ellie's the type of girlfriend who lays first on the bed, looking up at you while you prepare yourself to sleep leaned in her elbows with a small smile and tired eyes from the busy day - but never for you.
when you turn around after turning down the lights, you move to bed and firstly sits in the edge, taking off your slippers while she lays on her side. you turn on the nightstand dim light and difuser with a soft scent, finally turning around to your girl who've been patiently waiting for you in a comfortable silence.
the ac is on, a soft hum of it through the quiet room, the mattress sinking softly beneath you as you lift your legs to rest over it, pulling up the covers over the two of you, turning to ellie and finding her tired, but smiling face. she quickly adjusts herself and soon you lay down over her extended arm, sighing softly in relief as you feel your body weighning over the sheets, her soft warmth enveloping you instantly as she pulls you closer by your side, her warm hands soft and careful, as if you're a delicate piece - which, for her, you are.
you let your eyes be closed for a while before you open them lazily, finding her own tired ones staring at every single detail of your face, commiting them to memory all over again. she finds your gaze, her face now relaxed, but her lips twitches slightly when she sees your eyes. her free hand caress your sides for a while, up and down, with a gentle hand, soothing the tenseness off it like this is what she does the best. you tangle your legs, pulling slightly closer to her, which she helps with as she holds, now, at your shoulder. she giggles, a silent one. her hand reaches for your face, cupping the side of your cheek with a gentle hand despite the way her arm heavens. she remain silent for a while, her thumb brushing your cheek as your eyes close.
"you're so pretty." she whispers a little later for herself, but you hear and open your eyes. she smiles, a shy one.
"you don't have to answer me. i got you."
you just remain silent, staring at her with half-lidded and sleep eyes, barely open. but you smile.
her hand moves up to your hair, soothing the scalp so deliciously soft that you can swear it's melting. you almost purr, eyes falling close as soon as she does. she keeps it for a while, pulling lose strands behind once in a while. you're almost completely asleep when you feel her stilling her long fingers in between your hair, in the side and back of your head. she leans in, pressing a soft, reverent, passionate kiss to the top of your head. she closes her eyes, enjoying the sweet warmth of you. it lingers for long seconds before she pulls away, just to adjust herself better so her chin rests softly over your head.
"i love you." she murmurs, almost like a silent confession while her free hand slides back your side, resting around your waist.
you try to answer. well, you swear you do. but all that comes out are babbled murmurs that ellie silently scoffs off. she smiles, the kind of smile you give to yourself when you feel like the moment you're in are too good. too good to be true.
but at the end of the day, that's all she could ask for. you. your warmth, your body next to hers, your heart against hers, your breaths in sync. just you, close to her. even if that means she'll get back pain from being all crooked and her arm dead from serving as your personal pillow tomorrow, all to comfort you.
but it doesn't matter to her. not if it means healing her soul all night and wake up next to your cute, swollen and sleepy face. for you, everything's worth it.
hey everyone! i created this account to post random fic ideas i might get about ellie since i'm always thinking about her, and maybe some other stuff. btw, hope you enjoyed it!
༉‧₊˚. synopsis ~ roommates. that's what you and ellie are, the only thing you've been for over two years. two painfully long years during which it was hard not to stare every time she would come out the bathroom after a shower with her hair damp and her clothes sticking to her skin, during which you spent your nights daydreaming her mouth on yours. but maybe something will change when for christmas you tell your really not liberal parents you're bringing home a boyfriend that's very much not a boyfriend and very much not your girlfriend either. yet.
༉‧₊˚. word count ~ 8.3k
༉‧₊˚. content warnings ~ roommate/fakegf!ellie x roommate!reader, swearing, pining (reader is kinda clueless and blind lol) homophobia (the it's just a phase kind), religious themes, slight blasphemy at some point, fake dating takes a turn, making bigots eat shit basically, slur (self-directed and not derogatory), minor use of y/n, SMUT, top!ellie, sub!reader, fingering (r!receiving), tribbing, pet names (angel, babe, baby), afab!reader, men and minors dni.
likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡
The flyer was stupid. You knew it when you made it.
A last-minute thing you’d typed up in the university library between classes, your laptop overheating and your iced coffee already separating at the bottom. You didn’t even try to make it cute — just some bold text, your Instagram, and a few pull tabs stuck at the bottom with your number. You printed four copies and pinned them up around campus without thinking twice: one near the cafeteria, one on the corkboard outside the library, one at the gym, and one on the notice board in the court yard for good luck.
Roommate wanted. Clean, queer-friendly, no frat boys, no weird food habits (don’t ask), rent split 50/50. DM me or rip a tab <3
You didn’t expect anything to come from it. The flyer felt more like a ritual than an actual solution. A thing to say you tried.
