Anniversary Gifts: Wife!Ellie/Reader
〤cw: STRAP!!! but I hate the word dildo, slightly power bottom Ellie. Eating out! Ellie is also a construction foreman at Joels company but that's just like back info you need- fluff. Way to much.
wc: 7K ????? When the fuck did that happen....dont worry most of it's smut dont freak out yet. Synopsis: Your Anniversary has rolled up on you again- and you want to treat your sweet, hardworking wife with a special night. Note: It wouldn't be one of my fic's if the tumblr text wasn't acting up!! Still have no idea how to fix this. On another note, Let mascs bottom!!!!!! There's this weird trend I've noticed that masc character's lose all their masc the moment they bottom? Or they're like losers for bottoming. Not in my house. Anyone can bottom!! Free the bottoms!!
Ellie was bone-tired. She held the screen door open with her boot, keys jingling as she fumbled with the lock. Her eyes stung from the long day, and all she could think about was getting inside and seeing you.
Usually, you both pulled into the driveway around the same time—two very different jobs, same rhythm of exhaustion. Ellie spent her days barking orders and hauling lumber at the site, dust in her hair and sunburn on her neck. You worked at the office for one of the oil companies, long hours and endless paperwork. But tonight, you’d stayed behind. For a reason.
Two years.
The bouquet of gas-station roses was crumpled a little from the ride home, and the bag of your favorite chips hung from her wrist. Her safety vest was still streaked with dirt, hardhat tucked under her arm. She looked a mess, but there was no way she was showing up empty-handed.
When the door finally opened, the smell hit her first—something warm and savory from the kitchen. Her whole body softened. You were at the counter, dishing up dinner, humming under your breath. And in the middle of the living room, JJ was sitting in a sea of toys, giggling as he knocked his blocks together.
Ellie couldn’t help it—the smile came on its own. Home never looked so good. “Look who’s home.” You grin, glancing up as the door creaks open.
JJ’s on his feet in an instant, wobbling toward her with that determined toddle, babbling mama through his grin. You lean on the counter, one hand resting on your hip as Ellie drops her hardhat onto the recliner and scoops him up. He fits against her easily—warm, wriggling, laughing as she hoists him up onto her shoulders.
“Happy anniversary,” she says, voice rough but fond. It comes out a little wry, though that’s just her way. She holds out the flowers and bag of chips, grunting as JJ leans forward to grab the bouquet.
“Those are for mom, kiddo. Fuck—he’s getting big.” Ellie laughs, and you step forward to take the gifts from her, brushing your fingers over hers. You rise on your toes to kiss her cheek, catching the faint salt of sweat and dust.
“Thank you, baby. They’re perfect.” You set the roses on the counter and take JJ before he can start tugging her hair again.
“And language,” you chide, smiling as you tug lightly at her bun. “Yesterday he told me itch rhymed with bitch.”
Ellie gasps dramatically, hissing like it actually hurt. You laugh, the sound bubbling up easier than you expect after the long day.
You help her, as always—sliding off her safety vest, fingers careful and slow, easing her boots loose while she leans on your shoulder for balance. It’s a familiar rhythm, one you’ve fallen into without thinking.
She watches you the whole time—quiet, tired, but soft around the eyes. When you finish, she hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up toward hers.
“Missed you,” she murmurs.
You smile, hands still resting on her knees. “Missed you more.”
JJ’s gone back to his blocks, babbling to himself, and the kitchen hums with the faint clatter of dinner cooling on the stove. Ellie bends down, and you meet her halfway. The kiss is slow, unhurried—warm with the comfort of coming home.
When she pulls back, her forehead lingers against yours, and you can feel her breath when she whispers, “Two years,” like it still surprises her.
“Two good ones,” you whisper back. You set her plate down when she finally makes her way to the table, still a little unsteady from exhaustion. The old oak thing creaks under her touch. You both found it years ago, sitting out by a trashcan when you first moved in together—heavy as sin, but too beautiful to leave behind. You’d dragged it into the bed of her pickup yourselves, laughing the whole way.
“I made your favorite,” you tell her, voice easy, as JJ babbles beside you. You gently pry a little plastic figurine from his hand before setting him in his high chair.
“Ravioli and chicken,” Ellie grins, the smell hitting her all at once. You slide the plate to her, and she’s already halfway melting into the seat. Usually, she’d shower before dinner so you could cook together, but tonight’s different. Tonight’s hers.
She glances down and sighs when she notices the streaks of dirt and dust she’s left behind on the chair.
“Hey,” you murmur, your voice low and soft. “It’s fine. Nothing a baby wipe won’t fix.”
You set down a bottle of grape juice with a small flourish.
That earns a real smile—the kind that reaches her eyes.
