corruption kink, fem!reader, age gap, body worship, biting kink, fingering, clothed smut, you call her âcaityâ
older!caitlyn who definitely has a corruption kink because sheâs way older than you and her years ahead of you gives her quite the advantage in both the bedroom and financial standing. She never shames you for it, rather she finds your innocence in a lot of things in the world cute and she enjoys helping you navigate your problems like theyâre her own. She also enjoys holding all the power in bed, especially when youâre so positively surprised by all the things sheâs capable of.
older!caitlyn who takes you to expensive boutiques just to guide you to the rather spacious changing room. Youâre adorned in glittery dresses she lets you pick out and sits by as she watches you slowly twirl to show off how pretty you look. âThatâs my girl,â she says, extending an arm for you to come sit on her lap. You obey, wrapping your arms around her neck, âthank you for taking me shopping today, Caity.â The nickname warms her heart as she brings you closer, placing a careful kiss on the column of your throat. âOf course, my gorgeous girl.â
older!caitlyn who definitely keeps sex toys in the limo.
older!caitlyn who enjoys buying you expensive lingerie and then ripping it off your body as she nips at your soft skin, leaving marks all along the smooth surface, kissing you like sheâs worshipping you with her mouth.
older!caitlyn comes back from work, pinning you to the couch where you spent most of your day after college, âthereâs my pretty girl.â She tugs your shirt up, giving your hip a gentle squeeze. âWhat did you do all day?â She asks in a soft, gentle voice as her hand worked its way past your pajamas pantsâ waistband. Your lips part a little as a small sound leaves you, legs parting subconsciously to give Caitlyn better access. She rubs your cunt, your sticky juices swirling around with her fingers. Your arms tighten around her Caitlynâs neck. âMmmm⌠Caity, that feels so good.â Caitlyn kisses you on the lips, her fingers working faster as she slowly parts your folds, and dips in two fingers. Her slender, experienced digits work their way inside expertly, illiciting small sounds of pleasure from you. Your breath quivers. âOh, Caity!...â
đđŞđťđˇđ˛đˇđ°đź : older Ellie (30s), younger you (21), fluff, swearing, mentions of y/n.
đŞ/đˇ : i had a really fun time writing this. Despite not being 100% fluent in english, my words come from the heart. Thanks for reading! Tune in for chap 2! đ¤
The day i saw your white Mustang...
It is a sunny, warm afternoon. The sky blue and clean, the grass from the sidewalk a vivid green and the crowd of people around the rows and rows of classic cars stretched across the fairgrounds, gleaming beneath the sun. People wandered between them with cameras around their necks and drinks in hand, stopping every few feet to admire polished chrome or ask owners questions about restorations. You walk rather slowly, simply admiring old cars and bending over sometimes to read the plaques if it interested you. The people around you are mostly of age, tattoos, long gray beard and a pinching stare that enhaces its power due to your status: young, alone, a woman in the middle of such contrasting scene...Yet you've grown to quite like it. With your earphones playing Lana Del Rey and Mazzy Star on Blare, sometimes taking a break to listen to the birds chirping and the thick, raspy voices from old car owners in the middle of obsnoxious conversations.
You enjoy the foreign place, the foreign faces. It allows you to be your own quiet self. It allows you to be serene and observant, quite nosy if you were to describe it yourself, because you like to see the things from an unseen angle, from an underground perspective. You like to see things that are yet to be seen by each and every eye surrounding you. So you walk in the same pace as before, slow, unbothered by time and space, listening to the rarely-spoken voices of car owners who don't receive so much attention since, now you find yourself closer to the other side of the festival.
If someone asked you anything related to horsepower or engines, you'd simply nod politely and flash a meek smile. You have no idea how to describe in simple words as to why you came here.
But if anyone, and you mean it, anyone who asks with mild interest, you'd explain it is because you feel the need to explore more of this big world that seems so gray in the day a day, tiring old routine. To understand different minds. To touch your sensitive heart with the poetry of vividness, of finding your place in earth through foreign experiences. You want something solid, something real. Something that pulls you out of this dissociative bubble you created in your head, something that can roar you to life back again. Something sweet, but roughened by time, sharpened by life and imperfect by its odds and scars and scrapes. You wish, and by acting on it, immediately succeed on finding new ideas and words and brands, hues and inspiring faces to write about. It fills your artist vein and heart with joy to think that, to simply have inspiration, you can simply step outside and look around your tiny world.
You absentmindedly stepped closer, wide eyes, and delicate hands clasped behind your back, leaning just a tad bit, just enough to notice the chrome trim that isn't flawless, slightly dull and thick, the small scratches near the wheels, a few areas where the plating had started to pit ever so slightly, a tiny chip in the windshield, a faint discoloration where a sticker might have once resided. And the insides..Brown leather seats, richly worn, with a deep, almost earthy tone that deepened with age. This car is what you look for. It is the ideal of lived-in, loved, cherished and constant that you perhaps could only find in an object. A car whose owner placed an invisible brand on it. A quite possesive one, you noticed as you lean closer, inspecting its worn, yet undeniably polished leather seats. You suddenly cling to the idea that its owner is completely and intrinsically related to this car, even so they are reflected through it. You see a person that is secretly careful with the details, but isn't afraid of imperfection, an owner whose identity revolves into something closed off, yet blooms at night, when the sunny, burning unpleasant eyes of strangers won't touch their hidden secret wounds. You smile to yourself, crouching down to touch the wheel, the one and only place you felt like allowing yourself to do so. Because exposing such thing? showing such vulnerability to the world through a car is brave. And braveness is something so...Untouchable. So deeply foreign for you. And it's what makes it so intriguing. You like unfamiliarity.
"you like her?''
The raspy, undeniably feminine, rough voice caught you by surprise. As if popping you from the observer bubble and forcing you back into reality. You jumped before you could hold yourself, eyes wide like the ones of a deer caught in the headlights, parted lips, crouching to the floor as if you've been caught. Caught, doing what?
You fix your posture and stand up, legs wobbly from being crouched in the same postion for so long, tucking a strand of hair behind you ear nervously. So this is who you are looking for.
"...Sorry about that."
The woman, apearing to be somewhere in her 30s, visibly older than you, visibly more aware of her surroundings, furrowed her brows, that constellation of freckles on her forehead creasing slightly.
"About what?"
You blinked once...Then twice. And pressed your lips in a thin line, a deep sigh erupting from your nostrils as you looked down with a small apologetic smile, hands resting on your sides.
"shouldn't have touched it."
The woman in front of you chuckled, a worn out, soft sound. She seemed so...Used to people. It is evident she is older. More experienced. And it leaves you quite infatuated by it. Why is it?
Perhaps as if those seemingly rough-to-the-touch hands could protect, the same way she did with her car. Hands that seem so direct and straight to the point at first glance, but could be gentle when it meant to take care of delicate things.
"You weren't trying to steal it, right?"
You panic. Because the mere prospect of being caught, or being perceived as doing such thing gives you chills on your spine. Disturbing people is one of your biggest nightmares. You shake your head and force a nervous laugh out.
The woman's eyes narrowed a fraction. And she laughed. Gods, she was messing with you. And you knew it from the beggining, but once again-the prospect, the mere prospect...
And how could you ever begin to ignore it? That quiet, raspy laugh, and this sudden joy erupting your senses when she expressed her own amusement so interestingly. How her lips twitched, but didn't quite reach out for an actual smile. You were truly captivated by the way she so casually read the room and was so nonchalant over messing with people jokingly. You could never. The mere prospect....
"It-She. She, is very beautiful."
You corrected with a small, sheepish smile, trying to comprehend the relationship of the woman with the car by tasting the car's pronouns in your tongue.
"She is."
You held your mouth when those lidded green eyes landed on the vehicle once again.
She looked away, so it was tempting to say something bolder when that deep, searching gaze is not keeping your every move at bay. You part your lips stubbornly, your shyness begging for silence, but the artistic side of you- the side you feel necessity to put out, to express it, wins.
"i guess...It makes me think of its history. It is connected with something."
When the auburned haired woman turned with the slight curiosity you noticed in her eyes, you sighed shortly. Well, there's no way out, now.
"i mean...Some people like things when they're new because they're perfect, easy to handle. But I think there's something special about something that has been through stuff. And is still here. I can't bring myself to say "despite the odds." I think the odds are..Nice."
Oh. The silence can be so welcome. So divine, sweet, delicious when it allows you to hear the birds and the trees dancing with the wind. And, eventually, if you stop to listen the thump thump of your heartbeat through your ears, it soothes you into a deep meditation state. But if you quit tripping, and if you have a conversation in progress with a woman years ahead of you whose infatuation affected you from within in these short moments you shared together keeps the silence, then it is indeed something you would worry about. Perhaps only you, and your overthinker, overwhelming and barely contained machinery of thoughts would worry about.
the silence stretched for a few seconds, but to you, a hundred years had passed. When she finally spoke, it was nothing but a simple repeated sentence.