After kicking out your last roommate — a compulsive liar who never washed her dishes but always had her situationship over — you were honestly ready to live alone, even if it meant eating instant noodles five nights a week. To be fair, you would’ve rather lived with your childhood best friend, Jackie, than a stranger. That, if it wasn’t for the fact that you got accepted in different colleges and lived now in opposites sides of the country.
And then Ellie Williams texted you.
hey, saw your flyer. name’s ellie. i’m clean. no weird food habits if you don’t count eating hot cheetos at 2am. when can i come see the place?
You’d never met her before, but when you looked up her Instagram just to make sure it wasn’t a weirdo, you saw one post only. Two tattoos. A hoodie. A skateboard. A bio that read “ i draw gay shit and forget to eat” and one comment from someone named Dina that said “ur late to dinner bitch.”
You gave her a time and an address before you could overthink it after muttering a quiet “holy fuck” to no one but the actors in the tv show you were watching on your laptop at the time.
She showed up the next day with a backpack slung over one shoulder, a skateboard balanced between the floor and her hand, and a half-empty can of Monster in the other she had forgotten to throw away. She had tired eyes, a soft-looking flannel, paint on her black faded, baggy jeans, one ring on each finger and a crooked smirk the made it hard to tell if she was annoyed or just awkward. You’re pretty sure the first thing you said — out loud, with your mouth before you could stop yourself — was “Oh. You’re… cool. Like the skateboard.”
She smirked, said “thanks,” and walked in like she’d always lived there.
She moved in a week later.
Two years go by faster than you’d think.
You and Ellie fell into a rhythm. Not in that forced, awkward way that sometimes happens with new roommates, but something that felt weirdly easy. Domestic, even. Like she’s been there all along.
You know how she takes her coffee (black, unless she’s hungover. Then it’s extra cream, extra sugar, and no one’s allowed to comment on it), how she sketches with the side of her thumb pressed against her lip, how she uses the same playlist for every road trip you’ve ever taken together, and always fast-forwards through the same two songs even though she never says why.
You learnt that she talks in her sleep sometimes — low murmurs about the best charcoal to use for different types of paper, sometimes memories you’re pretty sure she doesn’t want to share — that she eats her cereal dry because she once read an article about lactose intolerance and just decided to believe it applied to her. She leaves her sketchbooks open on the coffee table and hums movie scores under her breath while folding laundry. She’s a chronic night owl who drinks mint tea out of a chipped mug you thrifted together and wears mismatched socks like it’s intentional. And she makes playlists for people she likes — one for you that she titled “cursed roommate shit” but that has suspiciously romantic transitions.
You became friends, real friends. You’ve been through late-night grocery runs and hangovers and exam week meltdowns. You’ve laid in her bed and talked about childhood trauma. You’ve argued about what kind of pasta is superior (spaghetti was your answers, penne was hers). You’ve danced drunk in the living room to Stevie Nicks and watched her laugh so hard she couldn’t breathe.
And somewhere in all that, you fell for her.
You didn’t plan to. It just sort of happened in that dumb, slow, irreversible way that things happen when you’re in your twenties and overwhelmed and chronically unable to read social cues.
And it wasn’t sudden. Not like a thunderclap. But slow, creeping, inevitable. Like mold in the corners of your heart. You think maybe it started the first time she defended your thesis idea to some dickhead at a party, or when she bought you your favorite oat milk without asking, or the time she tossed you her hoodie after coming back home on a rainy day all drenched and muttered something about you “you look cold, dumbass” before walking away like it didn’t matter.
You’ve tried to forget about it. To pretend it’s not a thing. You’ve told yourself a million times that she’s your best friend, your roommate, that this is comfortable, that there’s no point ruining it with a one-sided crush.
But sometimes she looks at you — across the breakfast table, in the blue glow of the TV, from behind her sketchpad — and you think, god, if she kissed me right now, I’d let her ruin my entire life.
It’s a too perfectly normal, drizzly Thursday when your mom calls. The sound of your phone ringing on the counter next to the microwave as you heat up leftover soup from the night before feels already like a sentence.
You consider letting it ring out. She’s been on a weird streak lately — to be honest, she’s been since the moment you came out to her at 17 — sending you long catholic Facebook posts and articles about “how to walk away from the Devil’s path.” And she’s not the only one. Your father doesn’t really help the situation when — every time he calls — tells you about a new guy from church he thinks would be good for you.
You’re not in the mood. But you also haven’t spoken to her in over a week, and you know she’ll just call again tomorrow.
So you pick up.
“Sweetheart,” she says, chipper like she always is when she wants something. “Haven’t heard from you in weeks. Are you coming home for Christmas?”