It’s an old joke, one that never gets old. Back in high school, she’d stolen a bottle of wine from Joel’s stash and taken you behind the bleachers with some weed. You hadn’t lasted long—the mix of smoke and cheap red wine had sent you straight into her hands, sick and embarrassed. She’d cleaned you up, laughing the whole time, and driven you home with the windows down.
The next time you saw her, you’d shown up with a bottle of grape juice.
“Pretty sure baby wipes aren’t good for the wood,” she teases, reaching for her fork as you grab the good wine glasses—the ones you always insist were from your mother’s set.
You pour the juice into both, and she laughs, shaking her head. “Classy as ever,” she says.
“Always,” you reply, clinking your glass softly against hers. “How was work?” you ask, settling into the chair across from her.
“Mama work!” JJ squeals before she can answer, smacking his palms against the table. You laugh under your breath. God, how does he have so much energy left this late?
Ellie hums, spearing a piece of chicken with her fork. “Slow. The lumber guys were late again,” she says around a bite. “Had to call Joel to get the other foreman straightened out.”
You roll your eyes. “God. That guy’s always causing problems. What was his name again?”
“Steven,” she says simply, taking a sip from her glass.
“Fuck Steven,” you mutter into yours, and her eyebrow shoots up, amused.
“Thought you said cursing was rubbing off on JJ,” she teases, lips quirking as she tries not to laugh.
“It’s mostly yours,” you counter, leaning over to help JJ scoop up another bite of ravioli. “JJ. Eat your food, don’t play with it.”
“M’ not playing,” he insists, voice tiny but serious enough to make Ellie choke on a laugh. Grape juice splatters from the corner of her mouth, and she wipes it with the back of her hand, grinning like an idiot.
You can’t help but laugh with her—soft, helpless, the kind that fills the kitchen and hangs in the air like the smell of dinner.
Ellie shakes her head, cheeks flushed. “You’re both trouble,” she says finally, looking at you with that small, quiet love she never quite says out loud—but you always feel anyway. When you finish eating, you stand up instead of settling in beside her, which makes Ellie pause mid-bite. You never leave the table first. Still, she doesn’t say anything—just lets you go while she stays behind with JJ, watching him chase the last bits of ravioli around his plate.
She hears the sink run for a minute, the soft clink of dishes, then the sound stops.
The doorbell rings.
Ellie glances up just as you come back into the kitchen. You move quietly, wordlessly lifting JJ out of his seat before she can ask what’s going on.
“Thanks for taking him tonight,” you say as you open the door.
It’s your sister—smiling, already reaching for JJ and the little bag you keep by the door for when he spends the night with her.
“Please,” your sister scoffs, shifting him onto her hip. “I know the struggle.”
You wave her off, shut the door gently, and turn back around.
Ellie’s eyes narrow, a lazy smile tugging at her mouth. “Is this my gift?” she asks, voice low and teasing.
You shrug, stepping closer. “A part of it,” you admit, taking her hand and tugging her up from the chair. “C’mere.”
She glances at the table—plates still out, half a glass of juice left to sweat onto the wood. “What about the dishes?”
“They can wait.”
You flick off the kitchen light, leaving the room in the soft spill of hallway glow, and guide her down the short stretch to the bathroom across from your room.
Her laughter follows, quiet and warm. “You’re up to something,” she murmurs.
“Maybe,” you say, squeezing her hand. “You’ll have to find out.” Steam curls around the room, clinging to the mirror and softening the light. The bathwater glows golden under the dim bulb above, and Ellie stands still for a second, half in her work clothes, watching the water ripple.
You move to her quietly, fingers brushing her arm as you reach for her flannel. The fabric is stiff with dust and sweat, and you take your time peeling it off her shoulders, folding it over the counter like it’s something delicate. Her undershirt clings to her skin, damp from the long day. You help her out of it next, patient and slow.
“God, you’re filthy,” you murmur, but there’s no teasing in it—just affection.
She huffs a laugh, leaning her head forward as you undo the top button of her jeans. “Yeah, well. Comes with the territory.”
You ease them down over her hips, guiding her step by step until she’s bare. She doesn’t flinch or try to hide. She just lets you. It’s not about showiness; it’s about trust. About the simple ritual of being taken care of after she’s spent all day taking care of everyone else.
“This is barely trouble,” she says, voice lazy.
You smile. “I just wanna bathe you. Don’t be a perv.” You unhook her bra, brushing your knuckles over her shoulder as it slips away.
She gives a small sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and sinks into the water. The heat pulls a groan from her chest, her head tipping back against the rim of the tub. You undress quietly, the sound of fabric soft against the hum of water.
When you slide in behind her, she makes room automatically, her back pressing into your chest, your legs folding around her. The warmth wraps around you both, heavy and still.