"the odds are nice."
This time, it was Ellie's turn to taste the other's words, it seemed. You watched her with the eyes of a girl who expected, who yearned for more, for something like "i understand", but was brutally attacked by the overwhelming thought that she might be weirded out and incredibly awkward right now.
Your eyes flicked down as you contemplated the situation you find yourself in. A small thought crosses your mind, and before you could rethink about if whether you should ask, you uttered,
"how long have you had it?"
Ellie seemed to know how to answer this, she probably had practice, because she was quick to say,
"10 years."
10 years. It echoed in your mind like reverb. You wondered how much time did it take for her to see this car as a "she". To mold this car as her own, to understand it as an artwork based on her life story, manipulated by it, even. Your eyes scanned through the convertible wondrously.
"..That's a long time."
Her lips threatened a smile once again, you could notice.
"It is."
The way she answered, short, straight to the point, and quite dryly made you wonder if you were being a bother, and soon concluded you were, being one. The silence stretched once again, the eyes ran out of sight from the woman's after your glances met, and you let out a short breath.
"well...I should..Probably let you get back to your day."
It seemed funny to you, how she frowned. It was almost comic, the idea that your presence could be possibly a positive thing. Her eyes blinked slowly, like the ones of a lazy cat staring right back at you with what seemed like disdain.
"But you didn't even ask to get in it,"
She said after a lick of lips, it obviously caught your attention. A glimpse of her tongue. Your eyes flickered wide, shifting slightly on your feet, not knowing exactly what to do with that answer. Such an odd observation. As if she was noticing a pattern missing, a lost piece in the puzzle of her interactions in this context.
"I didn't even tell you my name."
Oh...Oh, right, names. You huffed a small laugh, your grin coming easy, but still sheepish with the way you looked down, then up at her with a faded smile;
"Right. Tell me your name. I'll tell you mine."
"Ellie"
She said, no hesitation in her tone. Such a gentle name, with such a sweet pronunciation that rolls out the tongue smoothly. But the woman guarding it with those lean muscles under that white wife-beater acts like she is anything but, and you wondered if the softness you saw in her eyes was real, if it wasn't the romantic, dramatic traces of yours speaking louder.
"..Ellie. I'm Y/N."
You say softly, the silence that followed bringing you to laugh nervously. Eyes that once felt distant now looked at her with presence, caught up in the moment. When her lips formed the shapes necessary for her to utter your name, you swallowed, chest tightening, you felt enchanted.
"nice to meet you, Y/N."
Ellie. Ellie, Ellie. You repeated it a few times in your head. This name felt like it came to stay. It hit you like lightning. You smiled back at her tiny little attempt of a smile, and felt content enough to leave. Enough. Not content. You'd be content if she invited you in for a ride. You'd be content if she asked for your number. You'd be content in a lot of contexts, but this was not one of them. Leaving without asking for any other informations about the woman made you feel that tiny lump in your throat, that lump of yours, oh so familiar that appears whenever you feel restrained by your own timid nature.
It seemed like fate. It seemed like the universe must have defined the very moment when she called once again, by your name, concurrently to the overwhelming mantra of her name replaying in your mind over and over. You looked over your shoulder with widened eyes, thrilled, enticed by the simple, familiar pronunciation of your name. Although in her lips; In her lips, it sounds softened, as if she's handling something fragile with her tongue, as if recognizing your sensitivity.
Ellie sighed, and scratched the back of her head.
"..still bad at this."
You didn't frown because that is not the sort of reaction you would like to receive in this kind of situation. But you couldn't help tilting your head ever so slightly, a small, barely present smile on your lips.
"At what?"
Ellie shook her head with a dry chuckle. Your eyelashes batted in confusion. If there was one thing you were not, it was clueless. But, right now, you could not have expected that confident woman to reduce herself into an embarassed teenager asking for someone's number.
"Nothing. Whatever. You...Uh..Number?"
Whatever. You despise this word, and what it implies. As if you were not interested or engaged enough to wish to listen to someone's words. Or as if the person had simply dismissed you as unimportant. Or as someone unworthy of holding something as precious as...Whatever that was. You found yourself reading into the situation a little too much, your reaction coming up quite a bit delayed. When you focused on her hands, she already had her phone out, waiting for your reply.
"Oh...Yeah, sorry."
The apology came out so automatically, you barely noticed how insignificant it was. You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear before typing in the numbers on her phone, and your name in the box over it.
You handed her the phone back, taking notice of the grasp of her hand, of its warmth, its calloused digits and short nails caught by your eyes in a millisecond. You gave her a small, Diffident smile, chin dipped slightly lower than usual, your wavering gaze meeting her steady pair of eyes in a brief moment, before pulling apart from each other.
I left as slowly as i came, the cars around me seem all the same.
The woman behind me watches as her name
Spirals in my wondrous head, and soon fly away
With her sleeping beauty eyes and hair wild to tame,
đđ; smut, MDNI (older woman!ellie, scissoring, pussy eating, boss-employee sex, explicit language, groping, dirty talk, usage of 'mommy' in a sexual context); đđ 1.4k words
đđđđ đđđđđ; âáľ.Ë.áľâ hi, well - i have this obsession with older women rn, so here u go - i believe ellie being way older than you would be so so hot hehe (divider cr. goes to @chrisssiren )
đđđđđđ
Itâs cruel, just truly cruel. Your girlfriend, who is also your boss, is currently striding across her office in nothing but slacks and a white button up which barely covers nipples - she had refused to put a bra on this morning.
Her hands move as she gestures, rings glinting in the almost medical grade office lights. Her phone tucked between her jaw and shoulder, back turned in your direction - which gives you a view of her ass in those pants.
You can already feel the soft cotton of your panties, which Ellie had picked out in the morning, dampening at the sight of the older woman whose bed you return to at night - itâs cruel and maddeningly good.
She ends the call and chucks the phone onto her dark wooden desk, the same desk youâll end up bent over soon if you play your cards right. Her gaze flickers to you through the glass, unashamed and wicked as she throws you wink.
You stand from your desk, brushing down the skirt she had picked out in the morning, you grab a stack of papers - not sure what they say but theyâll make a good enough excuse to stay in her office a little longer than usual.
You shoulder the office door open, papers pressed to your chest as the glass front of her office turns milky - privacy for whatâs to come, for whatâs normality between you two and a dirty little secret none of Ellieâs employees can find out about.
âThere you are, sweetheart.â She drawls, sat on the edge of her polished desk, legs spread unashamed. The hint of a smirk graces her features, the fine lines around her eyes are more prominent when she smiles at you like this.
âWhat have you got for me?â She cocks her head, teasing - always teasing. She knows that the papers in your hands are not meant for her, that the papers are merely an excuse to enter her office and be fucked by the older woman who signs off your paycheck every month.
âYou know those are just for show.â The words leave you a little breathless, excited for whatâs to come. You put the papers down on the little coffee table next to the leather couch and take a few steps closer. âOh I know, baby.â She murmurs as her fingers hook into the front of your blouse, pulling you snug between her legs.
Your hands sneak around her shoulders as hers roams across your back. âGonna make my day a little bit better, baby?â The question sparks a little dampness between your legs, itâs an invitation and a demand at once.
All you can do is give the older woman a nod which she repays with sealing the little distance between you two. Her mouth clamps onto yours, breath mangling as lips part and tongues slide against one another.
Her hands fists into the hair at the back of your head, pulling deliciously. The tension and the way sheâs practically tongue fucking your mouth elicits a moan she swallows without hesitation.
Her other hands roam, slipping under the fabric of your blouse to brush against the delicate skin of your breast, fingertips toying gently with your nipple. Your hips rock forward desperately, wanting her to just give you what you need.
âGet on your knees for me, baby.â She whispers against your lips as she pulls back just enough, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. She doesnât have to say it twice, with a shuddering breath your knees connect with polished granite flooring, your face now eye level with her crotch.
âSuch a pretty girl - gonna make mommy feel good?â She rakes a hand through your hair, eyes half lidded and you know that the question is nonnegotiable.
With quick hands your open the button of her slacks and slide the pants down, the milky skin of her thighs make your mouth water. Then the boy shorts follow, revealing the trimmed bush and the already slick folds beneath.
âCome on, baby.â Ellie encourages once again. Your hands settle on her thighs before you dive in.
Without preamble, you lick a fat stripe up from center to clit, circling the bud once. Ellie sighs in relief, fingers fisting into your hair to hold, not to pull.
âJust like that, baby - just like that.â The breathy, pleasure filled words spark resolve in your chest - youâll be good and make her come on her work desk.