You glance over your shoulder. Ellie’s curled up on the couch, hair damp from a shower, sketching something in one of her million sketchbooks. She’s wearing one of your hoodies. You don’t remember when she took it, or if you ever actually said she could keep it, but it looks better on her anyway.
You sigh, loudly, making sure your mom hears it. “Yeah,” you say clipped. “Kinda have to I guess.”
“Oh, good. You’re bringing a boyfriend this time, I hope?”
You blink. “Sorry?”
“Well, you know, honey,” her voice is casual, but you can already hear your father in the background. “You’re at that age, and your last relationship wasn’t really… suitable.”
“Mom,” you say slowly, “Can we not?”
“I’m just saying, it’s a phase, college and all. I mean, I also thought I was in love with my best friend when I was in college.” she laughs, high pitched, almost syrupy. “You just haven’t found the right man yet. And speaking of which, your father wants you to meet Brian’s son, you know his colleague?”
“You— what?! I'm not—” you start, then stop. Because Ellie is looking up now, blinking at you from over the rim of her sketchbook, and you don’t even know what goes into your mind — maybe the fact that your mother just admitted having being in love with a girl or that she's trying to set you up with your dad's colleague's son, and he’s the most boring, insufferable human being on planet earth — when you say, voice higher than normal, “Actually, I am seeing someone.”
A beat of silence.
“Oh?” your mom chirps. “Well, that’s wonderful! What’s his name?”
Your brain does something it’s not supposed to do. It panics.
“Elliot.”
Your mom hums, pleased. “Bring him. We can’t wait to meet him.”
You avoided Ellie for the rest of the evening.
Not because she did anything wrong — she was sweet, offered you some of her leftover takeout and everything — but because you have a migraine made entirely of what the fuck did I just say. You hole up in your room, texting Jackie for advice, which is a mistake because she replies with:
LMAOOOO not u calling her elliot 💀💀
u gotta tell her before your mom adds her on facebook babe
And then:
unless... u want her to come? 👀
Which no. Absolutely not.
Except also… maybe?
Which brings you to now. Pacing across the living room like a woman possessed, your fingers brushing your lower lip like you do every time that you're nervous, your socked feet moving across the creaky hardwood floors of the apartment while your mind absolutely screams at itself.
Ellie, of course, is on the couch, the picture of infuriating serenity, legs spread wide, arms folded behind her head, flannel shirt unbuttoned over a tank top in that way that makes you forget your own name for a second too long. She’s chewing on the end of a red Twizzler like it’s a cigarette and watching you like you’re the most fascinating documentary she’s ever seen.
“You’re spiraling,” she says, chewing obnoxiously loud. “Wanna tell me why, or should I just guess?”
You stop, turn, stare at her.
“Okay, so,” you start, hands on your hips, trying to ignore the fact that her jeans are riding a little lower than usual and that the hem of her boxers is showing and it’s really not fair. “Before I say anything, I need you to promise not to laugh.”
Ellie raises an eyebrow. “That’s a tall order.”
You shoot her a look. She lifts her hand in surrender, still grinning as she sits up, leaning forward slightly, expression suddenly open, not teasing anymore. Just curious. “Alright. I promise.”
You take a deep breath in, then another. Then, “I might… have told my parents I have a boyfriend.”
Silence. Dead silence.
Ellie blinks. “Sorry, come again?”
“A boyfriend,” you repeat, wincing. “I told them I’m seeing someone and that I’m bringing him home for Christmas.”
There’s a long beat of silence. Ellie stares at you. “…Do I even wanna know why?” she asks.
“I panicked,” you explain quickly, talking with your hands, words tumbling over each other like they’re fighting to escape. “They kept asking if I was seeing anyone. They’ve been trying to set me up with every available man in a three-state radius and then my mom started with the it’s just a phase crap and I— I don’t know, I just— I said I had someone so they’d stop.”
“Okay…” Ellie says slowly, tilting her head. “And I’m guessing they want to meet him.”
“Yup.”
She hums, finishing her Twizzler and dusting her hands off from crumbs that are not there. “So what,” she asks. “You’re gonna show up with an imaginary boyfriend? Have dinner with an empty chair?”
There’s another beat of silence, heavy and loud during which you just stare at her, cheeks flaring up.
Ellie leans back again, the corner of her mouth twitching as she raises one brow. “Why do I feel like I’m getting involved?”
You scratch the bridge of your nose, head lowering just enough so you’re looking at her through your lashes, like you’re embarrassed to even ask this. “I need you to come with me.”
Ellie stares at you again, so you rush to clarify. “Not as you. I mean, yes, as you, obviously, but like— not as you you. As the boyfriend. Well, okay, not as a boyfriend. More like… as my girlfriend. But you know, faking it. Obviously.”