For a long while, there’s only the sound of the water shifting, the faint echo of your breathing together. You comb your fingers through her damp hair, working out bits of grit and tangles. Your fingertips trace the edges of her tattoo, the small pale scars on her shoulders. Every touch is gentle, patient—without hunger, without urgency. Just the kind of closeness that feels like rest.
Her hand moves back to find you, fingers brushing along your collarbone, then curling there, staying.
“You never let me hold you like this,” you murmur, reaching for a bit of soap, scrubbing her scalp softly until her eyes flutter closed.
She tilts her head back to look up at you, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Well… I am kinda the boss.”
You snort. “Dork.” Cupping your hands, you pour warm water over her shoulders, rinsing away the suds.
“But c’mon,” you say quietly, fingers tracing idle circles on her arm. “You gotta let me do some things sometimes.”
Her eyes open again, curious. “Like what?”
You shrug, the water rippling between you. “Like… both ways. In life. Maybe in bed.”
That earns a quiet laugh, low and amused. “But I like doing it to you.”
You pout, nudging her shoulder. “I like when you do me too. But maybe give me a turn.”
She twists just enough to see your face fully, her grin softening. “You really wanna trade places?”
“Sometimes,” you admit. “Not all the time. Just… enough to know what it’s like to take care of you that way too.”
Ellie watches you for a moment—really looks at you—before leaning back again, resting her head beneath your chin. “You already do,” she murmurs.
And for a while, you just sit there. The water laps softly at the sides of the tub, your breaths syncing in the slow, quiet rhythm of home.
When the water finally cools, the two of you move slow—reluctant, skin flushed and heavy from the heat. You towel Ellie off first, tracing the cloth along the curve of her shoulders, down her arms, catching stray droplets that glint against her tattoo. She leans into the touch, humming quietly, eyes half-lidded with comfort.
When she reaches for her clothes, you stop her with a light hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t get dressed,” you say, soft but firm, flashing those exaggerated doe eyes that always get her.
She snorts, quirks a brow. “Really? All right. I won’t.” Her grin stretches wide as she saunters off toward the bed, still damp, hair sticking to her neck. She slides under the sheets, the lamp painting her skin in gold. The TV flickers on, some sitcom rerun filling the silence, but she’s too relaxed to watch—just lying there, arms behind her head, eyes closing every few seconds.
You take a breath. The mirror’s fogged over, and you catch only a blur of yourself as you slip the satin over your shoulders. Pale blue, white trim, the fabric cool and whisper-light against your skin. The small bow in front sits neatly at your sternum, ridiculous and sweet.
When you step into the bedroom, Ellie glances up—and freezes.
You linger in the doorway, leaning just slightly, light spilling over the slip and catching on the smooth sheen. A droplet slides from your hair down the back of your neck. Her throat bobs when she swallows, and then she smirks, eyes dark with amusement.
“My wife won’t be real happy you’re here,” she murmurs, the teasing in her voice familiar, lazy, low.
“She won’t? That’s all too bad, Miss Williams,” you reply, overplaying a posh British accent with a grin.
Ellie barks a laugh, rolling her eyes. “What is that? Am I your double-O agent?”
“You’d be a terrible James Bond,” you retort, accent slipping away as you start to cross the room. “You’d lose your gun halfway through the first mission.”
“Maybe,” she hums, watching you close the space between you. “But I’d still get the girl.”
You smile, softer now, the humor fading into something quieter, something warm. The TV hums, forgotten, as you climb onto the bed. The mattress dips under your knees. Ellie’s eyes follow every movement—your hands steady on the blanket, the gleam of the fabric when it shifts with your body.
She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“I’m a lucky woman,” she says, the words tender, her eyes tracing your face.
You settle beside her, your knee brushing hers, voice a whisper against her ear. “No… I am. Hardworking wife, beautiful kid, a home with you… helps that you’re so pretty.”
Your tone aims for sultry, but she laughs anyway—quiet, breathy, fond.
You pout, nudging her shoulder. “I’m trying here.”
“I know. You’re just—funny,” she says between soft laughter.
“‘M not funny,” you mumble, leaning closer, brushing your lips against her bare, freckled shoulder. Your jaw grazes her skin, your teeth tugging lightly at her earlobe. She shivers, and her breath catches just slightly.
Her hands trail down your back, fingers tracing your spine. “Are you wearing boxers?” she asks, incredulous, voice low.
“I couldn’t find my good underwear,” you murmur into her neck.
She tilts her head, grin spreading. “Yeah, nothing says sexy like Fruit of the Loom.”
You roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Oh, shut up.”
You shift, straddling her lap, the slip riding just enough to reveal the edge of the boxers she teased you for. Her hands rest on your hips, thumbs brushing over your skin in small circles.
The teasing falls quiet again. You trace her collarbone with your fingertips, down the slope of her chest, memorizing the rhythm of her breathing beneath your palms.
