final.
“I’ll kill you,” he spits, saliva bubbling at the corner of his lips as the chemical begins to sever the connection to his diaphragm. “If you don’t call an ambulance right now... I swear to God, I will break your fucking neck.”
“You already tried that,” you whisper, your fingers grazing the high collar of your turtleneck, tracing the ghost of his handprint. “You’ve been breaking my neck for years.”
“Please...” The threat suddenly dissolves into a wet gasp. The arrogance is draining out of him, replaced by the realization of his own mortality. He is a king suddenly exiled from his own nervous system. “Please. My heart... I can't feel my hands. Please!”
“I know,” you answer, the absolute calm in your voice acting as a mirror to his panic. “You’re not having a stroke. You’re just finally experiencing what it feels like to be completely powerless.”
You take a single step closer. The toe of your shoe stops inches from his paralyzed fingertips.
“You took my soul, you took my life, you took my will,” you say, the words falling like stones into the quiet room. “So now, I will take everything else.”
Oliver’s breathing is shallow. A single tear of pure fear tracks down his cheek.
“I´m not only going to kill you, Oliver,” you state, delivering the verdict with the finality of a death sentence. “I´m going to take you apart. And I want you to know, in this last time you still have, that it was me. The one you thought was too weak to fight back. You are going to suffer all the pain I´ve suffered for years, all at once. And there is nothing, nothing you can do to stop it.”
He tries to scream your name, to scream for help, for mercy, to beg to a god he never believed in, but his jaw goes completely slack. His vocal cords are paralyzed, the final thread of his sovereignty cut by the poison in his whiskey.
And that is when Ellie steps out from the shadows of the hallway, a heavy iron hammer in her hand, her green eyes fixed on the man she is about to help you erase.
She moves without a sound, a dark angel in her jeans and shirt. Stepping over the spilled drink, his eyes lock onto her, dilating with absolute panic. He realized right then he had stepped into a snare.
Together, you drag him. His heavy body sliders uselessly across the floor, heels leaving marks on the wood. You pull him into the room he mocked and heave him onto the center of the plastic sheeting. The lights overhead snap on, casting him in a harsh interrogation glare.
Oliver is a statue made of flesh. He can't scream, or twitch, but the terror in his pupils tells you he feels everything.
“What would you like to start with, darling?” Ellie asks, kneeling gracefully beside his paralyzed form. She holds the heavy iron hammer loosely in her grip. It is a brutal and unrefined tool, a stark contrast to the delicate brushes resting on the tray nearby.
“I don't know…” you murmur, “So many possibilities… so many things I would like to do. I can't even decide what I want to do first.”
You look down at the man who curated your misery. You look at the body that used its sheer mass to intimidate you, the anatomy he wielded as a weapon to enforce his laws. You lift your feet, wearing the combat boots he always hated—the ones he said made you look "unrefined."
You kick the heel of it directly over his groin with a force that you didn't even know you had inside. Then slowly stand over it, shifting your weight, pressing down into the soft tissue, letting gravity and the rubber sole do the work of a thousand needles.
Oliver’s eyes bulge until the blood vessels in his sclera threaten to burst. The muscles in his neck strain against the chains of the paralytic. A single, agonizing tear of torment spills over the bridge of his nose.
A sound bubbles up from the very bottom of your chest. It bypasses the filter of the woman Oliver trained you to be. It starts as a ragged gasp and blooms into a laugh.
It is an unhinged, beautiful sound. It echoes off the plastic sheeting and the canvases, rich and melodious. A sound that has never, ever left your mouth. A laugh that shakes the walls in pure entertainment. You look down at him, your heel grinding down an inch more, and you howl right into his suffocating face. You have never felt such a profound, intoxicating rush of bliss. You are utterly and completely alive.
“You wanted a family so badly, didn't you, Oliver?” you whisper, your laughter tapering into a breathless smile. “Three little kids and a stupid fucking dog.”
You lean forward, resting your hands on your knees, bringing your face inches from his. The smell of his fear is a potent perfume.
“How does it feel now, huh?” you ask, your voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “Does it feel like a cage? Does it feel like you can’t fucking breathe?”
Ellie watches you from across his body, her chest heaving, her green eyes dark with an unspeakable, reverent hunger. She is intoxicated by your cruelty. She shifts her grip on the iron hammer, the metal handle warming against her palm.
“His hands, I think,” Ellie suggests. “He shouldn't be allowed to have hands anymore. Not after what they did to you.”
“Good idea. Give me the hammer.” you say.
She hands you the tool in less than a second. And without any warning, without the dramatic pause he would have demanded or a one liner, you bring it down on his right hand.
The sound of it shattering is a wet and sickening crack that echoes off the canvases.
His body arches violently, a biological spasm of unadulterated agony but no sound escapes his slack mouth. A silent scream rips at his paralyzed vocal cords, his face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.
The hammer strikes again.
“Does it hurt, Oliver? Do you want me to fucking stop?!” You scream as you destroy the knuckles that bruised you, pulverize the fingers that squeezed you. “I asked you a fucking question! Why so quiet now?!”
You bring the hammer down, over and over, finding a hypnotic rhythm in the destruction. You absorb his pain as parched earth absorbing torrential rain. Your eyes go completely dark, pupil swallowing iris, dilated with the narcotic high of vengeance.
You then go for the other hand, the hammer turning it into gore and bone dust. Blood splashes across the plastic sheeting. It splatters onto the silver tray and hits the toe of your heavy boots. A crimson mist mists the air, the metallic scent of iron violently colliding with the smells of linseed oil and pine. You are dismantling your abuser, turning the hands that built your cage into unrecognizable ruined meat.
You swing harder, going for his right knee. His eyes are rolling back from the pain. The iron head of the hammer becomes an extension of your own soul, completely devoid of mercy.
Vermillion droplets hit the pristine white of the canvases stacked nearby. It looks like art. It looks like the birth of an entirely new you.
You stop only when your arms can’t go any further, your chest heaving, your hair clinging to your damp forehead. Your breath comes in blissed out gasps. You look down at the wreckage of his limbs, then trace the line of his arm up to his face.
Oliver’s eyes are rolling in their sockets, completely unmoored by the shock and the trauma. He is weeping silently, a steady stream of tears cutting through the sweat on his temples. The arrogance is entirely gone. He is nothing but a fragile, dying animal caught in a trap he funded with his own bank account.
You let the bloody hammer drop.
Ellie is still kneeling there, blood droplets have sprayed her, illuminated by the harsh lights. She is looking at you with an admiration that borders on the fanatical. She sees a goddess who has finally stepped off her pedestal to wage war.
She reaches out, her clean hand capturing yours—the hand that just shattered bones. She brings your knuckles to her lips and kisses the skin just above the splatters of his blood.
"Perfect," she whispers. "You are magnificent."