You stare at Ellie, trying not to visibly wither under her gaze. Her face is unreadable, your pulse is loud.
The silence stretches just long enough for you to want to melt into the hardwood.
And then she says, in a voice so casual you want to throw something at her, “You want me to go full dyke on your conservative parents?”
You groan, one hand covering your eyes. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But that’s what this is, “she argues, already grinning like she’s having the time of her life. “You want me to march into your parents’ house, hold your hand in front of your mom who still signs Facebook posts with a cross emoji and make your dad’s forehead vein pop.”
You sigh. “Pretty much.” And then, quieter, lowering your hand. “Please. Just for the holiday. I’ll cook dinner for a week, deep clean the bathroom. I’ll do your laundry.”
Ellie’s still grinning. “You already do my laundry.”
“Ellie.”
She pauses for a moment. Then shrugs. “Sure. I’ll do it.”
You blink. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, why not?” She stands, stretching her arms overhead, her tank top riding up just enough to flash the soft line of her stomach, and your eyes do that terrible, traitorous thing where they follow it. “Could be fun. Plus, if I get to traumatize a couple of bigots and make you squirm a little, well… Merry Christmas to me.”
You cross your arms, huff, open your mouth to argue, to protest that you’re not going to squirm, that it’s strictly platonic, that you’ve got this under control, but Ellie’s already walking toward the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Better start practicing calling me babe, roomie.”
And the worst part?
You love the idea of being able to call her that. Even if it's all pretend.
You are barely out of the city limits and you're already questioning every decision you’d ever made. Specifically the one where you told your conservative, god-fearing parents that you were bringing your boyfriend home for Christmas.
Even more specifically the one where you decided your fake boyfriend would be Ellie Williams.
You’re driven this highway more times that you can count — always the same roads, the same pit stop with the aggressively Christina billboards, the same playlist that loops old Phoebe Bridgers song until you’re ready to veer into traffic — but this time, it’s different.
This time, Ellie’s in the passenger seat.
This time, your heart is trying to hammer its way out of your ribs.
She’s got one leg kicked up on the dash, hoodie sleeves rolled to her elbows like she’s trying to be your downfall without even meaning to, sunglasses pushed up into her hair although there is no sun for her to need them, fingers tapping out an offbeat rhythm on the leather armrest likes she’s been perfectly relaxed since the second you pulled out of the driveway.
And you hate her for it.
Because you, on the other hand, are white-knuckling the steering wheel and chewing the inside of your cheek eat as your try to focus on the road and not the girl in your passenger seat.
“You’re quiet,” she says eventually, voice casual, not teasing, not concerned. Just observing, which is somehow worse.
“I’m driving.” You say, not even looking at her.
“You’re spiraling. Again.” She corrects, like she’s reading a script she’s already memorized. “And not even silently. You’re doing that thing with your mouth.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you’re trying not to bite your lip because it’s already chapped, so now you’re just pressing your tongue against your teeth like a little weirdo.”
Your risk a glare. “Why are you even here.”
Ellie shrugs. “Free food, a chance to ruin a Republican’s weekend, and the faint hope that you’ll finally admit you have a crush on me. Take your pick.”
You nearly swerve into the next lane.
She grins like she knows exactly what she’s doing, and you hate her. You hate her so much. Which is a problem, considering you’re also fully in love with her, and she’s about to walk into your deeply religious, Fox News before dinner household and pretend to be the mysterious boyfriend you told your mother about in a blind panic.
You groan. “God, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
Ellie snorts, shrugs. “Babe, I’ve been to a Trump-voting uncle’s wedding in Kansas once. I can handle your mom."
You hate how easily the word babe slips out of her mouth, like she’s practicing. Like she doesn’t even have to try to make your heart to somersaults in your chest.
“Don’t call me that.” You mutter.
“But I have to call you that,” she says, voice syrupy with fake offense. “We’re in love, remember?”
You slam your blinker on just for something to do with your hands.
“I swear to God, Ellie—”
“I mean, I could call you something else,” she muses, tapping her finger against her chin. “Sugarplum? Angelcakes? Snugglemuffin?”
“Do you want me to crash this car?”
Ellie grins, wide and smug, like she has already won.
You don’t look at her again. Can’t. Not when your hands are trembling just slightly on the steering wheel. Not when your stomach is doing that horrible fluttering thing it only does around her. Not when every new mile feels like the edge of a cliff.
Because the worst part of all of this wasn’t the lie, or the fake dating, or even your parents.
It's the fact that Ellie is really good at pretending.
Too good.
And you aren't pretending at all.
When you finally get to your house, it looks exactly as you left it: same lawn, same cracked front step, same chipped Mary statue in the flower bed, same stupid wind chime your mom bought on sale from a christian gift shop that played “Amazing Grace” whenever there was even a whisper of breeze.