“Yeah,” you murmur, voice quiet. “But you’re the pretty one.”
Her gaze softens, all humor gone now. She slides a hand under the satin, over your ribs, until her palm rests over your heart.
“Mm,” she hums, voice low and sure. “I think you’re prettier.”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your mouth. You lean in, pressing your forehead to hers.
“Then I guess we’re both right,” you whisper. Your breath ghosts over her stomach, soft and reverent, as your lips find their way lower. You press slow kisses to her skin—one at her ribs, another at the hollow of her hip—lingering like you’re memorizing her warmth. When you give the faintest bite to her hipbone, she exhales sharply, hips tilting just a little toward you.
Her fingers slide into your hair, gentle, carding through the damp strands as if she can’t decide whether to pull you closer or just hold you there.
You rest your chin against the soft trail beneath her navel, looking up. The light from the TV paints shifting color over her stomach, her chest, the curve of her throat.
“Remember,” you murmur, voice quiet against her skin, “I tried to do this for you once.”
Ellie’s gaze drifts down to meet yours. You love the way she looks at you from up there—half shy, half undone already.
“Didn’t even let me get a little lick in,” you tease, though your voice stays tender, not accusing. Just warm.
She lets out a soft laugh through her nose, head falling back against the pillow. “Yeah, well,” she says, breath breaking a little, “I like doing it to you. The way you move. The sounds you make. It makes me feel…” She trails off, her throat tightening on the words.
“Ellie,” you whisper, inching forward, kissing the faint line of muscle along her stomach. “You don’t have to do anything right now.”
Her breath catches again. You can feel the tremor in her thighs when your hands slide down, tracing small circles on her skin. She’s warm there, and you take your time—palms smoothing over, coaxing her open but never rushing. You press another kiss just below her bellybutton, slow, adoring.
She shivers, her fingers tightening in your hair, not to guide, just to feel.
“Yeah?” you ask softly, not teasing this time. “That what you like?”
Ellie hums, the sound low and vulnerable, like she’s trying to hold it in. Her thumb strokes the back of your neck, steady, slow.
You breathe her in—the salt of her skin, the warmth, the quiet little noises she doesn’t even realize she’s making. When you look up again, her lip twitches, brows furrowed just so. There’s a faint crease in her forehead that only shows up when she’s trying not to fall apart too quickly.
You press your mouth against her thigh, then rest your cheek there, just breathing her in.
“You’re so good to me,” you whisper, almost to yourself.
Her hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “No,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re the one taking care of me.”
And when you lean forward again, slow and careful, she exhales your name like it’s a thank you. You tilt your head back, coaxing her thighs apart with your palms. It’s a sight you don’t get often—the slow reveal of her, the gentle slope between her legs, the soft curls that frame her, the faint rise and fall of her belly as she breathes.
You drag your thumbs along the edges where her thighs meet her mound, tracing the tender seam of skin there. The muscle in her legs flexes beneath your touch, and she lets out a breath that turns into a small, broken sound. Her hands slide into your hair, threading through the strands until her fingers tighten just enough to make your scalp prickle. The hiss that escapes her sounds like she’s trying to keep herself from shaking apart.
You look up at her, half-lidded, wanting her to see what she looks like from here—how open she is, how beautiful. Your breath ghosts over her folds, and she twitches, hips lifting slightly toward your mouth. You smile, almost teasing, your lips hovering just shy of her warmth. Then you let a string of spit fall from your tongue, watching it catch the light before it lands against her skin, sliding down between the slick folds.
Her thighs tremble. Her grip in your hair tightens, grounding herself in the moment.
Maybe you do it because you like the sight of it—the way her breath catches when it hits her. Maybe because you want her to see what she does to you. Or maybe because sometimes, when she’s the one who always holds you down, you like the small, delicious shift of power.
Her breath falters when you spread her open further, the wet shine of her catching the low light. You trace your tongue up the inside of her thigh first, slow and deliberate, until you’re close enough that she can feel your breath again. The air is thick with her scent, familiar and dizzying. You pause, just for a heartbeat, to meet her gaze again.
Her eyes are wide, mouth parted, her chest rising with shallow breaths. She looks wrecked already.
And that’s when you lean in, lips finally brushing against her, soft at first—just enough to make her gasp your name like it’s something holy. You suckle at her like she’s some ripe fruit, your lips closing around her with a soft, wet sound. Her taste blooms on your tongue—salt and warmth and something that’s only her. Your eyes flutter shut as you drink her in, as her hips jolt up and her voice catches somewhere between a gasp and a curse. Her fingers tighten in your hair, dragging you closer until your nose presses against her skin, until you can’t tell where your breath ends and hers begins.