"And it is only starting, my love," you reply. "Hand me the knife."
Ellie’s smile widens, a curve of pure veneration. She reaches into the heavy leather roll she brought across the hall. She bypasses the delicate sable brushes and withdraws a heavy, steel hunting knife and places the hilt into your bloody palm. The exchange feels as intimate as a wedding ring slipped onto your finger.
You violently separate him from his armor. The shears bite into the expensive Italian wool of his suit, the crisp cotton of his tailored shirt. You cut away the fabric of his ego, exposing the vulnerable skin beneath. He tries to arch away from the cold metal scraping against his chest, but the paralytic holds him pinned to the floor. The only movement is the bird-like fluttering of his heart and his pupils, moving.
You raise the knife.
You do not butcher him. Butchery is mindless; butchery is what he did to your spirit. What you do is a meticulous dissection. You treat the blade like a palette knife, making slow, deliberate strokes. You carve away the perfection he prized so highly. The steel parts his skin with a whispered hiss.
Oliver’s eyes dilate until the irises are entirely swallowed by black, tears all over his face and the ground.
Blood wells up from the precise, shallow cuts, bright red under the lights. It spills over his collarbones, pooling in the hollows of his chest, dripping onto the plastic sheeting.
"You are garbage" you murmur, the blade tracing a very, very slow crimson line down his sternum. "You´re a pathetic little bitch. You are a useless, stupid, piece of shit. You are nothing. You are dumb, worthless, just my bitch. Those were all things you’ve said to me. But look at you now, Oliver. You are my bitch now."
You lean in, your face inches from his, letting him see the merciless void in your eyes, and laugh. You are a mirror reflecting his own cruelty back at him magnified a thousand times.
Dropping the knife, you pick up the heavy wooden palette. Dip the thickest sable brush directly into the pool of blood and open tissue resting in the hollow of his chest. You mix his life force directly into the heavy mound of Volterra Green and Malachite.
The color morphs into something entirely new—a dark, bruised, necrotic shade of green.
"Dont cry," you say, your voice a soothing lullaby as you raise the dripping brush to his face. "I’m going to make you into art. And then, I’m going to light your body on fire."
You press the brush against his forehead. The mixture of cold oil paint and hot blood smears across his skin. You paint over his brow, down the bridge of his nose, sealing his fate behind a mask of wet pigment.
“Don’t you look so, so pretty Oliver dearest?” you mock, smiling with evil.
Ellie watches from the periphery, her breathing shallow and ragged with a dark high, her hands resting on your shoulders like a guardian angel of vengeance.
The floor is a sea of red and green. Oliver’s breathing grows incredibly shallow, his unblinking eyes tracking the brush until the bloody paint is dragged directly over his vision, finally plunging him into total, agonizing darkness.
And only now, the real work begins.
The clock in the wall ticks, making the passage of six hours. Outside, the storm raging over Silver Lake mirrors the tempest inside 4A. Lighting flashes through the blinds, illuminating a scene that has transcended murder and became an avant grade complete ruin of a human body.
You don't stop, not even for a minute. The initial rush of adrenaline settles into a cold and methodical take down. You turn mundane objects into the instruments of his unmaking.
You return to the kitchen, leaving bloody footprints in the floorboards and the beige carpet he loved so much. You open the drawers, and bring back the silver forks from the dining set he bought to impress his colleagues. You bring back the paring knives, and the kitchen scissors.
For six hours, you take him apart.
The sounds in the studio become a symphony of destruction. The sharp snip of the shears, the heavy thud of the hammer, the metallic clatter of the silverware dropped onto the blood soaked plastic. You carve your pain in his skin, use the forks to stab him, to drag the viscous mixture of paint and blood across his butchered chest.
You punish the muscles that cage you. Ruin the throat that yelled at you. Reduce the man who thought he was a god into a ruined mass of weeping flesh, bone, and blood.
Every time your arms grow heavy, every time the physical exhaustion threatens to slow you down, Ellie is there. She steps into the red sea, and takes the tool of your hands to do her own work. She whispers validating litanies into your ear. She wipes the sweat from your brow with the hem of her shirt. She feeds you the instruments, placid the cold handles into your slippery crimson hands, a surgical assistant in a theater of absolute madness.
“Kepp going,” She murmurs, her lips brushing your temple as you drive a blade down. “You are doing perfect, my muse.”
You do not recognize yourself anymore, and you adore it. The timid and shrinking woman died hours ago, the creature that remains is a feral and starving deity finally gorging herself on justice.
By the time the clock marks 3:00AM, the room is unrecognizable.
Oliver is barely a landscape of a human being. The paralytic has long since merged with the catastrophic shock of the intense trauma and his chest, buried under layers of destroyed tissue and dark green oil paint, barely stutters.
You are standing over him, the iron knife gripped loosely in your hand, your chest heaving. You watch his pathetic struggle to survive. His mouth, smeared with the Volterra green, opens slightly. A wet, rattling sound vibrates in his throat. Honestly, it's impressive that he is not dead.
Not yet.
The final thread of his existence hangs there still. You look down at the man that hit you, traumatized you, bruised you, raped you, lobotomized you, violated you, turned you into a ghost on your own life. The fear in his unblinking eyes has finally glazed over into an uncomprehending void.
“Goodbye, Oliver.” you say, final. “Have fun burning in hell.”
Your grip tightens on the hilt as you stab him. You unleash every tear you have shred caused by him.
The first strike sinks deep into his chest, burying the blade to the hilt. The second tears through his ribs. The third, the fourth, the fifth. You lose count within seconds. The artistic torture of the past hours dissolves into a frenzeid crescendo of rage. Ten times. Twenty.
His blood splashes upward in arcs. It hits your face, painting your cheeks with crimson freckles. It spatters against your eyelashes, blurring your vision in a red haze. It completely soaks your clothes. But you don't care. You welcome the warmth of it against your skin, feeling like a baptism.
You keep stabbing long after the rattling in his throat stops. You keep stabbing until the muscles in your shoulders burn and your wrist aches from the force of it.
When your arm finally gives out, you collapse back onto your heels, gasping for air in the center of the red and green sea. The knife slips from your blood slicked fingers, clattering against the floor.
The silence is absolute. The trap has snapped shut. The cage is broken. The monster is dead.
From the periphery of the shadows, Ellie moves.
She steps over the threshold of the plastic sheeting.The dark red liquid curls around her toes, staining her pale skin, but she walks through it with the serene grace, like wading into a river.
Before she reaches you, she stops. Her hands, steady and purposeful, rise to her face. She is holding the camera—the exact same lens that documented your misery, your bruising, and your quiet weeping through the crack in the blinds for months. But she is no longer photographing a victim.
She raises the viewfinder to her eye.