You pull up slowly, your foot hovering over the brake like your body is trying to stop you before your brain can catch up. Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears. Your palms are sweaty on the steering wheel.
Ellie stretches next to you, arms overhead, hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of tattooed skin just above her jeans, her boots thudding back to the floor with a casual clunk.
“Well,” she says, peering out the windshield. “This is… aggressively suburban.”
You swallow. “Yup.”
“Is that a Virgin Mary in the bushes?”
“Don’t look directly at her. She’ll smite you.”
Ellie snorts. “Can’t wait.”
You kill the engine. The silence after it cuts out feels heavier than it should, like the air itself is preparing for impact.
Ellie leans over to grab her bag from the back seat and you take the opportunity to not look at her, instead staring down the familiar outline of your childhood home like it might open up and eat you whole. The porch light is already on, even though it’s barely 6pm. Your mom probably put it on a timer.
You open the door before you can overthink the whole situation. The sky is that cloudy December gray that always makes you feel like time is standing still. The cold bites at your skin the second you step out, rounding your car to grab your overnight bag from the trunk with a little too much force.
You take one deep breath and turn toward the house.
Ellie walks up beside you, her leather jacket slung over her hoodie, bag thrown over one shoulder like she wasn’t about to commit emotional arson in a god-fearing household. Her other hand reaches out and gently tugs your bag away from you without asking, slinging it over her free shoulder like it weighs nothing.
You blink. “You—”
“I’m your girlfriend, right?” she says, not looking at you. “Chivalry and shit.”
Yeah, you feel like burying your own body right now.
When you knock on the door, it opens before you can even retreat your hand.
And there she is: your mom, in her holiday cardigan, hair perfectly curled a big wide smile on her lips that drops immediately as soon as her eyes lays on Ellie.
You can see her recalculating, her gaze trailing from Ellie’s smudged combat boots to the rings on her fingers, to the way she’s standing half a step closer to you than anyone should be. She’s trying to do the math, trying to reconcile the image of the boyfriend she was promised with the woman currently rocking a forearm tattoo and a backpack covered in band pins.
She doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares.
You step forward. “Mom, this is Ellie. My—“
You hesitate. Ellie doesn’t.
“Girlfriend,” she finishes brightly, stepping in and offering a hand like she’s meeting your parole officer. “Thanks so much for having me. It’s nice to finally meet you, ma’am.”
“Oh,” she says, eyes flicking to Ellie’s hand like it might bite her. Then slowly, hesitantly, reaching for it. “Her… girlfriend.”
Ellie grins, shaking her hand. “Guilty.”
You cough into your sleeve to hide the sound you make. Before anyone can speak again your mom ushers both of you inside like she’s on autopilot, and Ellie follows you with her usual saunter, the one that screams I’ve never once been embarrassed a day in my life. And your dad, looking up from his recliner in the living room, just stares when he sees her. Dose’t stand, doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say a word.
Ellie waves. He grunts.
Your mom clears her throat so nervously you can feel the scratch in her throat in your own. “Well, let’s eat. Dinner’s going cold.”
Ellie follows you to the dining table, her hand brushing your lower back just slightly; the kind of gesture that is meant to look instinctive, but isn’t. You know that. You know it’s part of the act. You have to remind yourself of that.
But your skin burns anyway.
Dinner feels like a war. Polite, calculated violence in the shape of casserole dishes and butter knives. You knew it was going to be bad the second you saw what tablecloth your mom had set the table with.
Not the everyday one. Not the Christmas one, even. But the white lace one she's only ever used when company was coming over. Real company. Important company. Straight company. People with church connections and J names and conservative mortgages and painfully well-behaved dogs.
The roast is on the table. The wine is poured. The fucking candlelight is flickering like you this dinner was meant to be leading to your engagement over brisket.
Ellie pulls out your chair for you like she was born to make this worse and you sit down too fast and try not to scream while your mom blinks a few too many times at the gesture, like she isn't sure if she's witnessing something sinful or just polite. Maybe both. Maybe it’s the overlap that's making her nauseous.
Ellie takes the seat beside you; close, because the table is small, but also it’s not that small. She could be sitting like a normal person, leave a little room. Instead, her knee touches yours. Her thigh touches yours. Her elbow brushes yours every time she reaches for her glass and she never apologizes for it. Not once.
You mom asks Ellie about her plans for the future in a voice that sounds like she’s trying not to gag, your dad stares daggers across the table like Ellie’s presence is a personal insult, and she — sweet, polite and perfect — is playing it all off like it’s a goddamn game show.
She says things that never happened, making them up on the spot, like “We met online. Not like, on a dating app. something adjacent.” and, “She tole my fries on our first date and I fell in love immediately,” and “I think we balance each other out, y’know?” I’m the chaos she’s the structure.”