“Fuck,” she hisses, the sound ragged, chest rising sharply. Her thighs flex on either side of your head, muscles trembling as she tries to ground herself. You stay there, tongue working in small, precise circles over her clit, slow enough to savor the way she shudders and grinds up into your mouth. The curses spill from her between breaths, broken little sounds that turn into whimpers when your tongue presses harder, firmer, your rhythm steady and relentless.
Your fingers dig into the meat of her thighs, keeping her open as her body tightens beneath your mouth. Her nails scrape over your scalp, sharp enough to sting, but you only hum against her in answer, letting the vibration draw another noise out of her throat. She tastes sweeter the longer you stay there, slick and wanting, the sounds between you wet and obscene.
Then your tongue drags lower, slow and teasing, tracing the seam of her slit until you find her center. You pause, just a breath, before pushing in. The heat of her closes around you, and her hips lift sharply, her mouth falling open as a broken cry leaves her. You look up at her through your lashes—cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded and wild, her brows pinched in pleasure. Every sound that leaves her makes your pulse quicken, every tremor in her legs urging you deeper.
The wetness slicks your chin as you move, your tongue curling and pushing against the tight clutch of her. She clenches, pulsing around you, and a sharp whine breaks from her chest. Her spine arches, thighs trembling, body straining like she’s on the edge of something she can’t hold back.
You pull away before she can fall apart completely, your breath heavy, lips glistening with her. You crawl up her body, pressing kisses along the curve of her stomach, her ribs, her chest, until you find her mouth. You kiss her hard—messy, hungry, your hand cupping her jaw as you part her lips with yours. You want her to taste herself, to know what she does to you. Her tongue meets yours in a slow tangle, and she moans into your mouth, pulling you closer by the back of your neck.
The kiss turns tender after a moment, softer but no less intense. When you finally pull back, her breath fans over your lips. Her eyes stay on you, dark and shining.
“God,” she breathes, voice hoarse and reverent, “you are such a good girl.” The words make your stomach twist with warmth. Her thumb traces the spot just behind your ear, her touch almost too gentle after the heat of before. “But let me finish,” she murmurs, her tone slipping into something deeper, more commanding, like a promise.
You press your forehead to hers, answering with another soft sound. Everything in you wants to keep moving, to cling and take and give all at once. She watches you with a kind of fierce pride that makes your chest ache.
“Do you mind… if I try the other thing?” you ask, voice small and careful. Her fingers find the lace at your chest, holding it like it’s fragile and precious.
She lifts one brow, that crooked smirk pulling at her mouth. “You wanna fuck me?”
You bop her shoulder, grinning through the need. “Not like that. I mean— I want to take care of you.” You brush damp hair from her temple, thumb lingering on the hot skin. “You work so hard. You come home tired and still…you make time for me. You give so much. I want you to take, just for a little while.”
Her expression softens, something open and grateful passing through her eyes. “You think I don’t like giving?” she murmurs, voice low. “But okay. Show me.” You get up, standing between the soft flicker of the TV and the bed, the light catching the sheen of your skin as you peel the boxers down. Ellie watches you, half-sitting now, her head propped against her fist, eyes following every small movement. The air in the room shifts — quiet, thick, full of that kind of unspoken tension that always makes her chest tighten.
When you bend down to reach into the bottom drawer, she can’t help herself. Her teeth catch her lip, her gaze drawn to the slow bend of your spine, the soft give of your thighs, the way your muscles move under the light. You rummage a moment before pulling out the harness and a toy — pale pink, smooth, not too large. Just enough. You hold it like it’s fragile, like it’s something sacred.
Ellie swallows. Her breath catches in her throat as you fumble with the straps, fingers shaking just a little. You’re focused, but nervous — she can see the flush creeping up your neck. The soft clink of metal buckles echoes in the quiet, and your hands tremble again.
You don’t even notice her moving until the bed creaks, until you feel her — all warmth and muscle — pressing against your back. Her bare chest flattens against your spine, the weight of her chin resting on your shoulder. Her voice is low, teasing, but soft enough to make your stomach flip.
“You’ve seen me put this on, sweetheart.”
Her hands cover yours, steadying them. Her fingers work the harness with a confidence that feels grounding — loosening, tightening, fixing what your anxious hands had undone. She slots the toy through the ring, the sound of leather sliding against skin filling the air.
“Step into it,” she murmurs, lowering the straps for you.
You nod, biting your lip, suddenly too aware of everything — her breath on your neck, her hands brushing your thighs as she holds the harness open. One leg, then the next. You feel the cool brush of leather against your inner thighs, and her knuckles graze your skin as she slides it up your hips.
“There,” she whispers, adjusting the buckle, pulling it snug. Her fingers linger at your waist, tracing the seam where skin meets strap. “See? Perfect fit.”