The mechanical whine of the flash charging cuts through the air of the slaughterhouse. You do not look away, do not hide your face. You kneel there in the sea of red and green, your hair matted to your forehead, your cheeks painted with the splatter of your liberation. Proud.
Click.
The blinding white light explodes in the dark studio, freezing the violence, the paint, and your hollowed-out, obsidian eyes into a single fraction of a second.
Ellie lowers the camera slowly as the digital image reveals itself. Her green eyes are wide, glassy with fanatical amazement. She looks at you the way a mortal looks at a miracle. You are no longer just her obsession, you are the masterpiece she helped chisel out of marble.
She lets the expensive camera drop from her hands. It hits the blood-soaked plastic, forgotten.
Falling to her knees right in front of you, she reaches out, her trembling hands framing your bloody face. Her thumbs gently stroke your cheekbones, smearing his blood across your skin.
"I love you,"
An oath of fealty.
She pulls you forward, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. It tastes of the intoxicating adrenaline of murder. It is a violent, sealing covenant between two predators who have finally claimed their shared territory. You kiss her back, your bloody hands coming up to grip her white tank top.
The drive to the forest is a silent and suspended purgatory. The storm that battered Silver Lake has stopped, leaving the mountain air freezing and thick with the scent of wet soil. The heavy trunk of Oliver's pristine sedan sags with the weight of his carnaged corpse.
When you reach the desolate overlook—a place where the road crumbles into a lightless ravine—the world feels entirely empty. It is just you, Ellie, and the ghost you're about to burn.
You drag him into the driver's seat, his body already stiff, the canvas of green and dried blood hidden beneath a suit you hastily dressed him in. The chemical fumes burn your eyes as you splash the leather upholstery he loved, over the dashboard and his lap. You toss the half empty bottle of bourbon onto the passenger seat.
Ellie stands beside you as you step back, her shoulder brushing yours. She hands you a single, wooden match.
Without a word, you strike the match. The sulfurous hiss is the loudest sound in the forest. A tiny, fragile teardrop of orange flame dances at your fingertips, illuminating the smeared blood drying on your knuckles. You look at the spark realizing it is the final period at the end of Oliver's sentence.
You flick it through the open driver's side window.
The ignition is instantaneous. Fire sucks the oxygen from the air as the gasoline catches.
It detonates into a ravenous and blinding inferno. The flames leap up the upholstery, curling hungrily around the steering wheel, licking at the roof of the cabin. The heat melts away the suffering, burning the paint, turning the shredded tissue into ash and reducing the monster to nothing but an anonymous charred bone.
The heat pushes out in waves, forcing you to take multiple steps back.
Ellie reaches out in the dark, and her fingers find yours. You interlock your hands, her palm sliding perfectly against yours. The grip is ironclad, a start to your new lives.
You stand there, transfixed. The orange and yellow light reflects brilliantly in Ellie's stagnant water eyes. You don't look away from the burning cage. The fire crackles and spits, the leather seats popping violently under the intense thermal pressure.
And then, an explosion tears through the quiet of the canyon. A boom that sends a geyser of sparks and metal shooting up the black sky. The force of it vibrates in the soles of your heavy boots and a plume of thick and oily smoke billows upwards, eclipsing the stars.
You don't flinch at the sound. You lean into Ellie's side, her thumb stroking the back of your hand. The heat of the roaring wreckage warms your face, drying the sweat and blood still clinging to it.
A funeral pyre, a crematorious, and a beacon of absolute absolution. The most beautiful thing you have ever witnessed.
And now, you are anchored to her, entirely and forever, in the slaughter.
Five years is enough time for a world to end and another to be built entirely from its ashes.
That night is nothing but a scorched memory, a far away graveyard where you left your sins, your sorrow, and the burnt remnants of a man who thought he could own you.
4A and 4B remain as just stories now. The frantic hours before dawn when you and Ellie worked shoulder to shoulder in a fugue state of lunacy, scrubbing the beige carpets with bleach and ammonia, erasing every microscopic drop of his existence from the floorboards, are remembered only akin a fever dream
You remember the knock on the door at noon, the somber faces of the detectives holding their hats, breaking the "tragic news" of Oliver's own ending in the fiery forest. You played the role of the grieving widow with the grace of an A-lister actress, collapsing while the officers looked away in respectful pity.
You wore a heavy black lace veil to the funeral, hiding the blissed smile that threatened to break your composure as his aristocratic family wept over a sealed urn of ashes. They never dug deeper. The police never looked past the skid marks and the melted whiskey bottle.
That life, that bruising and treacherous life, is now entirely gone. Buried, or rather scorched from the earth, leaving no trace behind but smoke.
Now, the perpetual rain of Seattle, Washington, washes against the high reinforced glass windows of your sanctuary, a constant, soothing rhythm that keeps the evil outside world at bay.
You live in the subterranean basement beneath Ellie’s isolated, mid-century modern home in the heavily wooded hills of the Pacific Northwest. It is a gilded reliquary, a voluntary kidnapping that you surrendered to with absolute and starving joy.
You are her muse, and in return, she is yours, locked in a perpetual orbit of worship.
The walls of your sprawling underground studio are the testament to this eternal pact. The original and first canvas of Ellie's face—the one you painted with the crushed tube of Malachite and Volterra green while he still breathed—dominates the eastern wall, the date frozen in the corner.
Beside it, framed in ornate Victorian gold, hangs the original picture Ellie took of you kneeling in the sea of blood and paint beside his ruined corpse, your face splattered in scarlet. It is treated with the reverence of a Renaissance painting.
You do not paint with cheap pigments anymore, since Ellie only buys you the highest, most luxurious products. But there is a special pigment that no seller would offer. The ultimate medium stored in the temperature controlled iron safe in the corner. You kept his blood. Siphoned from the floor before the bleach could ruin it, stored in dozens of wax sealed vials, it has oxidized over the years into a rich garnet.
You crush the dried, rusted flakes with a marble mortar and pestle, mixing with linseed oil to paint visceral, breathtaking landscapes of hell and rebirth. Every stroke is a continuation of your vengeance, an eternal desecration.
You never step foot outside, since you have no desire to, and Ellie doesn't have that desire either. The world beyond the door at the top of the basement is chaotic, loud, and a brutal place that once allowed you to be bruised and silenced. Ellie is your absolute shield against it, a fiercely territorial guardian who provides everything you could ever need. Fine canvases, imported teas, silk garments, and a love so heavy and total it feels like being wrapped in a blanket.
She claims she keeps you here because you are divine, too precious to be exposed to the dull, uncomprehending eyes of ordinary mortals. And you agree. You don't want to be seen by anyone else that isn't her.
And in the five years since Silver Lake, Ellie's somber artistic vision has propelled her into the stratosphere of the international art world. She is a renowned, highly sought after photographer, celebrated for her haunting and intimate portraits. What the critics call a macabre genius, you know it's simply the truth—the art world showers her with accolades, completely blind to the fact that the shadow in her work is real, and that the trail of missing people she has quietly removed will never, ever be discovered.