And you? You’re dying.
Melting into your chair, cheeks flushed so hard you’re surprised you’re not catching fire, barely able to chew because Ellie’s got one hand under the table resting lightly against your knee and every now and then she taps like she’s checking to see if you’ll fall apart.
Your mother laughs in that brittle way she does when she’s uncomfortable. “And how long have you two been… seeing each other?”
Ellie squeezes your knee. Gently. Like a secret.
“Eight months,” she says.
Your pulse trips over itself. She’s lying so easily. Too easily. Her voice calm and steady, like she has rehearsed it, like she has been ready to say it the second the opportunity presented itself. You glance over at her and she is already looking back, smiling like this is a game she is currently winning.
“It started kind of slow,” she adds, dragging her thumb across the fabric of your jeans twice, like it meant nothing. “But once it clicked, it clicked. Y'know?”
Your mom doesn’t answer, just blinks. The fork in her hand hovering awkwardly over the salad bowl like she has forgotten what it is for.
“We were friends first,” Ellie continues, turning back to your parents. “Best friends, actually. We do everything together.”
You open your mouth to interrupt, to maybe soften the edges of whatever this performance is, but Ellie keeps going.
“She takes care of me when I’m sick. Makes soup. Sleeps on the floor next to the couch like some kind of nurse from a tragic wartime romance.”
You shut your mouth again. Hard.
“She also steals all the covers,” Ellie goes on thoughtfully, tilting her head. “And she kicks in her sleep. Which I forgive, because she makes this little noise when she’s dreaming, like a puppy. It’s kind of adorable.”
Your mom looks actively in pain. Your dad mutters something that sounds like “Dear Lord."
Meanwhile, you want to crawl under the table and expire next to the dinner rolls.
Ellie, on the other hand and to no one’s surprise, looks thrilled. “Sorry,” she says, turning back to you with a hand on your thigh now, fully resting there, like it belongs there. “Am I embarrassing you, baby?”
You stare at her, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. She only grins wider, so hard that it makes you want to slap her and kiss her and slap her again.
“I just really love her,” she says, loud enough that your mom’s wine glass wobbles when she sets it down too fast. “I mean, it’s easy. Look at her.”
Your dad makes the kind of noise people usually make before a heart attack.
You tried to speak — to say “Ellie, stop”, or “they’re going to throw holy water on you”, or maybe just “please” — but she leaned in again, conspiratorial this time.
“Do you think it’s too much if I feed you a bite?” she asks quietly. “Like, if I cut up your ham for you? What would the Pope say?”
“Ellie,” you hiss, too late.
Because she’s already picking up her knife. Already slicing the meat like she’s your personal chef-girlfriend from some unholy sitcom. Already placing a forkful on your plate with the most sincere look of devotion you’d ever seen on her face.
“There you go, angel,” she says. “Just how you like it.”
Your mom stands up to “check the pie.” Your dad asks if anyone wants iced tea and then leaves the room entirely.
Ellie sits back in her chair, glowing. You stare at your food. At your lap. At the fucking flickering candle between you. Every part of your body is humming like an exposed nerve.
She leans close again. “Too much?” she asks.
You swallow the lump in your throat. “You think?”
She tilts her head, lips barely parted, breath warm against your jaw. “You didn’t tell me this game would be so fun.”
You turn to her. She is still smiling. And the worst part is that you couldn’t tell if it was fake anymore.
After dessert (and after your dad insisted on saying a prayer that felt like e thinly veiled Lord deliver us from sin kind of sermon), your mom shows Ellie where she’ll be sleeping, with that being the guest room, obviously. She wouldn’t have let anyone sleep with you even if you had brought home a man, because a shared bed is something only between a husband and a wife.
She gives Ellie an extra blanket, tells her that the mattress is hard and a shoots look that says this isn’t a hotel and I will not be held responsible for temptation.
Ellie takes it like a champ. “Thanks, ma’am. Rock-hard mattresses and I have a complicated relationship, but we’re on speaking terms.”
Your mom does not laugh.
You could’ve protested. But what would you even say? No, I’d rather share a bed with the girl who just fake-fed me pork at the family table and called me baby seven times in front of the holy ghost and everyone?
Yeah. Sure.
Instead, you go to your childhood bedroom — the one with the pale pink walls and the floral quilt your grandma sewed, the one where a cross still hangs above the headboard like some kind of ward against everything you’d become. There’s a teddy bear on the dresser. A framed photo from your First Communion. It feels like walking into a museum of a girl you no longer were.
You lay down in the twin-sized bed. It smells like lavender. Like dust. You stare at the ceiling and try to calm your breathing.
It doesn’t work.