You dive back in, the scent of her is sweet, musky and heady and it makes your brain swim in the best way. Your fingers tighten on her thighs for purchase as your tongue licks at her cunt like youâve been starving for this.
The sound of Ellieâs moans and the wet sounds of your mouth devouring her slick heat fills the otherwise sterile office in obscenity.
When her breathing grows quicker, thighs trembling around your head, you bury two fingers in her pussy, pumping them in slowly. Her hips rock with it, hand tightening against your scalp. You know sheâs close.
âFuck, baby - yes.â She mumbles, breathless and raw. When her hips sputter, thighs threatening to clamp, you add a third finger, stretching her deliciously. The very motion of this tips her over, makes her back bow and her head lull back. Ellie comes with a groan and her fingers pulling your hair - you eat her through it, through the aftershocks, lapping it all up.
When body loosens and her hands slips from your hair, you pull back - slipping the fingers from her throughly fucked cunt and slip the digets between your glistening lips to suck them clean. Ellie watches you with half lidded eyes, tapping a knuckle against your chin.
âCome on up, sweetheart - your turn.â With your mouth glistening and your panties already uncomfortably damp against your cunt, you rise to stand between her spread legs. Ellie grabs you by the back of your neck and closes the distance in a searing kiss - tasting herself on your tongue.
When you two part, you swiftly hooks your hands in the fabric of your panties and slide them down, letting them pool on the floor forgotten, the skirt is rucked up to your waist and Ellie leans herself back on the desk, hands warm and grounding at the sides of your waist.
âRide me, baby.â She instructs, letting you hook one of her legs over your shoulder. One of your own legs braces on the edge of the table to line up your pussy with hers.
The moment she rocks up, gliding her clit against yours, a breathless whimper leaves you, fingers curling against the soft skin of her thigh. You rock your hips, grinding against her wet heat and letting the tension build.
âFuck, Ellie.â Leaves you in a breathless moan.
âLook at you, baby.â She drawls, one hand reaching for one of your tits, kneading at the soft skin, thumb rolling the nipple in little circles.
âMy pretty little slut. You love grinding against your mommy like this, donât you?â The heat keeps building, the friction of her clit against yours is cruel and ecstatic at once.
âYes, mommy.â You whimper, placing openmouthed kisses along the soft skin of her thigh as it rests over your shoulder.
The thrusts grow more frantic, her hips snapping up to yours as the heat builds, the coil on your lower belly tightening. âEllieâ you keen, your own hand roaming her belly, fingers brushing the undersides of her breasts.
âCome on my cunt, baby - come with me.â She demands, one hand sneaking between you two to rub unrelenting circles against your clit - it doesnât take long to fulfill her demand.
You come first, back bowing as a cry leaves you as your orgasm crashes through you, your hips stutter, legs shaking, hands tightening on her skin. Ellie doesnât let up, she rocks her hips upwards to chase her own release - her hand sneaks to her cunt and circles her clit.
âThatâs it, baby. Thatâs my girl.â She grunts before her own orgasm snaps into place. A grunt leaves her as her body locks, thighs clamping her hips stuttering before her body softens.
You collapse on top of her, bodies slick and damp. Ellie brushes some hair from your forehead, pressing a kiss to the damp skin. âSo good for me, baby.â
â･: synopsis ~ ellie doesn't even remember when things started to fall apart between her and dina, but two years after their divorce she still feels uneasy and out of place when jesse drags her out for a drink. but it all starts to fade away suddenly the second you enter that same bar and the first thing you do when your eyes land on hers is smiling like you know exactly how to ruin her.
â･: word count ~ 9.7k
â･: content warnings ~ older!ellie x reader, age-gap (ellie's 34, reader's 24), swearing, ellie's pov deep dive at the beginning, things start kinda sad and escalate pretty quickly, finally giving jesse the space he deserves in my fics, alcohol, reader is described as feminine presenting, dialogue packed and kinda unhinged, jackie's here too, SMUT, kinda subtop!ellie, kinda dombottom!reader, reader's a bit bratty, oral sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap-on sex (r!receiving), afab!reader, men and minors dni.
likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated âĄ
Ellie doesnât remember when, exactly, the divorce stopped feeling like a bruise and started feeling like something more permanent. Not an ache, not a sting, not even a sharp, stabbing kind of pain. Just a dull, quiet fact that existed now. A contour of her life that couldnât be erased, only traced over in thicker ink. Not a wound, not anymore. Just scar tissue.
The thing is â and she doesnât say this out loud, not even to herself most of the time â is that she doesnât really know how it all fell apart.
She and Dina had loved each other. That part wasnât fake. Wasnât some naive illusion. They had loved each other so much and for so long that when they finally got married â small ceremony, courthouse rings, Jesse crying harder than anyone else â it had felt inevitable. Like gravity. Like a promise theyâd already made a hundred times over in the quiet way you live beside someone. Shared groceries. The dog. The coffee order memorized.
But it didnât last. Not in the way they thought it would, just the way it feels like forever when you're inside it and like a slow leak when you're not. And it wasnât messy, not really. No betrayal, no screaming fights, no plates shattered against walls. Just time. Just distance. Just two people who had outgrown the skin they built together and didnât know how to crawl back inside it.
They split on good terms. Kept the friends. Split the furniture. Dina got the dog.
And EllieâŚ
Well, Ellie just got numb.
Itâs been two years, and the divorce papers are still on her desk.
Not because she doesnât know where to put them â she could burn them, shred them, bury them under all the other documents that live in her bottom drawer with the dried-out pens and the unopened envelopes from the health insurance company. But thereâs something about the way they sit there, like an old bruise she keeps pressing. Not to feel it. Just to make sure she still can.
Ellie isnât sentimental. At least, she likes to think sheâs not. But when she looks at those papers, still half-folded like she never bothered to flatten them properly, thereâs a quiet kind of pull in her chest that she doesnât know what to do with.
Sometimes she forgets theyâre there. Sometimes she doesnât.
Sometimes she wonders if it would've hurt less if they'd broken something. At least then she could point to the wreckage. Instead, itâs just this slow, quiet unraveling she keeps reliving in the small silences of her day. The dinner table with only one plate now. The old photos tucked in a shoebox under her bed. The way she still flinches when she hears a certain laugh in the street, before her brain catches up and reminds her itâs not her.
Itâs been two years and thatâs also what Jesse tells her every time he calls her, which is often. Thatâs enough time, he says. Enough time to feel sorry for yourself, enough time to sleep on the couch, to ignore your sketchbook, to stop trying. Enough time to stew in your own shit and rot like a leftover left too long in the fridge. His words, not hers.Â
Ellie always rolls her eyes when he says that. Says sheâs fine. Says she likes her own company. Says sheâs just working a lot lately â which isnât even a lie, not really. Itâs the only thing thatâs actually giving her a sense of normalcy.
And Jesse always sighs. Tells her to âget out of the fucking houseâ. To meet people. To stop acting like some grumpy old widower at thirty-five.
âIâm not thirty-five yet,â sheâd muttered the last time, and Jesse had snorted on the other end of the line.
âYeah, well. You sound like youâre seventy.â
Ellie had hung up after that.
Her apartment still looks like itâs waiting for someone else to move in. Blank walls. Blank bedsheets. Half of everything missing. Clean, but not neat. Lived-in in the way that says someone spends a lot of time there without really living in it. Thereâs a half-empty mug of cold coffee on the windowsill, two mismatched socks discarded near the couch, the blanket crumpled in a heap where she mustâve kicked it off in the middle of the night. Her desk is a mess of charcoal pencils, a sketchbook left open, eraser shavings, unopened mail.
Her ashtrayâs full. Soâs her head.
The record player crackles just enough to make the silence sound lived-in. Sheâs got some sad old Bob Dylan song on, something about broken hearts and empty highways, the vinyl slow and warm in the way Ellie used to find comforting. Now it just fills the air enough that her thoughts donât echo too loud.
Outside, the skyâs the same gray itâs been for three days straight. That early winter kind of gray â heavy and slow and vaguely metallic, like the light itself is tired of showing up.
Sheâs sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie sleeves stretched over her palms, her hair which she cut recently sticking in all the wrong directions. Thereâs graphite on her fingers anyway. She tried sketching earlier. Something. Someone. The frustration, the lack of finish is still all in the lines, in the way the paper right next to her thigh curls at the edge where her hand lingered too long.
She looks like exactly what she is: a woman who hasnât gone out in months and doesnât know if she even remembers how to be seen.
And sheâs tired.
Not in the way that sleep fixes. Not in the way a night out could shake off. No. Ellieâs tired in her bones, in her blood. In that deep, marrow-level way that only comes from loving something so much you thought it would carry you forever and finding out it didnât even carry itself.