But while Ellie is the public face, the celebrated provocateur of the lens, you are the secret heartbeat of the household, the phantom architect of a legacy built on the ruins of your former life.
She has become your gatekeeper in every sense. Occasionally, you allow her to select a painting for the market. Never the ones containing the darker pigments of your history, or the dozens of portraits of her features, but the works born from your new obsidian peace.
These few, rare canvases are released into the world and fetching astronomical sums from collectors who are drawn to the "unsettling, divine stillness" they claim to find in your brushstrokes. They pay hundreds of thousands for a glimpse into your sanctuary, entirely unaware that the high prices are simply the tax Ellie demands for letting a piece of your soul leave the house.
The arrangement is a symbiotic masterpiece, a closed circuit of creation and consumption that the outside world can only observe through a glass.
It is only tonight that the deadbolt at the top of the stairs is unlocked for you to leave, after half a decade. Ellie’s new gallery exposition—an exclusive, invite only retrospective in downtown Seattle—is opening, and it is dedicated entirely to you. It is a sprawling, panoramic exhibition of her obsession, featuring every photograph she has ever taken of you, curated to tell the story of a goddess rising from the dark.
You sit at your mahogany vanity, wearing a floor-length gown of heavy black silk that pools around your feet, as Ellie stands behind you, her cool hands gently fastening a choker of emeralds around your neck.
“You don't have to tremble, my love” she murmurs, her lips pressing a soft kiss to the scarred skin just below your ear. Her eyes meet yours in the reflection of the mirror, flashing with that familiar hunger “They are only allowed to look, and to worship from a distance. You belong entirely to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, leaning back into the grounding heat of her chest. The smell of her is the only oxygen you need. "It's just strange to let them see me. To let them see how you look at me.”
“They need to see it,” she says, her hands sliding down to your waist, “They need to understand what a true masterpiece is. I have spent years turning my lens into a shire for you, and tonight, the rest of the world gets to bow down. But at midnight, I am the only one who gets to bring the god back to her temple.”
You turn your head, capturing her lips in a deep kiss that seals absolute and victorious possession. When you finally ascend the stairs together, stepping out into the misty Seattle night and slipping into the back of the waiting car, you feel no fear. As you walk into the brightly lit, crowded gallery, the flashbulbs erupting in a blinding storm, you do not shrink.
You glide through the room with your hand firmly locked on Ellie´s, surrounded by massive, towering portraits of your own face.
You walk through the treacherous world completely untouchable, bathed in the blood of your past and the beautiful light of her eternal infatuation.
⚢ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆— Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader
⊹ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒—A pop princess on the rise. A rockstar on the edge of collapse. Your world is all polish and perfection, hers is chaos and self-destruction. You and Ellie Williams were never meant to cross paths. But when the industry sees an opportunity, it spins a story neither of you can escape: a headline-making, career-saving fake relationship.
You need edge. She needs damage control. It should be simple—play the part, sell the history, survive each other. But Ellie is unpredictable, fame is unforgiving, and somewhere between staged appearances and real fights, the harder it is to tell where the act ends and something real begins. And in a world where everything is manufactured, the most dangerous thing you can do is feel.
⊹ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓— 161,1k ⊹ finished
⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒—celebrity!au, popstar!reader x rockstar!ellie, heavy angst, fluff, smut, fake/pretend relationship, mutual pining, explicit sexual content, explicit language, violence, explicit and heavy drug addiction, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, smoking, drug use, recreational drug use, external homophobia, emotionally intense scenes, fame and its consequences, media scrutiny, mentions of eating disorders, mentions of suicidal ideation, pov afab reader-insert, lots of musical references, OC’s, public scandals, story that spans over five years.
Meet our protagonists: one polished, one reckless—one plays the game, the other sets it on fire. Thrown into the same level of relentless spotlight and suffocating stardom, they become each other’s contrast and contradiction. But fame doesn’t care about differences. It thrives on a good story. And in this story, opposites don’t just attract— they collide.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄
— “𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲”› 8,4k
You didn’t mean to find her. Not really. But the music is loud, the drinks are strong, and somehow you’re caught in her orbit. A glance turns into a touch, a whisper into something more. The night blurs in heat and tangled sheets, a secret meant to stay buried. But when morning comes and your phone won’t stop buzzing, one thing is clear—last night isn’t staying hidden.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎
— “𝐖𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞” › 6,8k
One TMZ headline later, and the internet is in a full-blown meltdown. You should’ve known that sneaking out of Ellie Williams’ hotel at sunrise was a disaster waiting to happen. Now the whole world thinks you and Ellie are dating, and there’s only one way out—lean into the chaos. A fake relationship was never part of the plan, but if anyone can pull it of, it’s the two of you… right?
A single Instagram story accidentally hard-launches something that isn’t even real. Or at least, isn’t supposed to be. You tell yourself it’s nothing, but at 3 AM, you’re alone in the studio, writing lyrics you shouldn’t be writing, thinking about her in ways you shouldn’t be thinking. And then Ellie texts. And suddenly, the lines you’ve been so desperate to keep blurred don’t seem so thin.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑
— “𝐒𝐡𝐞” › 7k
Trapped in a carefully crafted illusion, you and Ellie have spent the past month playing the perfect couple for the world to believe. But in the quiet of a hotel room, away from the world’s gaze, a song takes shape between you. A melody that feels too raw, too real, like something neither of you meant to reveal. And as the music flows, so does the unspoken truth.
— 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 › 1.9k
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄
— “𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮” › 19,4k
The biggest night of the year. The Grammys. Cameras flash, reporters push for answers, and the world holds its breath as you and Ellie step onto the red carpet—together. But the night doesn’t end there. Somewhere between the champagne, the piled-up tension, and the magnetic pull drawing you closer, the inevitable finally happens.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗
— “𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 & 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝” › 12.3k
After months of blurred lines and staged headlines, the truth finally breaks through, there’s no pretending anymore. You’re with Ellie now, for real. Wrapped up in tour dates, secret kisses behind curtains, and a love that’s grown too wild to hide. The concert is electric, the afterparty dizzy with heat, and through it all, you can’t keep your hands—or hearts—off each other.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍
— “𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 & 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬” › 13.6k
Three wild, blissfully chaotic weeks with Ellie and the Fireflies were a fantasy, and you have to return to start your own tour, still reeling from the rush. But something’s different now. You saw it, that fleeting moment of truth, the one that cracked everything wide open. No matter how tightly she held you, how fiercely she kissed you, a piece of her was slipping away. And love—no matter how loud, no matter how pure—can’t quiet everything forever.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓
— “𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫” › 17.6k
Ellie leaves before sunrise, and with her goes every trace of the night you thought might save you both. You try to keep moving, caught in the glittering machinery of your own tour, singing songs that taste like ash. But the cracks spread faster than you can hide them. And in a world that never cared if either of you survived it, this part of your story cuts to the question no one ever wants to face—what do you do when love isn’t enough?