The leather hugs your hips — not painfully, just heavy, grounding. You shift, feeling the weight of it, feeling strange and raw under her gaze. You turn slowly, facing her.
“This is… an awkward feeling,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
She laughs, soft and genuine, the sound curling in the air between you. “Takes a little getting used to.” She leans back on her hands, reclining against the mattress like she’s watching something she’s waited for. “Just… move. Act normal for a sec.”
You take a hesitant step forward, then another. The toy sways between your thighs, unfamiliar, foreign, and yet — when her eyes drag down your body — you feel something warm bloom low in your stomach. You stop in front of her, uncertain what to do next.
Ellie shifts closer, her eyes half-lidded, mouth curving in that teasing, dangerous way. Her hand reaches out, wrapping around the base of the toy with ease. She spits into her palm, slow and deliberate, before sliding her fingers down it — a slick sound that makes your breath stutter.
“Ellie…” you whisper, eyes wide.
“Mm?” she hums, not looking up. Her thumb circles the head, spreading the wet, her hand stroking with a rhythm that looks far too practiced. She glances up then, her gaze heavy-lidded and full of heat. “You gotta get into it.”
“That’s…graphic,” you manage, your voice thinner than you mean it to be.
She grins, lazy, wicked. “You have to pretend it’s really part of you,” she says, her tone soft but low, like she’s coaxing something out of you. Her hand keeps moving, slower now, eyes never leaving yours. “It helps. Trust me.”
You swallow hard, your pulse kicking under your skin. The leather creaks when you shift, your breath shallow as she guides your hand to join hers. You wrap your fingers around the base, the same way she taught you to hold a knife once — firm, sure.
“Like that,” she whispers. Her hand slides up, over yours, guiding your movement until the rhythm feels natural. Until your breath syncs with hers.
You meet her eyes again, and she smirks. “See? Not so awkward now, huh?”
You exhale, a shaky laugh catching in your throat. “Maybe a little.”
“Good,” she says, leaning back, eyes dragging over you in quiet appreciation. “Means you’re feeling it.”
And she looks at you then — really looks — like she’s seeing something she’s missed. The light from the TV flickers across your skin, the shadows tracing every curve, every scar. You shift your stance, testing the weight again, and something in her expression softens.
“Damn,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “You look good like this.”
You don’t say anything. You just breathe, standing there in front of her — leather snug against your hips, her spit shining faintly in the light, her gaze heavy and patient. The air hums between you, thick with want, with quiet admiration. You sit on her lap. The confidence flickers back for a moment, the slight twitch she gives when the toy presses between your bellies. You kiss her with an intention to share your want- your love. Her fingers curl into your hair, down your spine. Remembering your curves. You press her down into the mattress, not with force, but with weight — the kind of grounding that speaks of care, of reverence, of all the nights spent building a life together. Your palms skim over her waist, over the faint stretch of her stomach, until your fingers find their way to her hips. Her breath hitches, a soft sound that vibrates against your lips when you kiss her again.
Her mouth opens beneath yours, welcoming, familiar. Your tongue slides against hers, and you taste the faint remnants of dinner — salt, herbs, something warm that still clings to her. It feels intimate in a way that’s almost too much; not the act, but the reminder of everything domestic between you, the home you’ve built that still lives in her taste. A small sound slips from your throat, unbidden.
Her thighs shift beneath you, parting to make room for you, and you nearly lose your breath at the movement. The bed creaks softly, a small reminder of the cramped space and how close you both are. You kiss her again, slower this time, dragging your mouth over hers until the air between you feels heavy and wet.
When you finally pull back, you brace one hand beside her head, the other resting at her waist. She’s already smiling, that lazy, teasing grin that always makes you a little weak. There’s a smear of your spit and her lipstick near her chin, and she doesn’t bother to wipe it away.
“You gotta help me do it right,” you whisper, your voice low but shaking slightly. You glance down between you, at the toy still held awkwardly in your hand. It feels too new, too deliberate, too careful. You hesitate, then spit into your fingers, trying to mimic what you’ve seen her do so many times. The motion feels clumsy. You already know she’d take her time with you — fingers, mouth, patience — she always does.
“I’ll help,” she murmurs, voice husky, eyes half-lidded. Her hand comes up to rest on your wrist, grounding you again. “See? You already know what you’re doing.”
You drag your slick fingers down, slow, over the soft, swollen heat of her. She twitches, the muscles in her stomach tightening, and you follow the line down until your fingertips find her clit. You circle it gently once, twice, watching the way her breath falters.
Her thighs part a little wider.
You move lower, tracing the edge of her slickness, your finger finding the entrance and pressing carefully. She’s warm, tight, the familiar resistance giving way slowly as you ease the tip of your finger in. Her head tilts back against the pillow, and her breath catches in a low, drawn-out groan.