Sheâs halfway through thinking about maybe making a sandwich when her phone buzzes on the arm of the couch.
Jesse đđť:
You alive?
Weâre going out tonight. no excuses
9pm, that bar on the 12th
Come on, man. Itâs been two years. youâre divorced not dead
She stares at the screen for a full minute before her hand moves. She doesnât know why he still hasnât given up on making her go out. Heâs always doing that. Always trying to soften himself, like he knows she needs the extra cushion.
Ellie:
Iâm fine
Jesse đđť:
Thatâs not an answer
Youâre coming
She exhales through her nose. Itâs not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh either. She types:
Ellie:
Hard pass. already got plans with Mr Dylan and my empty apartment
Jesseđđť:
Youâre 34 not 80
And Iâm not letting you rot in your sad little sweatpants cave anymore
Pick a decent shirt and meet me at 9
Ellie:
Why do you even care
Jesse đđť:
Because I love you
And because you used to be fun. Remember fun?
Emotional constipation, swore like a sailor kind of fun? Ring any bells?
Ellie groans. She lets the phone fall to her chest, rubbing at her eyes like it will change anything. She knows Jesse means well. He always does. But the truth is that sheâs not sure she even remembers who she was before the marriage, before the slow dissolve, before she became this version of herself that flinches at kindness and shrinks away from light.
Still. Itâs been two years.
Two whole years of saying no.
And for what?
More nights alone? More takeout containers in the trash, more lines half-drawn on pages she never finishes, more dreams that donât have room to stretch?
She groans again, says âfuck itâ out loud even though no oneâs listening.
By 8:53, sheâs standing in front of her closet trying to remember what counts as âdecentâ anymore.
The bar is tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat with flickering overhead lights, the kind of place people only find if theyâre looking for it â low brick walls, string lights hung up with no pattern, and a chipped rainbow sticker on the front door thatâs been there long enough to lose most of its color.
The first thing Ellie notices when she steps inside is that it hasnât changed, not even a little.
Same too-dark lighting, same sticky floors, same chalkboard wall announcing âDrag Queen Karaoke Tonight â $5 shots if you sing Adele.â She used to come here all the time, back when she and Jesse thought weeknights were meant for drinking and mistakes. She hasnât set foot inside since before the divorce and somehow the air still smells like sugar, tequila, and a blend of too many perfumes clinging to the velvet curtains that separate the booths from the dance floor.Â
The place is busy, but not packed. Bodies clustered near the bar, more around the stage in the back where someoneâs doing a sparkly rendition of Rolling in the Deep. Ellie keeps her hood up until she spots Jesse waving at her from a high-top table near the corner.
He looks smug. He always looks smug when she gives in.
âTook you long enough.â He grins, already halfway through a beer.
Ellie shrugs her jacket off and drapes it over the stool. âDonât make it a thing.â
âOh, it absolutely is a thing,â he says, gesturing dramatically toward her drink waiting on the table. âYou, leaving the house? Wearing real pants? Historic.â
She glances down at herself â black jeans, some old button down layered over a tee. Not exactly red carpet. âYou said decent shirt. Didnât say anything about joyfully participating.â
He means it with love, and she knows it, so she lets it slide, sits right next to him, takes a sip of the whiskey he had already ordered for her and lets it burn all the way down her throat as she sips on it.
They talk. Or rather Jesse talks, catching her up on work stuff, community center gossip, some mutual friend who got engaged and another who started a dumb wellness centre and moved to Arizona. She hums and nods in the right places but her mindâs not all the way there. Itâs drifting, always halfway back to the apartment, to the half-finished drawings and the Bob Dylan record she forgot to flip over.
He catches her staring into her glass. âAlright, moody. On a scale from one to full-blown emo playlist, how much are you regretting coming here?â
She smirks a little. âSomewhere between The Smiths and early Bon Iver.â
âOof,â he winces. âOkay. But are you at least glad to not be ghosting around in your depression cave tonight?â
Ellie doesnât answer. Not because she doesnât want to. But because the door opens behind Jesse, and for the first time in a long time, something pulls her attention outward.
You walk in like you know exactly what you're doing, arm hooked lazily with a girl whoâs taller than you, sharper around the edges, the kind of friend who probably pulls you out of bed with threats and iced lattes. Youâre wearing something that isnât trying too hard but still manages to knock the wind out of Ellieâs lungs â a short black dress, silk or at least what resembles it â something that makes it clear you know how to dress to draw attention on you but without actually needing it. Youâre all warmth and danger and a way of walking that says Iâm fun and I know it and I will fucking end you if you waste my time.
And then â you smile.
Not at Jesse. Not at the bartender. At her.
Just one glance across the room, done like you know exactly what youâre doing, like youâve already had the thought. Like you want her to know it.
Ellie blinks.
âEarth to Williams?â Jesse says, turning to follow her gaze. And then he sees you, too. âOh.â
Ellie looks back down at her drink like it will save her. âShut up.â
âWasnât saying anything.â
âYou were thinking very loudly.â She mutters.
Heâs grinning again. The kind of grin thatâs about to start pushing buttons just for sport.
âShe looked right at you, man.â Jesse sing-songs while nudging her shoulder with his.
Ellie swirls the ice in her glass. âItâs a bar. People look.â
âYeah, but she smiled at you.â
Ellie shrugs, trying to look bored. âMaybe she thought I was someone else.â
âUh-huh.â Jesse leans in, elbows on the table. âOr maybe, and hear me out, she thinks youâre hot and wants to ruin your life.â
She throws another quick glance your way. âSheâs a baby.â
âOh my god,â Jesse lets out a groan and leans back dramatically in his chair. âYou always do this.â
âDo what?â
âPush away anyone who might make you feel something before they can even try.â
Ellie scoffs. âYou sound like my therapist.â
âYou fired your therapist.â
âExactly.â
Jesse points toward you with his chin. âSheâs not that young.â
âOh no,â he says, mock gasping. âAlert the authorities.â
Ellie glares at him. âYouâre annoying.â
âAnd youâre scared.â
That lands a little too close to home, so she doesnât answer.
Instead, she looks back at you. Youâre at the bar now, laughing at something your friend said, chin tilted up just enough to make your throat visible in the dim light. Youâve got your back to the room, but itâs like you know sheâs still watching, like youâre doing it on purpose.
She doesnât know what it is, exactly. Maybe the curve of your mouth, the way you shift your weight onto one leg like youâre settling in to be admired. Perhaps it's the confidence, the casual danger of it. Like a girl whoâs always been good at setting fires and only recently learned how to enjoy watching them burn.
And Ellie hates how hard she swallows.
Jesse, still watching her, smirks. âYou keep looking.â
âIâm justâŚâ Ellieâs voice falters. âWondering what her deal is.â
âUh-huh.â
She shoots him a look. âDonât.â
âIâm just saying.â
âNo, youâre implying.â
âWouldnât have to imply if youâd justââ
âNot interested.â she cuts him off.
He laughs. âJesus. Youâre the worst liar Iâve ever met.â
Ellie opens her mouth to argue, but then â you turn.
Full body. Drink in hand. Eyes scanning the room again until they land, unmistakably, right back on her.
And this time?
You hold the stare.
Not too long, but just long enough to say I see you. Just long enough to let her feel it: the heat, the question, the quiet dare of it.
Then, you raise your glass.
Not a toast. Not a âheyâ.
Just a gesture. Like youâre already writing the next move, like youâre waiting to see if sheâll follow.
And Ellie?
She forgets to breathe.
Youâve been to that same bar more times than you can count.
Itâs not fancy, not even particularly good if youâre being honest with yourself. The drinks are always a little too sweet, the floorâs permanently sticky, and the karaoke setup in the back makes you want to claw your own ears off by the end of the night. But itâs your place. Familiar in that low-effort, shoulder-loosening kind of way. A queer space that doesnât try to be cool: no lines, no pretending. Just girls with chipped nail polish, bartenders who know your order, and a rotating cast of half-decent drag queens who sometimes perform and sometimes just vibe.
You and Jackie come here almost every weekend.
Mostly to drink. Occasionally to dance. Sometimes to flirt, but never to fall in love.
You learned that lesson early. You keep things light now, fun. You wear the right dresses and the right perfume and you never check your phone when youâre drunk. You know your angles, know how to walk into a room and own it without even trying too hard â just enough sway to your hips, just enough skin, just enough of a smirk when someone looks too long. Itâs not arrogance, itâs just math.
Youâre hot, and you know it. Dangerous, and you know that too.
Tonightâs no different.
Youâre in black, as usual â a mini dress with a lacy scoop neck and thin straps that are there only to draw attention towards the slope of your shoulders; hem high enough to make people stare and not high enough to get kicked out; boots that make your legs look long and your steps sound confident; hair down; lips shimmery red.