After losing everything—the spotlight, the stage, the one you love—you disappeared into the kind of silence that doesn’t echo back. But somewhere in the hush, something began to stir. Not healing. Something darker, softer. A quiet rebirth. Piece by shattered piece, you stitched yourself into something unrecognizable. Not who you were. Not quite who you hoped to be. Just… becoming. This chapter doesn’t just tell your story—it pulls you through it. Breath by breath. A descent, a reckoning, a resurrection. And when you rise again, it’s not to ask for space. It’s to claim it.
— 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓: “𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭” › 20,8k
ᯤSpotify ♫ 𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄’𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐔𝐌 ♫
You’ve seen your side of the story—now it’s time for Ellie’s. After losing herself in letting you go, she plunges deeper into chaos until she's left with nothing but the wreckage of her choices. But just as darkness threatens to consume her entirely, an unexpected lifeline appears in the form of someone she believed she'd lost forever. Forced to confront the devastating reality of her addiction and the damage it has inflicted not only upon herself but on those she loves, she’s ready to reclaim the pieces she abandoned. Through an intimate, raw, and brutally honest journey, we’ll she her rediscover her voice and reconnect with music, walking the fragile line between ruin and redemption.
After watching them lose and bloom, shatter and survive, fate exhales—and answers the question that has haunted every stage, every verse, every sleepless night: will it finally loosen its grip and let them have what was always theirs? Maybe it doesn’t tie things clean. Maybe the red string coils into knots, frays with time, tangles itself around distance and silence and years that almost swallowed them whole. But it never breaks. And now—at last—it pulls tight. Not to strangle, but to lead. This is not the end. This is what happens when stars remember where they belong—and finally,
collide.
𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒
— “𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝” › 9,2k
After everything, this is what happens after they collided. The wedding, the honeymoon, the quiet mornings. The love they fought for finally blooming without fear. This is not a story of falling apart. It’s a story of staying. Of choosing each other every day. Of finding joy at last. This is what happily ever after looks like—messy, loud, beautiful, theirs.
Tumblr. Pure effervescent enrichment. Old internet energy. Home of the Reblogs. All the art you never knew you needed. All the fandoms you c
This tag is for every creation, every edit, every moodboard, essay, drawing, and masterpiece you’ve made because of Collide. I can finally add it now, because I’ve never been more grateful for the space we built together, and the inspiration it held.
Hope you love and enjoy reading this series as much as I loved and enjoyed writing it <3
okay so its 4AM and i just finished editing the collide masterlist while listening to the shape of what i lost playlist…….. that nostalgia hitting like a TRUCK TAKE ME BACK
꒰ ♱ ꒱ abby spanking you for comfort... since nobody ever acknowledges how cathartic spankings could be. ( minors, do not interact. 18+ )
cw ; dom!abby, sub!reader. impact play — spanking. not a punishment. crying — crybaby!reader, sensitive!reader. subspace. aftercare. comfort / stress relief !
"come on over, there you go, good girl." abby guides you across her lap, voice silky smooth and deep. it's as pleasant on your ears as her hands are on the back of your thighs. she runs her hands over the goosebumps on your skin, and pulls up your skirt. "lift your hips."
you follow the instruction without a moment wasted, soon feeling abby slide your panties down your legs. the lace is discarded somewhere across the room, you don't even know, you don't care and you needn't bother trying to. abby's got you. she'll handle everything, and all you need to do is be still.
"there, all ready," abby comments, running a hand over the soft globes of your ass. her free hand slides up your back and into your hair, leaving gentle scratches into your scalp. "how many, baby?"
"five," you murmur, and your voice barely reaches her ears—it's quiet, so quiet, like a little mouse.
"five? yeah?"
"maybe a little more..."
"okay." abby chuckles quietly and gives your bum a light pat before making a decision. "how about seven? eight?"
"seven," you say. "i think."
"you think seven. alright." abby nods before finally starting. you don't have to wait long until she strikes her palm against the right side of your ass, and you let out a quiet hiss. "can you count?"
this is not a punishment. hell, abby never punishes you in the first place. you're too much of a suck-up to step out of line and be bratty. you're a good girl, through and through, and it's very rare that abby seeks to discipline you for anything. if she ever does find reason to punish you, she ends up feeling mean. mean isn't unfamiliar to abby, she's never been afraid of being a bitch. but with you? she hates to be mean to you and make your sensitive soul weep.
this is not about punishing you. you haven't done anything wrong. you haven't stepped out of line, nor made any mistake.
what really happened, is that you had a tough week.
"two.. three!" you yelp, abby's hand once again delivering a firm hit to your ass. it already stings, on your butt and in your eyes where tears build up. another hit makes the tears fall, finally, and it feels so comfortable. "four..."
you begged abby for something that would make you forget about it all. you begged her for something she'd be proud of you for taking. because, goddamnit, you want someone to be proud of you. there was no time to just stop this week. no breaks, no rests, and very little understanding granted when you couldn't handle what was coming your way.
your eyes leak a constant waterfall, a stream of all the tears you held back when it would have been 'unprofessional' or 'weak' to do so.
"good girl, you're taking this so well."
genuinely, this means everything to you. it's all you've wanted to hear.
abby is your favourite person for a reason. she's protection whenever you need, as well as simply being a firm hand, and she's obsessed with looking after you. she never saw herself the type to dote on someone until you had come along. never thought she'd be able to put up with someone so needy. but, it turns out, it's perfect for her.
"five, six..."
"oh, baby, you alright?" abby asks, massaging the angry skin on your bottom. you're beginning to sob louder and louder, making her feel the need to check in. "last one, think you can handle it?"
"y-yes," you stammer, wiping your eyes. more tears continue to fall anyway, so you just give up and lie limply against abby's lap.
"that's a good girl, i knew you could," abby praises.
the last one is harder than the rest. you jolt when it lands, and abby simply watches the flesh ripple from impact. she's quickly soothing the sting and groping the chub, her free hand rubbing your back. she watches your unsteady breathing closely, about to urge you to take a deep breath.