“Mhm,” she exhales, voice thick, breath trembling. “That’s a good start…” Her tone hitches, turns rougher, quieter. “Feels—yeah. Feels good. M’not used to it.”
You freeze for a moment, watching her face. The way her lashes flutter, the small tremor in her jaw, the way her stomach jumps every time you move even a little. You press in deeper, just enough to feel her clench around you, tight and hot and impossibly soft.
“Promise it feels nice?” you ask, voice barely a whisper, though you can already see the answer written in her body — the arch of her spine, the way her thighs flex against your hips, the wet sound that comes when you move your hand again.
She opens her eyes, heavy-lidded, half a grin still there even as her breath shakes. Her hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touch.
“It feels perfect,” she murmurs, her words breaking around a soft groan. “You’re doing so good, baby.”
The words make your chest ache, warmth spreading through you. You shift your hand, curling your finger just the way she likes — the way she’s shown you — and her whole body shudders. Her thighs twitch against you.
You add another finger, slowly, watching her expression the whole time. The way she bites her lip, the small sound that escapes her throat. Her hips start to move, shallow at first, then more insistently, chasing the rhythm you give her. You look down, and for a second, you forget how to breathe. The sight itself makes your chest tighten — the way you fit against her, the way your body moves inside her, how her thighs twitch and her stomach tightens every time you shift just slightly. It’s overwhelming in the quietest, most electric way. Her skin glistens faintly under the soft lamp light, the sheen of sweat gathering in the hollows of her collarbone. Every little tremor she gives off travels straight through you.
You pull your fingers out, slick and trembling slightly. Ellie props herself up on her elbows, hair sticking to her temples, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and arousal. Her brow arches when you wipe your hand absently on her stomach — a messy, thoughtless gesture that makes her smirk widen.
“That’s attractive,” she teases, her voice husky from how much she’s been breathing.
“Shut up,” you mumble, flustered, but the sound comes out light, almost affectionate. You spit onto your palm. It’s clumsy — a thick string catches at the corner of your mouth, and you try to wipe it away with the back of your wrist before it falls. Ellie’s still watching you, eyes lazy, her grin spreading in slow satisfaction as you coat the toy with your hand. The wet sound of it fills the small space between you.
When you lean forward again, it’s careful, deliberate. You steady yourself with one hand on the mattress beside her head, the other gripping the base of the toy as you line it up. You press it against her, just enough for her to feel it, the blunt tip dragging along her entrance. She exhales sharply — a startled sound, half a gasp, half a groan — and her thighs tighten on either side of your hips.
You ease forward, inch by inch, your breath shaking as her body takes you in. Her lips part, but no sound comes at first — just a faint tremor in her chest, her brows drawing together as if she’s trying to stay still for you. You can feel every small reaction under your hands — the tightening muscles, the subtle tremor of her stomach, the way her hips shift unconsciously to meet you halfway.
“This okay?” you ask, voice small, eyes darting up to hers. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the vulnerability in the question.
“F—Fine,” she breathes out, the word breaking in the middle. Her chest lifts as she exhales, a slow roll of air that ends in a shaky laugh. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and her mouth curves into that lazy, cocky half-smile again. “You can keep goin’.”
You nod, pressing your hips forward until the movement makes your stomach twist. It’s an odd mix of power and awe, how much control you have — how much she lets you have. Her fingers dig into your upper arms, not hard, but enough that you feel her grip tremble each time you move.
You stay there for a moment, breathing in sync with her, letting her adjust. Her chest heaves, lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and you can feel the faint pulse of her heartbeat through her skin. Then your eyes flick down again, and what you see makes your pulse trip — the sight of her stretched around you, her slick skin clinging to the toy and your thigh brushing hers as she moves.
“Fuck,” you whisper, your voice almost reverent. “You’re so pretty.”
Ellie’s laugh comes out more like a gasp, her voice caught between amusement and pleasure. “I know,” she manages to grunt, breath hitching when the hem of your thin nightgown drags across her stomach. The fabric clings slightly where sweat and spit have mixed, and she shivers, her hands twitching against your skin.
You draw back slowly — just enough for her to make a small, broken sound — and then press forward again. The rhythm starts uneven, hesitant. Each push and pull makes the mattress creak faintly beneath you both, your hips bumping clumsily against hers. Ellie moans, sharp and needy, the sound surprising both of you. You look down at her, eyes wide, mouth parted, almost stunned by it.
Her hands move up to your shoulders, nails grazing skin, trying to steady you. You feel her chest rise against yours, every breath coming faster now. You try to find a rhythm that feels right — something between careful and desperate — but your movements falter, uneven. Ellie laughs softly, breathless, and you can feel it puff against your cheek.
“Try singing ‘Stayin’ Alive’ to yourself,” she murmurs, grinning even through the sound of her own shaky breaths.