Jackie had catcalled you when you stepped out of your apartment, the kind of whistle that made a man on the street turn around before she yelled âget lost asshole, my heels are longer than your dick!â
Now youâre strutting into the bar like you always do, her arm looped through yours, the two of you moving like a unit just like it has always been since the moment she approached you in kindergarten.
âFive bucks says Gemmaâs singing Adele again.â Jackie mutters as you walk past the stage.
âSheâs been through a breakup.â You say, amused.
âSheâs been through three this year.â she deadpans.
âMaybe she just likes the drama.â
Jackie snorts. âYeah, well, if she sings Someone Like You again Iâm dragging you outside for a smoke and pretend I donât know you so we can get laid.â
You laugh as you reach the bar, hopping up onto a stool while Jackie flags down the bartender.Â
You glance around the room out of habit, scanning the crowd â same old regulars, a few fresh faces, couples already too handsy in the corner booths. Itâs still early, so the lighting hasnât turned full red yet. Everythingâs in that hazy golden state â dim enough to feel sexy, bright enough to spot the mistakes before you make them.
Thatâs when Jackie nudges your arm.
âDonât look now.â She says, low and fast.
Naturally, you do look. A slow turn, just your eyes, and your gaze skims past the stage, over the bar, and lands â right on the woman sitting at a high-top in the back corner.
And oh.
Oh, fuck.
You donât usually get flustered. You like attention, crave it even, but the second your eyes land on her, something shifts in your stomach. Like gravity remembering how to tug.
Sheâs definitely older, early thirties, maybe more. Gorgeous in that brooding, Iâve-seen-some-shit kind of way. Sheâs dressed simply â jeans, shirt, jacket slung over the chair like she didnât even try, but her presence is loud: shoulders tense, jaw sharp, a tattoo peeking out from one forearm, hooded eyes that flick up toward you like sheâs trying not to stare but failing miserably.
And yeah, sheâs staring.
The kind of stare that makes your skin feel warmer, the kind that makes your dress feel shorter, that makes your pulse trip over itself for no good reason other than the loud thought in your head screaming holy shit at you.
Jackie whistles low under her breath. âTold you.â
You keep your gaze fixed on the woman, smile slowly tugging at your mouth.
âShe looks like trouble.â You murmur, half to yourself.
Jackie snorts. âShe looks like she only comes out at night and listens to sad lesbian records in a dark apartment with a single lamp on.â
You grin. âMy type, basically.â
âSheâs undressing you with her eyes.â
âLet her.â
âSheâs also, like⌠definitely older.â
You shrug. âSo am I.â
Jackie gives you a look. âYouâre twenty-four.â
âExactly. Mature.â
âShe probably pays taxes on time.â
You sigh, delighted. âGod, I hope so.â
Jackie laughs, leans in closer. âYou gonna go talk to her?â
You donât answer at first. Just keep watching.
Because now that youâre looking â really looking â you can see it.
The way sheâs trying to look away and failing. The way her fingers tap restlessly on the glass in front of her. The guy next to her is talking, clearly trying to get her attention, but her eyes keep coming back to you.
She does it in a way that makes her look like sheâs annoyed by it. Like she doesnât want to want to look. And somehow that makes it even hotter.
Thereâs a kind of tension there you donât usually get. Not with the girls who flirt back too easily. Not with the ones who are already halfway out of their dresses before you get your second drink.
No. This oneâs different. This oneâs thinking about it. This oneâs imagining it already and hating herself for it.
And thatâs when the power shifts, that tiny flicker behind her gaze, the exact moment she realizes sheâs not hiding it very well. Her shoulders square, her mouth tightens. She looks like sheâs about to stand up or bolt or do something dramatic.
You decide to spare her the decision.
You raise your glass.
Just a tilt. A tiny smile. Nothing aggressive. Just enough to say I see you.
She doesnât smile back. But her eyes flare â wide, dark, like someone just struck a match inside her ribcage.
And thatâs when you know.
Sheâs fucked. Because now youâre setting your drink down, slow and deliberate, like youâve just made a decision youâre not taking back.
Jackie watches you with one brow raised, the curve of her mouth already spelling trouble. âDonât tell meââ
âIâm going.â
She blinks. âYouâre serious?â
Youâre already slipping off the barstool, smoothing the hem of your dress down with a sweep of your palm thatâs more muscle memory than modesty. âDeadly.â
Jackie cackles behind you as you walk away â something loud and obscene that makes the couple next to her turn. You donât care. Youâre already crossing the floor, hips swaying just enough, footsteps steady and sure like youâve been doing this your whole life, like seductionâs just another language youâre fluent in.
You donât need to rehearse your opening line. You donât even need one to be fair.
And Ellie sees you coming.
She tries not to â she tries so hard â but the second you start making your way over, something shifts in her posture: her fingers go still on her glass, her spine straightens, her mouth presses into a line like sheâs prepping herself for impact. And she knows that and knows Jesse is smirking at her from the rim of his beer bottle.
âOh, shit,â he mutters, clearly amused. âSheâs coming over.â
âI swear to Godââ Ellie mutters back, glaring at him.
âIâm just saying. If you start sweating the reason is walking towards you.â
âIââ she starts, but itâs too late.
Youâre already at the edge of their table, one hand resting casually on the back of the empty stool beside her, chin tilted just so, a slow smile tugging at your mouth like youâve got all the time in the world and no intention of playing fair.
 And just like that, itâs too late to pretend she doesnât see you.
âYou always stare like that or is tonight special?â you say, voice smooth, warm, unbothered.
Jesse lets out a muffled âoofâ behind his beer.
Ellie looks up at you like sheâs trying not to â like sheâs still hoping maybe youâll change your mind and walk away before she does something stupid. But when her eyes meet yours, thereâs a split second â a flicker â where she forgets how to pretend.
You see it. That shift. That inhale. That little fracture in her poker face.
But itâs gone again just as quickly as it surfaced.
Her eyes narrow just slightly. âI wasnât staring.â
You tilt your head slightly. âOh. Sorry. So you just look angry and sexy for fun?â
Jesse actually wheezes a âJesus Christâ under his breath, but has the decency to slide off his stool and clap Ellie on the back as he gets up.
âIâm gonna go grab another beer,â he says, obviously trying not to grin. âYou kids play nice.â
She shoots him a death glare, then looks back at you, eyes narrowing all over again. âDo you flirt with everyone who looks emotionally repressed in this bar, or am I just lucky?â
You laugh â not giggle, not chuckle. Laugh. Full-bodied, gorgeous. Like you know youâre pushing her buttons and loving every second of it.
And then youâe taking his seat
You donât ask â just slide in with the kind of ease that says you belong there, like youâre not just crashing her bubble, youâre replacing the air inside it. And Ellie up close? Sheâs even better â sharp jaw, a scar cutting through her eyebrow, the design of her tattoo now clearer, and those tired green eyes that make her look like sheâs seen more than sheâll ever say. She smells like smoke and leather and something distinctly hers. She feels like a dare, like sheâs trying to see if youâll flinch.
You wonât.Â
âI only flirt with the ones who canât stop staring at my legs.â You say, matter of fact, crossing one over the other just to prove your point and making the hem of your dress shifts. Ellieâs eyes drop for half a second too long before she catches herself.
She watches you with wary eyes, hand still curled around her drink like itâs the only thing tethering her to her own self-control.
âShould I be flattered?â she asks after a beat, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before she catches herself and looks away. âOr just concerned you make a habit out of harassing older women at bars?â
You grin. âYouâre not old.â
âIâm thirty-four.â
You tilt your head. âThink I can't handle it?â
She scoffs. âYouâre, what, twelve?â
You fake a gasp. âWow. Thatâs rude. Iâm twenty-four, thank you very much.â
âThatâs basically twelve.â She mutters, but itâs half under her breath, and her mouth twitches when she says it like sheâs trying not to smile.
You lean your chin on your hand, elbow on the table, eyes still fixed on hers. âYou always deflect this hard, or is it just when a pretty girl makes you nervous?â
Her jaw tightens.
You can see it, the effort, the sheer physical strain of trying not to let you under her skin. But itâs too late. Youâre already there, because her pupils are blown, her posture taut in that ready to bolt but frozen in place kind of way, and god, sheâs still trying to hide it, still trying to look bored.
But bored people donât stare like that
So you smile, all teeth now. âRelax. I donât bite.â
She snorts. âSomehow I doubt that.â
âYou're right. I bite very well,â you say sweetly,
That earns you a real laugh â brief, barely there, but genuine. And when it fades, something softer takes its place. She glances down at her drink, fingers tracing the rim like sheâs trying to ground herself in something physical.
You let the silence stretch, just for a second. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just⌠charged.