"seven," you say, a small sob falling out of your dry lips. you taste nothing but salty tears and your lip gloss, hear nothing but abby softly hushing you, and most importantly, you think of nothing. simply, nothing.
it feels much lighter. the weight is lifted from your shoulders.
abby lifts you up onto her lap for a big, warm hug, her lips brushing over your temple. "good girl, i'm so proud of you for handling that so well. but it hurts, doesn't it?"
abby's hand rakes through your hair while you splutter out nonsense between sobs. you couldn't get a real word out, only nodding yes, so abby gets to work at laying you down on your tummy and grabbing a soothing lotion.
she warms the balm between her hands for a moment before applying it over your bottom. she watches your muscles tense shortly before relaxing, and listens to you gasp and cry, all because this hit the right spot. you can't think properly like this, head fuzzy with nothing but static.
abby massages you so carefully. you're in a delicate way right now, so she's cautious with you. she squeezes and rubs the sore area, watching the flesh spill out of her palms. she lets out a sigh of satisfaction before tapping your hip.
"it's a little wet down here, baby. do you want me to touch you?"
you needed this.
bonus: this video kinda inspired me, because look how hotttt... so abby coded !! ( link leads to porn video from twitter )
ellie tongue-fucks you after wrecking your body with her strap
CW: fem!reader, dom!ellie, sub!reader, strapping, oral sex (r!receiving), rough sex, overstimulation (?), squirting, missionary, a lot of licking, MINORS & MEN DNI!!
p.s. this is my first time publishing a drabble and first time writing smut so please ignore all the errors i’m pretty much still a noob :p also this is only like 50% proofread so uhh yea
———————————-—————————————
you’re already a fucking mess beneath her. hair’s all messy, sheets ruffled, legs spread wide as ellie drives into you with her strap-on. her face is buried in the crook of your neck, which is covered in bruises and marks from her rough sucking earlier.
“ellie—wait—oh fuck—” your moans are stifled as she covers your mouth with her rough hand. the other one, covered in her monochrome moth and tangled fern tattoo, is reaching down between your legs to rub tight circles around your aching clit.
“use your words, baby. talk to me.” her voice is clearly on the edge, but still so soft and gentle, unlike her rough and deep thrusts in and out of your wet cunt.
“‘m gonna—fuck—i’m gonna cum—” you reach for her arms helplessly, digging your nails into her tattooed skin.
“come on—shit—come for me, darling.” her thrusts become more frantic as the base of the strap rubs against her clit, making her chase her own release. she slams her mouth into yours, sucking and whimpering breathlessly between each kiss.
the room is filled with wet, obscene sounds of her hips colliding violently with your pussy. your walls clench as you get closer to climaxing.
“pleasepleaseplease—i’m cumming—ah—” your legs begin twitching intensely, toes curling and wrapped around her waist. the pleasure is too overwhelming, too much for you to handle. your head is spinning, absolutely drunk and blanked out from ellie’s rough fucking. your pussy walls wrap around the dildo, squeezing it tightly.
“fuck—oh my god, baby…” ellie breathes out every word, her chest rising and falling before her body collapses on yours. evidently, she has also came as hard as you.
she slowly pushes her body up away from yours, looks down at the mess that you’ve created, and smirks.
“let’s get you all cleaned up, shall we?” she plants a soft kiss on your jaw before slowly moving down, until her face is up against your swollen pussy.
“look at you… all swollen and red because of how rough i was…” her voice hums against the heat between your legs, sending vibrations all throughout your body.
you can’t even make out a word before she starts pushing her flat tongue to your throbbing clit.
“ellie—please—i just came—”
“you can tell me to stop,” she teases as she continues to lick and suck on your aching heat.
her tongue latches onto your pussy; she’s still giving soft and slow flicks as if she’s awaiting a response.
“should i stop?” she looks up at you, looking all innocent with those puppy eyes that can get you weak in seconds. god, she can be so deceiving sometimes.
“no—god, no—please don’t.” you’re on edge again, your moans broken and whiny, as if you’re begging ellie to do anything but stop.
“i see.” ellie diverts her focus back to your wet folds and dives back even deeper this time. her tongue attacks your cunt with longer and slower slides, licking away all your juices.
“fuck, baby… you taste heavenly,” she exclaims, whispering into your depths. “i could eat this pussy all day.”
as if she can feel you getting closer to the edge again, she begins eating you out more intensely, like a starved woman.
“are you going to cum again, baby?” you nod frantically. your hand fisting her hair, your back arched, and your eyes rolling back tell her everything she needs to know.
“come on… come on my tongue—” her words break as you release hot bursts of liquid all over her face.
her body stills for a bit, astounded at the sight of you squirting helplessly. your disheveled state makes her heart throb.
“holy shit, baby—” she takes in the beautiful mess in front of her, completely wrecked and heaving.
“did i just—i’m so sorry—i-i didn’t mean to—” your voice is broken from all the pent-up stimulation your body just endured.
“dont say that, baby.” she’s already come up from between your legs, now facing your flushed cheeks and teary eyes. “now i know how sensitive you can get when i go overboard… it’s fucking cute.”
you manage a weak smile over your embarrassment, still so sensitive and fragile after the intense encounter.
“now, let’s get you cleaned up properly this time.” she smiles at you before hoisting your body up toward the bathroom.
a/n: pls drop some feedbacks if you can in the cmts !!!
CW: Religious themes, dark themes, mentions of death, gun violence, religious guilt, homophobia, angst, unhealthy family dynamic, unhealthy fatherly possessiveness, sexual themes, insinuations of various forms of abuse, oral(r!receiving), soft dom!Abby, forbidden relationship, Abby being a sweetie :(
AN: EEEEEEE third chapter is finally here!!!! Sorry for the wait lol lowkey lost motivation... BUT I'M BACK! And I'm planning on posting a few more fics :P
Weeks had gone by since Abby… helped you. The dynamic shifted as you both grew far more affectionate with each other. She would gently stroke your cheek and leave a gentle kiss on your forehead every night. She would gently lift you by your waist to move you, as if you weighed the same as paper.
It felt so wonderful, but also extremely wrong. This wasn’t what you should be doing. You shouldn’t conduct yourself in such a manner. You should end it; tell her to take her disgustingly sinful behaviour elsewhere. You should tell your father.
No.
You couldn’t. He would surely kill Abby and then punish you for what the two of you had done. Especially since it took place on his land, in his house. He would probably try to kill her. And one thing about your father was that when he set his mind to something, he got it done. The thought of your father’s wrath being put against Abby made you unbelievably sad to think about. You wouldn’t wish your father’s wrath upon anyone, not even the Devil himself.
So you stayed quiet, deciding to just enjoy Abby's company and affection.
But her company was starting to come to an end as the first fall of snow sprinkled onto the farm. You looked at the powdery substance with hatred. You used to love watching the first fall of snow, but now it just filled you with dread and sadness. Abby was going to have to leave for however long the winter lasted. You would be alone again.
You carefully waddled through the snow to the barn. It was officially Abby’s last day on the farm until the snow went away. You pushed the heavy doors open before a particularly strong gust of wind swung them open, causing you to stumble and fall right into Abby’s arms. She caught you before you hit the snow and hay covered floor and gently lifted you up, setting you aside to wrestle the barn doors closed before locking them shut. She huffed before flashing you a smile. But it faltered once she saw the sad expression on your face. She stepped closer and held your cheek like she always did, her gloved hand slightly rough on your cold flushed cheeks.