You blink, thrown by the absurdity, but the warmth in her eyes makes you smile despite yourself. “Like in the first aid class we did?” you ask, your voice soft, almost disbelieving.
“Mhm,” she hums, rolling her hips slightly beneath you. “Helps keep the pace.”
You huff a quiet laugh, cheeks burning, but you try anyway — a silent, shaky attempt at keeping time to a beat that only the two of you can hear. The movement finds its rhythm. Ellie’s hands grip tighter at your arms, her lips parting again, and her breath catches in sync with every motion. You can feel her body yielding to you, warm and alive, every sound she makes spilling into the space between you like something secret.
Her gaze finds yours again, heavy-lidded but clear, and the smirk returns. “See?” she whispers, voice almost tender now. “You’re a natural.” You whimper, the sound caught between your teeth, and tilt your head down so your nose drags against hers with every thrust. The closeness is dizzying — her breath against your mouth, the faint taste of sweat, the heat that builds between your bodies until it feels like there’s nothing but that rhythm, that pressure. Ellie starts getting louder, the small sounds she was making growing into something breathier, rougher, uncontrolled. You can hear her voice tremble each time you move inside her — broken, unfiltered.
You try harder this time, pushing in deeper, the movement sharper than before. Each thrust sends a pulse through your core — your lower abs tightening, cramping, your breath coming in sharp pants that you can’t quite control. It’s effort and want, tangled together. You shift your weight, your hands sliding down until they fix under her thighs, pushing them up a little to meet your rhythm. She gasps when you do, her back arching off the bed, her nails digging into your shoulders just enough to sting.
It takes all of you to keep going — every bit of focus, because your own body is betraying you, tightening with every sound she makes. Your stomach twists with effort and arousal, the deep ache in your core almost unbearable. The sound of it — your skin meeting hers, the slick rhythm of it — fills the room. It’s obscene, loud, and real, echoing off the walls. Her breath mixes with yours, sharp and uneven. Your breasts brush against hers each time you move, your nipples catching against her skin in a way that makes both of you twitch.
You shift slightly, and the angle changes — you can feel it, and so can she. Her reaction is immediate. She makes a sound you’ve never heard from her before — half curse, half cry — and her fingers clench at your back. Her voice breaks when she speaks.
“O–oh fuck, right there—” her breath hitches, “right there, good girl.”
The words hit you like a shock, the praise making your stomach flutter. You falter for a second, hips stuttering, a small helpless noise leaving you. She notices — her hands slip up to your jaw, dragging your face closer until your foreheads touch. Her eyes are blown wide, lips parted, her chest heaving with every breath. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, voice gone hoarse. “Please—keep going.”
You do. You push through the ache, through the tremor in your legs, through the burn in your lungs. Each movement feels heavier, deeper — like the air itself thickens around you. You drag your nose along her hairline, her temple, breathing her in. The smell of her, the warmth of her skin — it’s everywhere. You press yourself closer, chest to chest, until you can feel her heartbeat against yours, both of them too fast, too wild.
Your thrusts slow, not from hesitation but because you’re sinking into the rhythm, finding something deliberate in the slowness. One, two — deep, steady pushes that make her voice catch. Her thighs tremble on either side of you. Her fingers scramble for purchase against your back, then slide up into your hair, tugging weakly as her head tips back.
She’s moaning now, no restraint left in her. The sound of it vibrates against your mouth when you lean down, pressing soft kisses along her jaw. You can feel the change in her breathing — the way it builds, unsteady, desperate.
Then she breaks.
Her body tenses all at once, her mouth falling open in a high, trembling sound that barely sounds like her name anymore. Her thighs spasm around you, back arching so high it nearly lifts you both off the bed. You hold her through it, careful, still moving in shallow rolls until she starts to come down, until her voice quiets into small, breathless noises.
You ease out slowly, careful not to hurt her, and the sound it makes — wet and slick — makes both of you shiver. She flinches a little at the emptiness, her hands twitching against your skin. You don’t move right away. You stay there for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall, watching her eyes flutter open again. There’s something dazed about her smile — a mix of pride and exhaustion.
You finally roll over beside her, your body still humming, your thighs trembling from the effort. You stare up at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a shaky laugh. “That’s… so much harder than I thought,” you manage, your voice rough.
Ellie turns her head, eyes half-lidded but bright, and smirks through her heavy breathing. “Welcome to my world,” she murmurs, one hand reaching over to brush the hair from your face. Her thumb drags lazily along your cheek, affectionate. “You did good, though.”
You huff out a laugh, your body melting into the sheets, still warm from her. “Good?” you repeat, grinning faintly. “I think I nearly died.”
“Worth it?” she asks, the corner of her mouth twitching.
You turn your head toward her, smile small but genuine, and whisper, “Every second.”