âLook, Iâm divorced, still tryna get out of it,â she says eventually, voice lower now. More real. âIâm not looking for anything,â
You nod. âCool.â
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I.â
She finally looks up at you again and something in her expression has shifted. Less resistance now, more curiosity. Like sheâs still not sure what game youâre playing but sheâs starting to suspect she might want to lose it.
âYou always like this?â she asks.
You raise an eyebrow. âConfident?â
âRelentless.â
You smile. âOnly when someone stares at me for ten minutes and then pretends they didnât.â
Her face does something at that. A twitch, a breath. A glitch in her system that gives her away entirely.
You lean forward slightly, enough that Ellie feels the heat of your thigh through her jeans.
âLook,â you say, voice lower now, smoother, the performance giving way to something a little more real. âIf youâre not interested, thatâs totally fine. Iâll go finish my drink, let you get back to whatever brooding you were doing before I walked in.â
Ellie doesnât move.
âBut if you are interested,â you continue, now close enough that your breath kisses her jaw. âMaybe we cut the age-gap self-loathing bullshit and just⌠see what happens.â
Ellieâs heart is hammering.
Her brain is saying donât do this, but her body? Itâs already betraying her.
She glances at you again â confident, patient, clearly enjoying this little game, but not pushing.
Not begging.
Just waiting.
And god help her, she wants to say something cool. Something unaffected. Something that keeps the last two years of walls from cracking right open.
But all she manages is:
ââŚWhatâs your name?â
You smile like she just handed you the keys to her apartment and tell it to her.
Ellie nods, like it matters. Like her mouth isnât dry and her palms arenât sweating and her knees arenât seconds from giving out under the weight of how badly she wants to touch you.
ââŚEllie.â she says back.
You grin again and she hates how much she wants to kiss you for it.
âOkay,â she says, repeating your name in a way that sounds sarcastic, trying for cool, but it comes out hoarse instead. âWhat exactly do you thinkâs gonna happen here?â
You shrug, unbothered. âI think Iâm gonna sit here a little longer.â
âUh-huh.â
âAnd I think,â you add, letting your fingers just barely trail against her arm, featherlight and dangerous. âYouâre gonna keep pretending you donât want me to.â
Ellie swears just under her breath.
You laugh again, softer this time, and it lingers in the space between you like smoke.
âIâm gonna be honest with you,â Ellie says after a beat, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to collect whateverâs left of her composure. âIâm not⌠good at this. Flirting. Whatever this is.â
You tilt your head. âAre you good at other things?â
Ellie blinks. âOh my god,â she mutters. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âAnd youâre blushing.â You muse.
âI am not.â She mumbles.
âYou absolutely are.â
âJesus Christ.â
You nudge your knee against hers. âEllie.â
She meets your eyes.
âCome home with me.â
The words hang there â no pressure, no desperation. Just that same quiet confidence you walked in with. Like you already know how this night ends, and youâre just giving her the option to join you in it.
Ellie stares at you, at the shimmer of your lips, the sharpness of your smile, the heat in your eyes that could melt steel.
Sheâs always been good at holding back.
Itâs never been about virtue, or restraint, not even dignity. Nothing poetic like that. She just learned over time that nothing good ever came from wanting too much. That needing someone was a risk and allowing them in was a bigger one. And when it all crumbled under the weight of its own impossibility, sheâd rather be the one left standing with her hands in her pockets than the one crying on the floor.
So she got used to waiting, to walking away, letting things pass. To ignoring her own hunger and calling it maturity, healing even. She called it space and âjust not being ready.â
But now youâre sitting next to her, warm and wild and wicked in that too-short dress, and all she can think about is how long itâs been since someone looked at her like they wanted her â not just politely, not just in passing, but with intent. With precision. Like theyâve already imagined what sheâd sound like moaning their name and are wondering how long itâll take to make her do it.
You, who smile like you already know how this will end and arenât in a rush, because youâre the one choosing when it begins.
And thatâs the difference, Ellie thinks, in the space between her thigh and yours. Thatâs what makes this so impossible to shake.
You donât give a damn about the version of her from too many years ago â the bright-eyed, soft-tongued, newly-married girl who thought forever was something you could build with a single wedding band. Not the version who packed up her guilt into boxes and left it in a one-bedroom apartment with nothing but a mattress and a cracked record collection. Not the one who stopped drawing. Not the one who never cried. Not the one who decided silence was safer than grief.
You don't even know that version of her. You just want her. Now. For some reason she canât understand.
And just like that â for that same reason â she forgets how to say no.
So when you ask again â voice low, eyes unreadable â âSo? Your place or mine?â â Ellie finally lets herself breathe.
And she says it, not loud, not confident. Just⌠honest. ââŚmy place.â
Your smile sharpens. âYeah?â
She swallows once, hard. âYeah.â
You donât ask why. You donât even tease her for it. You just slide off the stool in one smooth motion like you already know she's following and toss a quick wink to Jackie on the other side of the room, like you've won. Maybe you did.
Ellie stands too. Doesnât look for Jesse, doesnât say goodbye. Just grabs her jacket and follows you out into the street, heart pounding in a rhythm she hasnât heard in a very long time.
The walk to her apartment is quiet.
Not awkward, not hesitant. Just thick with something else: anticipation, heat. That kind of held breath before the drop, before the kiss, before the first sharp inhale when the rest of the world slips away.
You walk beside her like youâve known her longer than an hour. Your steps are sure and thereâs a faint smile that hasnât left your mouth since you got out of the bar.
Ellie can feel the buzz in her skin, in her fingertips. In the space between her shoulder and yours. She wants to say something â anything â but her brainâs too full of static, your perfume, and the image in her brain of your fingers curled around her belt loops as you pull her in.
And underneath all of it â under the noise, under the chaos, under the tension â is one singular thought she canât shake: itâs been so long.
So long since sheâs felt like this: since her breath hitched at the thought of someoneâs mouth, since she cared what her body looked like under a strangerâs gaze, since she wanted like this â full, hungry, total.
Itâs terrifying.
And maybe thatâs why she wants it so bad.
When you finally get there, her place is exactly what you probably expected.
Dimly lit, minimal, lived-in but not messy. One lamp in the corner. A sketchbook open on her desk with nothing finished inside. A record still spinning, even though the song ended hours ago.
You step in first, eyes sweeping the space like youâre cataloguing the details. Ellie shuts the door behind you with a soft click, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are now. How alone. How quiet it is.
The silence is almost loud.
You walk slowly into the living room, turning halfway to face her, hand still holding your purse.
âYou gonna kiss me,â you ask, voice softer now. âOr am I gonna have to beg?â
Ellie blinks.
Youâre still smiling. Still calm. But thereâs something new in your eyes â not uncertainty, not hesitation. Just⌠realness. Something grounded. Something sincere.
She steps forward.
One pace. Then another.
And then her hand is in your hair and your mouth is on hers.
The kiss is slow at first, meant to be soft, measured, cautious. A way to test the waters, to give herself an exit if it gets too real too fast. And she always starts slow, always stays in control. Sheâs good at that, itâs her thing.
But the second your lips part under hers, the second your tongue brushes hers and you kiss her like youâve done her before â familiar and curious all at once, not rushing, not pushing, like sheâs something worth studying â Ellie breaks.
Because this is what itâs like to be wanted. This is what she forgot. This is what she almost convinced herself she didnât need anymore. This is the kind of kiss that rewires something. The kind that makes you press closer just to make sure the other personâs real.
It stops being gentle and slow and becomes just heat, roaring up her spine, all at once, like her body suddenly remembers what her mindâs spent two years trying to forget.
Desire. Real desire, that throat-tight, gut-low, soul-starving kind of want that has you both kicking shoes off and shrugging jackets off like they're on the way of something neither of you can explain and has you chase the other's lips like they're oxygen.
And just like that, Ellie loses the plot.
She groans â low, feral, almost embarrassed by how loud it comes out â and the next thing she knows, her hands are under your thighs, scooping you up like you weigh nothing, like sheâs been waiting to carry you like this her entire life. And you gasp â delighted, surprised, laughing against her neck while you drop your bag on the floor.
âDamn,â you grin. âYou always pick girls up like this?â
âShut up.â Ellie mutters, already walking the two of you toward the bedroom. Her grip tightens just to hear you squeal.
Youâre warm against her. Legs around her waist. Arms around her neck. Breath against her collarbone. Her whole bodyâs lit up like sheâs been wired wrong and youâre the one thing rearranging her.
She doesnât say a word when she kicks the door open. Just walks straight in, drops you on the bed, and stares.
You land with a bounce, laughing softly, hair messy now, lipstick smudged, your dress riding up your thighs â and you donât bother adjusting it. You just look up at her with that same smirk like you already know what sheâs thinking.