“What’s wrong, angel?” Abby asked in the sweet voice she used only with you.
You looked down and fiddled with the zipper of her jacket, trying to look anywhere by her eyes as you held back tears. Abby noticed your avoidance and gently moved her thumb across your cheek.
“You know you can tell me anything, what’s botherin’ you?” Her voice had become softer with concern.
When you finally looked up at her the damn holding your tears back finally broke. You let out a soft sob and brought a hand up to your nose to try to hide a little.
“I don’t want you to leave.” You admitted after a moment.
Abby’s face saddened as she tugged you into her arms quickly. One of her hands cradled the back of your head as the other rubbed your back. She shushed you comfortingly, hating seeing you cry, especially when she was the reason.
“Oh, angel, I know, I don’t want to leave you either.” She murmured as she rested her chin on your head. “But you know I can’t stay.”
You sniffled and clutched her jacket tighter in your fists. “I know but it still hurts.” You whimpered.
Abby’s heart shattered as she heard how deeply this was going to affect you. She knew leaving you for several months would hurt like a son of a bitch but goddamn she did not expect it to be this hard. Unsure of how to make it better Abby simply held you as you cried into her chest. She rubbed your back, occasionally murmuring sweet nothings into your hair.
When you finally pulled away just enough to look up at her, Abby tore off her gloves so she could wipe away your tears. You looked at her with so much sadness in your eyes. You got so deep inside your head that part of you convinced yourself that she would never come back, that you would stay on this farm forever; trapped and alone. It would be like she never existed, like she was a figment of your imagination. You would go back to your dull and unfulfilling life. Church boys, your father’s odd behaviour, your mother’s chiding, the empty feeling in your chest…
“Hey,” Abby’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. She lifted your chin with her index and thumb and looked at you with those caring, gentle eyes you often sought out. “It’s just until winter ends and then I’ll come right back to ya. And we might see each other in town, you never know.” She was clearly trying to put a hopeful spin on the situation.
“But Abby, daddy never lets me leave the farm unless I’m with him. Says it’s too dangerous out there for puritan girls like me.” Your voice was small and soft as you spoke. Abby sighed softly and lifted her other hand to hold your face even more.
“I’m sorry, darlin’, I wish I could take you with me; show you a better life, away from all this bullshit.” Abby spoke softly and looked into your eyes with a bit of conflict. Her eyes slowly trailed down your face to your lips, lingering there before meeting your eyes again. She opened her mouth to say something before closing it and deciding not to.
“Promise to visit me tonight?” You whispered softly.
“Always.” Abby whispered back.
That night, you weren’t sure what had gotten into you but you hurried through dinner and rushed upstairs to your bedroom, giddy to see Abby. You felt a familiar heat in your lower belly as you sat on your bed, kicking your feet over the edge with contained excitement. You waited until you heard the sound of the ladder and quickly straightened your posture and smiled widely. Abby climbed inside and looked at you with that gentle smile of hers as she stepped closer to the bed. She stood right in front of you in all her glory. She gently lifted your chin to look up at her and circled her thumb along your skin.
“Hey, angel,” Abby said in a hushed voice as she admired you. You were clad in her favorite nightgown of yours; the white one with the bow that hung delicately above your breasts. “You look so pretty.” She whispered as her hand trailed down to gently toy with the strap of your nightgown.
A blush creeped up your neck at her compliment. It always made your head feel fuzzy when she complimented you. You gazed up at her with a slightly sheepish smile.
“Wore it for you.” You murmured softly.
Abby grinned and hummed in approval. Her fingers moved from your strap to your neck and gently cupped the side of it. The contact made your pulse quicken and your breath hitch. But you couldn’t get distracted. You had a plan, something you had wanted for a while but were too afraid to admit it. Your hand gently touched the one on your neck and you tilted your head down to kiss her hand, moving from her fingers to her wrist before looking up at her once more.
“Abby..” You whispered softly and gently tugged her down by her shirt. Abby sat next to you on your small bed, the worn wood groaning and the mattress springs squeaking softly at her weight.
“Yes, angel?” Abby whispered back as she slid her hand into yours.
“I.. I’ve been feeling something. Something I shouldn’t be feeling.”
“Care to elaborate, darlin’?” Abby encouraged with a soft squeeze on your hand.
You looked at her for a moment, really looked at her. She truly was gorgeous. Stray hairs that had fallen from her braid framed her face. Her lips looked softer than clouds, so kissable and tempting. Her eyes were soft and gentle, the way she looked at you made you feel as though you could do anything; like you meant something. Her skin was warm, it always was. These simple thoughts plagued your mind. At first you felt dirty, disgusting, but now.. Now you didn’t care. In your eyes you already belonged to Abby. She had captured your heart and soul without even knowing it. She showed you things you never even bothered to think of. She made you feel things you never thought you would. She treated you like you were something to be cared for, to be protected.
“I think.. I love you.” You confessed softly and looked into her eyes, you braced yourself for rejection but it never came.
Abby’s eyes softened at your confession. Her free hand came up to your cheek as her lips formed a gentle smile.
“Good, cause it would’ve been awkward if it was just me.” Abby whispered with a hint of that wonderful playfulness you had grown to adore. “I love you too, darlin’.”
You let out a soft breath you had been holding. You gazed up at her tenderly and brought your hand up to her cheek. Your soft, unworked hands touched her freckled, sun kissed skin. You scooted closer to her, your thighs colliding with an electrifying touch. You looked at her lips before looking at her eyes, silently asking for permission. Abby nodded gently, her hand came up to splay over your waist, encouraging you to continue. You took a soft breath and slowly leaned in. Abby didn’t rush you or smash her lips against yours like you were used to. Instead she stayed open, letting you go at your pace and leaving room for you to back out at any time.
When your lips finally connected, you let out a soft sigh of relief. This was different from the quick kisses she had left on your lips that night she “helped” you. This kiss was slow, tender, and filled with emotion. You stayed still for a moment, expecting her to take full charge and dominate your lips, but Abby simply moved her lips gently against yours, savoring the sweet taste of your mouth. Her hand let go of yours and came to rest on your cheek, deepening the kiss slightly. She was so gentle and careful with you, as if you were made of glass. It made you melt like putty in her hands; you were hers to mold and shape however she liked. You wanted to give yourself to her completely.
You wanted to be hers.
And that's when it suddenly all made sense. All that loneliness, all those disgusted looks you gave the church boys and previous farmhands when they hollered at you. The way you never found yourself dreaming of a husband at your side. The way you blushed whenever you interacted with a beautiful woman. It both scared and comforted you. You were happy you finally started to accept it and realize it, but you were also deeply terrified. You knew the wrath of your town, and more specifically, your father. You knew you’d be dead the second word got out, whether it’d be by a neighboring farmer or your own parents.
