Soo when i first read tag you’re it you hadn’t really posted much or at all and IK it was 3 years ago when that story came out BUT it still affects me smmmm💔 I love that story and i re read it every once in a while and I was wondering if there will ever be a chance of it having some kind of spin off? idk if that’s the correct term but hopefully yk what i meant😭❤️!!
HIIII dear thank u omg i do think about revisiting that universe sometimes bc I love that Ellie but in my head reader experienced the best pussy of her life n then killed herself … it’s jsut hard flr me to create a universe with her still alive
HOWEVER I have a draft somewhere of Ellie of Ellie manically sketching her pussy and then getting off to it idk where it is doe LOL
warnings: post santa barb!ellie(her n r are 28), sadist x masochist, childhood… acquaintances?, traumatized freaks, heavy dubcon[spitting, degradation, squirting, dumbification, scratching, hair pulling], mentions of vomit, a bit of angst, allusions to sub/dom drop
a/n: haiiii i miss ellie FUUUCKKK
Insomnia became a gateway to you.
She never fucking sleeps, doesn’t remember the last time she slept deeply enough to dream, or not at all. The brain is interesting. It remembers everything, and yet has enough strength to make the physical being forget it all in order to function, to survive. She’s barely living.
Everyday moves at the same pace. Get up. Don’t eat. Walk with no destination. Kill a lot. Think even more. Go home. Don’t eat. Don’t sleep. Think. Her brain refuses to turn off for even a moment of relief. The benefits of sleep will probably reset her, give what her body craves, but the being that rests in the middle of her skull prefers to eat away at her stature. Laughs. Taunts. Fills with images of her past, which she forcibly replaces with her vice. No longer alcohol, or the weird berries, or blood.
Your eyes. Your pain.
Whenever she finds you, it ends the same, and it starts again the next day, and the day after.
I can’t, I can’t, oh my fucking god, yes—
Ellie remembers things about you.
It isn’t the first time you’ve been pressed under her with this much scrutiny: hand on the back of your neck, fingernails dug into the end of your scalp while the other, the non-destroyed, batters you so deeply. She came to you angered at 17; freshly dumped and isolated and detached and craving death. She didn’t have the capacity to elaborate what had her so twisted, mainly for her own protection, but she had you, pushed into the wall with a hand twisted tight in your hair, craning your throat for her to stain blue and red before leaving you there, teary-eyed, needy, and stupid. She hardly knew you at the time, but you were around, and you didn’t argue. One trait she appreciated, and still does.
Her memory is shot, but she’ll always think about that desperate look in your eye before that door slammed shut years ago. It still hits like a shock through the spine after all these years.
She was always encouraged to find an outlet as a kid. By him, by Tommy, by Dina… Write, sketch, murder… she did it all. Still finds herself caught in that loop, but it never sticks the way it should. Not anymore. She’s still suicidal, impulsive, hurt down to her marrow…
Just when she thought her time on Earth had come to a close, the universe begged her to stay through the eyes of a hopeless admirer.
Ellie doesn’t know much, but she knows you, has learned you; carries that little crush you’ve always had on her everywhere you go like a ditzy schoolgirl. When she’s hurting, bruised and beaten to hell, agitated, heartbroken, desperate to leave her body for a time—she finds you. Not like a lover—nothing close to that. Like an addict to a needle. Bloody and destructive, but it bonds you, reshapes the cells that rush through your veins so that you crave her. You never complained when she treated you like something disposable. Never asked questions, never demanded—unless it was for more. Hurt you more, make you cry some more, make you come some more. When you’re like this, you’re unrecognizable; no longer sweet or misguided or impressionable.
You’re fucked up. She prefers you like that, it makes her feel less lonely.
Her wrist almost snaps when your thighs lock her in place, wetness surging to soak the dirtied blanket under your waist. That’s your third and Ellie bets it’s the nastiest. That pillow trapped between your teeth hides nothing; you’re so fucking loud and you move too much and you curse like you despise her very existence. And all Ellie does is snort, scoff at you like you’re pathetic. It gets you tighter. Sue her.
“That was a good one, huh? Want some more, you slut?”
“I can’t, baby, no, no, fuck—“
She ignores your pleas. Pushes in deeper. “You’re sucking me in. You can take it.”
You’re too sweet to not take it.
And when she goes, your hand catches her wrist so tight that your thumbprints leave indents. You sob and kick against where she sits on the backs of your thighs, all while pushing your hips back to meet her rough jabs. Her hand snags tight at your scalp to crane your neck, some strands ripped from the follicle. The tension in your body loosens for a split second and she shudders.
She spits against your ear. “You want me off? Then move me.”
But you won’t. You can’t. She loves that you can’t.