Ellie runs a hand down her face. Her voice is rough when it comes. âYouâre gonna fucking ruin me.â
You tilt your head. âSo dramatic. We havenât even started.â
And then you stretch, letting your arms fall above your head, back arching just a little, hips tilting in a way that's inviting, flaunting, knowing. Youâre in complete control and you know what itâs doing to her.
Ellie makes a sound somewhere deep in her throat, guttural and raw, like it got dragged out of her against her will.
And then sheâs on you, looming over with both her hands braced on either side of your head.
Her mouth is on yours again â messier this time, open and hot and desperate â one of her hands gripping your waist, sliding up your dress, tugging the hem higher and higher until she takes it off your body, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. She's fast on bringing her hands on your skin again, sliding them down until her fingers catch the waistband of your panties and pull.
You gasp, then grin against her mouth. âDidnât even take you out to dinner first.â
âYouâre so annoying.â She mutters, voice tight.
You hum, breathless. âAnd yet your fingers are in my panties.â
âI told you to shut up.â
âMake me.â
That does it.
She moves fast.
Shifts down your body, hands dragging your panties off in one quick tug, letting them fall to the floor like they offended her, and you laugh again until she spreads your thighs and looks at you like she might never recover.
âOh, fuck me.â She breathes.
Youâre already wet. Of course you are. Youâve been wet since the bar, since that first glance, since the second she looked away like she couldnât handle what you were doing to her. But now â spread open, glistening under the soft glow of her lamp, legs bent just enough to show her everything â she goes silent.
Not from hesitation. From awe.
She sinks to her knees, exhales slow over your cunt, eyes half-lidded while she whispers almost to herself, âGod. Itâs been so fucking long.â
You reach down lazily, brush your fingers through her hair, tug just enough to get her attention. âI'm not gonna come on my own, y'know.â
The look she gives you then is like youâve awoken something. Something old. Something deep. Something hungry.
âI forgot what a little brat looks like spread open,â she mutters. âThanks for the reminder.â
And then her mouth is on you.
Hot. Slow. Desperate. Reverent.
Itâs not perfect â not at first. Sheâs out of practice, tongue tentative in its rhythm, fingers unsure of their pressure, like sheâs relearning the geography of someone elseâs pleasure. But she becomes bold fast, memory kicking in as soon as she hears your breathing hitch.
You moan as her mouth seals around your clit, slow pressure building with every suck, every kiss, every little âfuckâ whispered into your skin like a prayer. One hand holds your thigh down, the other slides up, up, and then in â two fingers slipping in so slow, so deep, that your breath stutters in your throat.
She moans when she feels how tight you clench around them.
âChrist,â she mutters, voice slurred with spit. âYouâre fucking soaking.â
You whimper â actually whimper â at the sound of her voice that low and raw and wrecked between your thighs.
She works her fingers in a rhythm thatâs filthy, slow and thick and dragging along your walls like sheâs trying to memorize the way you feel. Her tongue doesnât stop â drawing circles, lazy and deliberate, lapping up everything sheâs pulling from you, like she canât believe youâre real.
âYouâre good at that.â You manage to gasp, barely coherent.
Her brow furrows against your cunt. âDonât fucking patronize me.â
You laugh breathlessly, hips starting to buck. âNot my fault youâre rusty, old lady.â
Her teeth graze your clit and you shout. âSay that again.â She growls.
She shoves her fingers deeper â just the right curl, just the right pressure â and her mouth goes feral.
Your moans get higher, messier, less controlled. Your thighs try to close and she pushes them wider with her elbows. She doesnât stop. Not when you gasp, not when you writhe. Not even when you pull her hair so hard her neck jerks. She takes it. She lives in it.
The rhythm gets faster. Her fingers move harder. Her mouth never fucking stops. Youâre close. So close. Youâre half-cursing, half-praising, hips grinding against her face like youâre trying to keep her going forever.
âFuck, Ellieâ fuck, Iâmââ
She groans like sheâs about to come from the sound of it and youâ
You crash. Hard.
Your body jerks, voice catching in your throat, thighs trembling around her shoulders as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train. You cry out â loud, wrecked, beautiful â and Ellie doesnât stop. She keeps going, licking and worshipping until you twitch and shudder and push at her head because itâs too much.
She finally pulls away, chin wet, eyes wild, breathing like she just ran a mile. And when you finally open your eyes again, sheâs staring at you like youâre divine.
Sheâs is still catching her breath when you finally stop trembling beneath her mouth, your body soft and spent and humming in that loose, boneless way that comes after being undone properly, her fingers still slick and shining as she drags them slowly from between your thighs like sheâs reluctant to part from the proof of what she just did to you.
She doesnât look away from you when she straightens, eyes dark and blown and a little wild, like sheâs still half-lost in the sound you made when you came apart, like your voice is echoing somewhere inside her chest and she doesnât want it to stop.
âAgain?â she asks just above a whisper, rougher now, confidence settling back into her bones as something familiar and grounding, something she remembers how to wear.
You donât answer right away.
Instead, you prop yourself up on your elbows, lazy and smug and still glowing, your mouth curled into that infuriating little smile thatâs been ruining her night from the moment you walked into the bar, your eyes dragging over her face, her shoulders, the way her shirt clings to her chest from the way sheâs breathing.
âYou sure?â you ask softly, like youâre admiring a piece of art you're done with yet. âYou look wrecked.â
Ellie scoffs, but thereâs no heat in it, just something low and fond and dangerous all at once. âYou donât get to say that after I made you come.â
âOh, I absolutely do,â you reply, voice sweet and sharp at the same time, legs still parted, utterly unashamed of the way youâre laid open for her. âYouâre the one shaking.â
She becomes acutely aware of her hands then, flexing once at her sides like she donât quite know what to do with them anymore, of the way her pulse is still pounding low and heavy in her gut, of how her jeans suddenly feel too tight, too restrictive, like theyâre in the way of something inevitable.
So she steps back from the bed slowly, deliberately trying to get some control back while her eyes never leave you as she discards her button down. And when she reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it up over her head together with her sports bra, you donât even try to hide the way your gaze lingers.
You stare.
Openly and unapologetically so. Like the sight of her bare skin has knocked the air clean out of your lungs.
Ellie tosses the clothes aside, fingers already working at the button of her jeans, the sound loud in the quiet room, every movement unhurried, practiced, like suddenly she knows exactly what sheâs doing to you by giving you time to look.
She doesnât turn around when she steps out of her jeans, doesnât bother covering herself when she reaches back and pushes them away with her foot, leaving herself bare except for her boxer briefs, muscles tense and defined in the low light.
When she finally glances back at you, she catches you staring at her tits like youâve forgotten how to blink.
Her mouth twitches. âLike what you see?â she asks, already knowing the answer.
You hum thoughtfully, dragging your gaze back up to meet hers, your smile slow and devastating. âI think Iâm gonna have fun with you.â
Something sharp and pleased flashes through her chest at that, a thrill that feels a little like pride and a little too much like relief. She turns toward the dresser without another word, reaching for the top drawer like muscle memory.
You watch her every move: the way her shoulders roll when she bends, the way her back flexes, the faint lines of old scars you catalog without thinking, because youâre already learning her body in the way people do when they intend to remember it. Even if you donât want to, even if you know you shouldnât.
Then she pulls the strap free.
Black, thick. Familiar weight. Thereâs no hesitation in the way she holds it, no embarrassment, just that same grounded confidence sliding back into place like sheâs finally standing on solid ground again.
You suck in a breath. âOh,â you say softly, eyes lighting up, grin turning wicked. âSo thatâs why you picked your place.â
Ellie smirks, glancing over her shoulder as she steps into the harness, adjusting it with practiced ease, her fingers sure, almost bold.
âWhat? You don't want it?â she asks, voice calm, low, in control again.
âI do,â you reply, settling back against the pillows like youâre about to enjoy a show. âI'm just.. impressed.â
She steps toward you then, stopping at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with that look again, the one that makes your stomach tighten and your thighs shift without you even meaning to, her hand closing around the base of the toy like sheâs grounding herself.
âTurn over.â She says, firm and sure.
You laugh.
Not nervous, not unsure. Just delighted.
âOh, hell no.â You reply, sitting up in one smooth motion.
Before she can react, you reach out, your fingers hooking into the harness at her hips and pulling her toward you with a strength that surprises her just enough to make her suppress a gasp.
Ellie stumbles forward a half-step, hands coming out instinctively to brace herself on the bed on either side of you, her eyes flashing with something startled and unmistakably affected as you wrap your legs at her hips and flip her in one fluid, confident movement.
You straddle her slowly, deliberately.
Your hands settle on her chest, warm and steady, thumbs brushing over her nipples just enough to make her suck in a sharp breath she definitely hadnât planned on letting you hear.