But the feeling of Abby’s lips against yours, her strong hands gently holding you; it all made the fear settle in the back of your mind. You felt untouchable when you were with her. Like she was your protective shield from the harsh unaccepting world.
As you both parted for air, you had a moment of confliction, like you were weighing odds inside your head. Eventually you settled on a decision. You gently tugged up your nightgown, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside.
Abby watched with wide eyes at your sudden boldness before gently admiring your supple, plush breasts. Your chest moved up and down as your breathing grew heavier. You felt exposed but you felt free, like the tethers of your parents' expectations finally snapped, setting you free and tumbling right into Abby’s arms. You gently took her hand and lifted it to your waist and up your side until her thumb brushed along the underside of your breast. Abby’s breath hitched as she felt the soft skin for the first time. Sure she had already had sex with you, but this was different, she was finally seeing you completely bare and touching you in a way you both craved.
You let go of her hand as she moved to cup your breast, her other hand joining in as well. Your head lolled back as she brushed her thumbs over your nipples, the buds hardened instantly from the contact. Abby’s hands slid to your hips and pulled you into her lap before resuming their kneading on your breasts.
“You’re so beautiful, sweetness.” Abby murmured as she tucked her face into your neck. Her lips gently sucked and nipped at the delicate skin, leaving barely there marks. She held herself back to not leave any marks that would be visible by morning; knowing you would get into trouble for it. She heard your breath tremble and a soft whimper fall from your lips. The angelic sound sent pulses to her core.
Abby gently trailed her kisses down to your breasts. She was a little less reserved with her marking, knowing it would be hidden under your clothes. She felt you tense once you saw a red mark forming on your left breast. Abby noticed and paused, looking up at you and sitting up straight.
“Everything alright, angel?” She whispered softly and her eyes held concern.
You bit your lip before murmuring: “Nothin’, just.. Don’t leave any marks.”
Abby was slightly confused by your request but respected it nonetheless. She continued with her gentle sucking, leaving the kind of subtle marks that would be gone by morning.
You relaxed into her arms once again and let out soft noises as Abby laid you down gently. She sat up between your legs and tugged off her shirt, revealing her breasts. You gazed up at her and it seemed like your hands had a mind of their own, because as soon as Abby was close enough to touch, your hands attached like velcro to her breasts. The flesh was soft and squishy, her breasts were smaller and fit perfectly into your hands. You marveled at the feeling, the weight, of them in your hands. Abby groaned softly as you touched her. She lowered herself to kiss you gently. You stayed that way for a while until the ache between your legs grew unbearable.
Your hands traveled down her toned abdomen and to her jeans, you toyed with her belt buckle, too shy to tug it off. Abby caught on quickly and pulled away, she got off the bed to tug off her pants and her boxers along with them. She quickly returned to the bed and left a soft peck on your cheek, your throat, your chest; slowly making her way down your tummy until she reached your cotton panties. The white fabric was soaked with your arousal, an off-white patch of wetness made Abby’s heart skip a beat. You were like this because of her. She could hardly believe it.
Her finger gently trailed over the wet patch, gently teasing your sensitive folds through your panties. After hearing your whines pick up Abby’s eyes flickered up at you.
“Mind if I take these off, sweetness?” She murmured, her voice slightly husky and low.
You nodded quickly but Abby gently squeezed your hip.
“Words, sweet girl.”
“Yes, please, Abby.” You whispered softly and watched as she hooked her finger into the waistband of the cotton whites before pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside.
Abby had seen your pussy before but not like this, like this she got an up close look at the pretty pink folds. She gazed at how your clit twitched when she blew on it and how your hole pulsed around nothing. The sight was erotic in nature but Abby couldn’t help but find the beauty in it. Everything about you was beautiful to her. Your laugh, your face, your body. You were her angel.
Her fingers gently moved up to part your folds, your hips bucked at the touch and a soft whine escaped your lips. Abby couldn’t help but let out a chuckle before placing a kiss on your thigh.
You looked down at her and your hands made their way to her hair. Your fingers tried to thread through her hair but it proved to be difficult due to it being tied back into her usual braid. So your hand went down and tugged the elastic from her hair, gently undoing the braid. Abby didn’t protest, she nuzzled against your thigh, tilting her head forward so you had better access to her hair. Once you got it completely undone, you could’ve cried when you looked at her. She looked so pretty. Her hair held soft waves from being braided all day long, framing her face gently. She looked incredibly soft like this.
“You’re so pretty.” You whispered softly as you threaded your finger through her hair.
Abby chuckled softly, briefly looking down to conceal how much your words affected her before looking back up at your ogling eyes. She gently kissed up your thigh, slowly making her way to your core. You eyed her a bit curiously, having never known this was an option, but it made you shiver.
When Abby finally made contact it was like you had reached the heaven your mother spoke of every morning. You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep quiet as Abby’s tongue expertly lapped at your folds. She flicked your clit gently before closing her lips around it, sucking softly. Your hand tightened its grip in her hair, needing an anchor to keep from thrashing too much. When your hips started to buck and squirm, Abby held them down with her strong arm while her free one held your thigh gently, keeping you spread and open for her.
It didn’t take long for you to come. Your eyes squeezed shut and your thighs quaked around Abby’s head as she lapped up your release. She eased you down from your high and gently cleaned you with her tongue.
She carefully crawled back over you and leaned down to kiss your cheek, a bit of your wetness smeared onto your skin and you giggled softly. You gazed up at her with a loving smile. If this was supposed to be a sin, then why did it make you feel so happy and loved?
You wiped away your arousal from Abby’s chin with your thumb before kissing her lovingly. Abby reciprocated eagerly, her lips moving delicately against your own. You could stay like this forever if you could, just holding her close and tasting yourself on her lips. When Abby parted for air she sat up slowly and stroked your thighs soothingly.
“You feelin’ good, angel?” She murmured softly, a hint of uncertainty in her tone, like she was secretly scared you hadn’t enjoyed yourself.
You sat up and climbed into her lap, straddling her. Abby’s hands instantly found your thighs again, squeezing gently. You cupped her cheeks and smiled at her before nodding gently.
“I’m feelin’ better than I have in a long time.” You whispered and kissed her gently. Abby moved her hands to your back, wrapping her arms around you. She would hold you forever if she could. She wanted to shrink you down and carry you around in her pocket, just to have you with her at all times.
When you pulled away, Abby tucked her face into your neck, inhaling your scent and pressing a soft kiss to the skin. You hummed softly at the peck, pressing one to her neck as well.
“Fuckin’ love you, angel.” Abby murmured into your shoulder. You giggled and threaded your fingers through her hair again.