The pillowcase drags off your tongue before you beg and beg for everything, nothing, all that rests in between, spit-filled, like your tongue weighs a ton in your mouth. She hardly understands you but that’s what she wants. You’re almost there, right at that pinnacle, right where she needs you. That state that you sink into gives her purpose. She needs it, especially after today. Emptying your brain will reset hers; she needs you to need her, fall into her completely, understand her—see her in a light that no one will ever see her in again, not after everything. A healer, someone gentle after destruction. A necessity.
You need her—you need more from her and you’ll drop, and she’ll catch you. Her mind races a million miles, all with the same mantra.
Give it, give it, give it to me.
“‘m so messy, ‘m yours, fuck me, please, please, yes—“
“Shhh, I know. My messy girl. Show me how dirty I make this pussy.”
“can’t, ngh—can’t!—“
“Yes you can. Just like I trained you to, c’mon.”
She feeds your head with verbiage for you to repeat, calling yourself sloppy, calling yourself dumb and stupid and a whore, and it’s all for her. You clamp so tight on her fingers that she nearly sobs. You’re all snotty and tear-soaked, and she hisses curses in your ear. All you can manage are garbled gasps and begs for a kiss. Her heart cracks in a way she wishes it didn’t.
She doesn’t give you one. You’ll earn it like you’ve earned everything else from her.
Her thoughts jumble and bleed into one; from excitement to anguish to desperation—the need to satisfy her itch, washes over her when you suddenly go quiet. That’s what she needs, your brain so warped in pleasure that you lose control of your voice, of every part of your body. You’re so close, you’re so fucking close.
“It’s right there, baby, I feel it. Just give it to me, yeah?” She slurs, drool left on your cheek from when she licked your tears. You cry so good. Fuck you for being so fucking good. “‘M right here, just give it to me, please, dirty fucking bitch.” She whispers that last part with so much conviction.
When you scream, Ellie’s ears ring, a venomous grin blooming across her face, eyes spaced out and crazed, infatuated.
Her hand shoves your face into the pillow once more to hush you, all while she relishes in the feeling of you pulsing, borderline strangling her, leaving her fingers white and dripping. She watches your body fight between pain and pleasure, savors the red lines and blood that crest over your back, hair matted. You’re a sight when you’re like this—you’re a fucking sight, you’re everything, but you’ll never understand.
You cry and cry and it’s music, even when your nails dig into her, beg her to move, to stop. Ellie hushes you, lifts her shirt and bra enough so your skin can cling to hers. Clumsy hands reach for more of her weight on your spine until she subdues, falling flat into you. Your breaths match.
“You did so good. I’m sorry. You did so good,” she sounds equally as exhausted as you feel, “you did so good. I’m sorry.” Her fingers rest inside you, feeling the last bits of your spasms. Any movement, she fears, will send you spiraling all over again. She can’t give you anything but cheap apologies; it sinks into her, that guilt. She’ll never be able to shake it. Her limbs don’t feel like hers when she shifts, moving the hand in your hair to the one near your side to interlock her middle finger with your pinky.
When you don’t provide that reassuring squeeze, something wobbles with uncertainty in her chest. Her brain, how quickly it convinces that you hate her, that you despise her turmoil, that you never want to see her again. She shifts away, slightly, a sharp inhale brushes against your neck. You must feel her incoming dread, she earns a twitch. Not a squeeze, but enough for her to breathe like normal. To recenter. Her head falls against your back once more.
After a beat, she asks, “can I pull out?”
Another twitch against her finger.
When she does, you make a noise so nasally, she’s sure you’ll start sobbing again. She lifts your head gently, by your jaw this time, to stuff her sopping fingers into your mouth. She glides on your tongue with ease, the soft, pleased noises that you make twisting something sharp in her stomach.
“Thank you.”
“You did so good.”
“I’m so sorry.”
You garble something between each robotic statement before she shushes you gently.
Minutes pass like hours while she cleans you, tidies your bed, drips water into your mouth, ices where she'd hit too hard. In these moments, her veins refill with something pure, no longer the dark pools of sludge that block her spirit. Blood flows easier, making her vigilant in caretaking. The second your head hits the fresh pillow case, you’re out cold.
Ellie’s fully dressed where she stands over you, fingers tapping aimlessly against her thigh. She’s nervous… about what? You’re peaceful, hydrated. You’re safe. She’ll lock your door before she leaves like always. There’s no threat. Why are her ears ringing?
It’s the quickest she’s ever left your home, the mat that hides your key sloppy thrown near your front door. Her body shakes like it senses a threat. The greatest one.
She never gave you that kiss.
Her nausea is too overpowering. She hacks up acid right before she reaches her garage.
theartofmadeline
janainaart
vaporwave
kianamaiart