Because Ellie’s voice won’t stop replaying in your head — soft and syrupy and so intimate.
She kicks in her sleep. She makes this little noise when she’s dreaming.
Of course I love her. Look at her.
She said it like it was easy. Like it was true.
And that is the worst part.
It sounded true.
So fucking true, like she meant it, like you hadn’t cornered her in your living room three days ago and begged her to fake-date you through christmas like it was some kind of fucked up charity act.
You’re unsure how long you lay there — ten minutes? Twenty? Long enough for your body to buzz again with every quiet little thing she’d done since the car ride; the way her hand had rested on your thigh like it belonged there, the way she’d looked at you like you were already hers.
And then—
A soft knock.
You sit up like you’ve been electrocuted.
There is no mistaking it. That rhythm — three soft taps, like a secret — is only ever belonged to one person.
You hesitate, heart beating fast. Too fast. So fast it feels like it might crack open your ribs.
The door creaks open before you can say anything.
Ellie.
She steps inside. Quiet. Careful. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a little mussed like she’s been lying down but never managed to fall asleep. The hallway light casts a warm glow behind her, and you can’t stop staring at the way it hits her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw, the shadows under her eyes.
She shuts the door behind her. Clicks the lock.
“Your bed is homophobic,” she whispers. “There’s a dent. It’s threatening to break my spine.”
You blink, switch on the lamp on your nightstand. “So you came here?”
“I mean, the alternative was sleeping on the floor and repenting.”
You move over without thinking and she doesn’t wait for more, just walks over, slow and sure and sits down on the edge of your bed like she had done it a thousand times. Her hand lands beside your thigh, her fingers brush the duvet like she’s testing the weight of it.
You don’t say anything. Nether does she. But just as your eyes are starting to adjust to the light she whispers, “Were they mad?”
You huff a laugh, looking down and toying with the hem of the duvet. “My mom still thinks I’m having a phase. My dad thinks you’re a walking sin.”
She hums. “So it’s working.”
You chuckle, dropping your hands into your lap, still keeping your eyes low.
Then — after a beat — she turns her face toward you, her voice quieter now, almost serious. “Was thinking about dinner.”
You look up, make a noise that sounds more like a wheeze than a laugh. “God.”
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “I wanted to make them uncomfortable.”
“You did.”
Another pause. Her eyes flick down to your mouth. Then back up.
“You okay?” she asks. Quieter now. Real.
You nod, but it isn’t true. Not really.
Because she is still looking at you with that same warm, terrible, intimate gaze. And your heart is still racing and your palms are sweating
And then, just above a whisper. “I wasn’t pretending.”
You feel a flip in your stomach, your heart skipping a whole beat. If not two. “At dinner?” you ask, brittle.
She nods. “Any of it.”
You should say something, you should ask what that means, demand clarification or laugh it off or do anything except what you’re doing, which is staring at her mouth like it’s something you’ve only seen in your dreams.
“I didn’t think I’d say anything,” she goes on, like she isn’t already shattering every rib in your chest. “I thought I could just… fake it. Like a joke. But when I saw you sitting there, next to me, panicking and shaking and your mom staring like she saw the devil—” You let out a shaky exhale. Ellie smiles, just a little. “—I kind of wanted to make it worse. For them. And for you.”
You blinked. “Why for me?”
“Because you never see it,” she says, shaking her head. “You never notice how I look at you. How I— Jesus, I leave every light on in the kitchen just so you’ll yell at me. I do your laundry when you’re hungover. I draw you when you’re not looking. What else do you need, a PowerPoint?”
You can only stare, lips parted like you’re not sure if this is a fever dream or if you’re hallucinating because your mom food-poisoned the pie.
“Jesus Christ, y/n, can you just—“
Ellie doesn't finish the sentence, just crashes her lips are on yours before you can process it, all tongue and teeth and the taste of her toothpaste. She’s not gentle, just hungry. And although you’re startled at first, it doesn’t take you long to kiss her back like you’ve been picturing this moment day at night for god knows how long.
Because you have.
You aren’t even sure who moved first. Just that you are suddenly in her lap, straddling her hips, her hands already gripping your thighs like she can’t believe you’re real. Your mouth opens under hers without hesitation. Her tongue strokes yours, slow and filthy and warm, and you gasp into it, desperate, dizzy, already soaked.
“Fuck,” she murmurs, pulling back just enough to press her forehead to yours. “You’ve been driving me fucking insane.”
“Yeah?” you whisper.
She nods, then flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing, your back hitting the mattress without a single protest coming from your lips. Ellie’s already climbing over you, already pushing one knee between your legs, like she was made to ruin you in your own childhood bed with a cross hanging above the headboard.