âYou donât get to put me where you want me yet.â You murmur, leaning down until your mouths are almost touching, your breath warm against her lips, your hips rolling just enough for her to feel the weight of you, the promise of friction.
âYouâre playing a dangerous game.â She mutters.
You smile, slow and sharp. âI know.â
You pull back again, fingers sliding down her chest, teasing and exploratory, squeezing just to make her groan under her breath, and then you lift yourself just enough to guide with one hand the strap where you want it, lining it up with aching patience without giving her the satisfaction yet.
Ellieâs breathing is ragged, her thighs tensing beneath yours, every inch of her screaming for something sheâs not allowed to have yet.
âFuck,â she whispers, voice cracking just a little. âYouâre killing me.â
You don't answer, just smirk while murmuring, âYou gonna be good and let me ride it?â
She nods, fast, breath stuttering.
You click your tongue, sliding one hand slowly from her chest up to her jaw, holding it to make her look at you. âUse your words.â
âYes,â she rasps. âFuck, yes. Pleaseââ
You hum, pleased, a breathless laugh escaping your lips right after. âGood.â
Only then you sink down, painfully slow.
You take it inch by inch with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips , moaning with your head falling back as the stretch builds, both your hands tightening on her chest again, nails scraping just enough to make her hiss, her hips jerking up instinctively before she forces herself to stay still, because sheâs learned that lesson before.
Your body fits her like youâve done this together a hundred times already, the angle perfect, the connection electric, the heat between you almost unbearable once youâre finally seated fully on her, your bodies flush, your breaths tangled.
Itâs thick, deep. Perfect. The strap drags against you in all the ways you need â no friction lost, every movement sending sparks up your spine. You bottom out with a gasp, thighs already trembling again, body electric with tension and the aftershock still coursing in your body from earlier.
And Ellie? Ellieâs wrecked.
Her hands keep tightening, relaxing, tightening again on your hips like sheâs trying to ground herself, like she doesnât trust sheâs still breathing right.
âJesus fucking Christ,â she pants. âYouâre soâ fuck, look at you.â
You do. You look down to where your cunt kisses the base of the strap and smirk.
You ride her slow at first â lazy, sensual, deep â dragging the strap all the way out and back in with every roll of your hips, your nails digging into her shoulders, her scalp, your moans raw and breathy with every movement.
Her eyes never leave you. Not once. Theyâre wide, dark, reverent in a way neither she does understand. Like sheâs watching something holy. Like she still doesnât believe itâs really happening.
You keep your pace just slow enough to make her ache, your rhythm calculated, hips rolling down in just the right way that your clit rubs on the base and your thighs keep clenching, chasing that high.
And when you lean down once more, your hands on her tits, your mouth trailing hot, open kisses down her throat, Ellie shudders hard enough to nearly come from nothing.
She whimpers. You smile.
âYeah,â you murmur, voice rough and sweet, breath hot on her skin. âJust like that. Let me fuck you.â
She moans â high, desperate, just the tiniest bit whiny â and she nods like sheâs pleading, like sheâd say yes to anything in this moment.
You donât even realize how your rhythm is starting to get faster, how loud you are until your own moans start bouncing off the walls while your thrusts become messier, more frantic.
Itâs not performative â nothing about this is. Itâs raw. Guttural. All instinct, no filter, no control. Just the wet sounds of you moving up and down her strap, letting it disappear inside you again and again.
Ellieâs head hits the bed frame behind her, head tipped up, mouth open, chest heaving, her hands gripping your hips like sheâs barely holding herself together. Her knuckles are white and her eyes keep flicking down to your tits bouncing in your bra, to your cunt taking every inch of her strap, to the mess youâre making all over her lap, slick and heat and need and everything she thought she couldnât feel anymore.
âFuck,â she gasps, voice breaking. âYouâre doing so good.â
âYou like it?â you breathe, your forehead pressed to hers.
Ellie nods too fast. âYesâ shit, donât stopâ donât stopââ
You bite her neck. âThen make me come.â
Her hips jerk up into you before she can stop herself. It's reflex, need.
You cry out â loud, desperate â and she swears, dragging her mouth down your jaw, sucking a bruise into your neck as her hands slide up your back, anchoring you to her like sheâs afraid youâll vanish.
Ellieâs thighs are shaking beneath you, her abs flexing hard with every thrust up, every shift of your weight grinding the thick ridge of the harness against her own clit in perfect rhythm.
You donât even mean to time it, but suddenly the rhythm clicks and something changes in her face, her breath catches, her eyes fly open and her head snaps back against the all.
And it's enough for you to know.
âOh,â you whisper, breathless and amazed. âYouâre gonna come.â
Ellieâs eyes flutter, her jaw clenches, her hands dig into your waist.
You slam down and her mouth drops open as your thighs lock around her hips.
The world fractures.
Everything crashes over you like a freight train: deep and hot and all-consuming, a full-body quake that rips through your spine and sets your nerves on fire. You cry out loudly, almost pained, grinding through it with your eyes squeezed shut, your nails digging into Ellieâs shoulders, your cunt clenching hard around the strap, pulsing with wave after wave after wave.
And Ellie?
Ellie shatters.
She doesnât even mean to, she actually tries not to. But the second she feels you come, the second your moans pour into her neck, your body trembling in her lap â the strap base grinds just right against her clit and it breaks her.
She gasps â high and sharp and helpless as she comes. Just like that. Her hips jerk, her thighs tense, her hands clamp down and she moans into your skin like sheâs being dragged under.
It hits her harder than she thought it would, faster. She hasnât felt something like this in years â not with her own hands, not with anyone else, and especially not like this, not the kind that leaves her gasping, back arching, walls fluttering around nothing but against her harness and the gravity of you.
Youâre still moving when she breaks, still rolling through the aftershocks, grinding and drawing out every last drop of your own pleasure as long as possible. Until finally â finally â your thighs give out and you collapse into her with a ragged cry.
The room is silent except for your breathing, your chest heaving against hers with both your bodies still trembling in each other's arms.
Her mouth is somewhere against your temple, open, panting, lips brushing your sweat-damp hair.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you can.
Until Ellie eventually exhales, murmuring, ââŚJesus fucking Christ.â
You laugh, breathless, eventually swinging off her body with your legs still shaking. âTold you I could handle you.â
She groans â exhausted, ruined, completely wrecked. âYeah, yeah.â
She watches you grin as you crawl to get your dress and panties off the floor, blinking slowly, trying to keep in check the way her heart is beating way too fast beneath her ribs.
"You leaving?" she asks low, almost like she's afraid of those words traveling past her lips.
You snort before glancing at her from over your shoulder. The answer clear in the way you raise one brow at her. âDidn't we say it was nothing serious?â You ask as you tug your dress down over your head. âI got what I wanted, so did you.â
There's a beat during which neither of you speaks, the only sound coming from the sharp breath Ellie takes in and the rustling of your clothes as you adjust them on your frame.
And Ellie's caught somewhere in between not knowing how to ask for someone to stay anymore and wondering whether this is how things go now â bars, one night stands and someone's touch she'll have to pretend it didn't feel like it belonged to her skin.
Because that's how you touched her the whole night.
And yet... you're leaving, walking through her bedroom door like you didn't just teach her that she could still be looked at as she's still worth being needed, like you don't even know what it feels to crave someone to hold onto but who will never choose her whole. Maybe just for one night, yes. Maybe just for enough time to pretend this meant something it didn't.
But then you stop, suddenly, right at the door and with your hand on the frame. You don't even know why your body stilled, breaking every single rule you've ever given yourself in nights like these and why you're tilting your head just enough to glance back at her one last time.
Yet, there is something that you don't understand â like a thread pulling toward her for a reason you can't quite name.
âBut hey," you murmur. âIf you wanna do this again... you know where to find me.â
Ellie straightens up just a little bit, sitting up with her back pressed against the pillows. She clears her throat, tries to look unbothered. Fails.
âIs this your way of tellin' me you wanna see me again?â She asks, more vulnerable than she probably intended it to be.
You don't answer, just laugh through your nose and pat the frame. âG'night, Ellie.â
You're gone just like that.
But maybe that hollow feeling that had been haunting her for so long has finally loosened. Because her bed is warm, because there's a scent in her bedsheets that isn't just hers anymore.
pictures from pinterest
perm taglist (check my masterlist post if you wanna be added!): @elliewmc @machetegirl109 @valeisaslut @imliterallyjustonegirl @iloveclairo2016 @rhian88 @mxchi-mxxn @sawaagyapong @angelz-void @chaosgremlinnn @mischievous-darling @archersbows
a/n: yes, i listened to older by isabel la rosa all the time writing this if you were wondering lmao. fun fact: this was supposed to be a whole ass series before strings attached rooted in my brain permanently and i think you can kinda see that in some sections. anyway, as always i really hope you enjoyed, lots of love <3
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