Her mouth lands on your throat, your collarbone, the slope of your chest, making you dizzy, making you soaked. You’re shaking, just slightly, like your body can’t quite keep up with what’s happening, like it doesn’t know whether to cry or beg or let her take everything she wants.
“Two fucking years,” she says between kisses. “Watching you walk around in those tiny shorts. Listening to you moan in your sleep. Seeing your toothbrush next to mine like some kind of cosmic fucking joke.”
She sits back, just enough to pull your shirt, letting it fall onto the floor without a single care in the world, but then she’s on you again. She pauses only long enough to look at you, one hand on your right breast, the other braced near your head, her forearm flexing beside your pillow, her eyes scanning your face like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she blinks.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she mutters. “Fucking angel.”
You gasp — small and breathy — because her fingers are suddenly sliding down your side, over the them of your sleep shorts, and her mouth is brushing your jaw again like she’s already chasing your pulse.
“Ellie—” you whisper, and she shushes you with a low hum, her lips curving into a smirk.
“You gotta be quiet,” she murmurs. “We don’t want your parents to hear us, right?”
You shake your head, or maybe whimper, or maybe do both at once, because she’s already tugging your shorts down and you’re lifting your hips without thinking.
You don’t even register your underwear coming off, not until the air hits your bare slit and you instinctively try to squeeze your thighs together, but Ellie's already there. Already sliding between them, pushing one knee up against you to spread you open again.
“Look at you,” she whispers, shaking her head like she doesn’t believe it. Her fingers trail lightly up your inner thigh, barely grazing your skin. “Fucking squirming already and I’ve barely touched you.
You cover your mouth with one hand and Ellie dips her head, kisses the top of your thigh once, then again, then again, slow and soft like it’s a prayer, and then she looks up at you again, hair falling slightly in her face. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” she says, tone suddenly real again. “If it’s too much. Just say the word.”
You shake your head so fast it makes you dizzy. “I want you.”
She smirks. “Yeah, baby? Want me to make you feel good?”
You nod, breath hitching. “Please.”
Ellie’s fingers finally slide through your folds, and the second she touches you — just the barest glide over your clit — you gasp like you’ve been electrocuted.
“Shit,” she hisses. “You’re soaked. Fuck, you’re dripping, baby.”
You squirm, hips already tilting into her hand, and she holds you down by the thigh, gently but firm, her fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your clit now, like she’s just getting started.
Like she has all the time in the world.
“You gotta keep quiet, remember?” she murmurs again, her voice low and coaxing.
You nod — again and again, like it’s the only thing you know how to do — and she leans down, nudging your hand away from your mouth with her nose, only so she can kiss you properly this time, filthy and deep, one hand braced beside your head and the other still working you open.
When her fingers dip lower, circle your entrance, you whimper into her mouth.
“Shh,” she says, grinning against your lips. “God’s watching.”
You would glare at her if you had enough blood left in your brain. But you don’t. Because she’s already sliding one finger in, slow and smooth, and your body clenches down around it like it’s starved.
“Oh fuck—” you gasp, but it’s all breath, barely a sound, your eyes rolling back just slightly as your hand shoots up to grab at her arm, her shoulder, anything.
Ellie moans under her breath — like feeling you take her in does something to her — and then she’s adding a second finger, pressing in deeper, twisting her wrist just a little before she starts to move, slow, rhythmic pumps that make your thighs tremble.
“That’s it,” she says, almost to herself, watching you come apart. “So fucking tight, angel. Fuck.”
You nod, or maybe cry. You’re not sure. Her mouth is on your jaw again, and your hands are gripping the sheets, the pillows, her hoodie — whatever you can find — because it’s already too much and not enough and you need her deeper, faster, everywhere.
“Ellie— I can’t— it’s— too much,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, your voice shaking.
“Yes, you can,” she says, dark and steady, her voice right against your neck now. “I know you can.”
You nod — frantic, wild — and she hums, satisfied, curling her fingers up just slightly until she hits that spot that makes you see stars.
“There,” she says, almost a growl. “Right there, huh?”
You bite your lip so hard it might bruise, tears prickling behind your eyes now from the sheer force of it, the way her fingers never stop, the way she knows exactly how to pull you apart without giving you time to think.
“Been wanting to do this for so fucking long,” she whispers, her voice catching in her throat. “Watch you squirm. Listen to you whimper. Put my fingers inside you and make you soak the sheets.”
You let out a sound that is almost a sob and she swallows it with her mouth, kissing you hard as she curls her fingers again and your whole body jerks, tight and taut and on fire.
“Come for me,” she whispers, barely audible. “C’mon, baby, I’ve got you.”
And you do.
It’s messy and overwhelming and so much louder than you meant for it to be. You cry out against her mouth, your back arching off the bed, hips stuttering against her hand, thighs trembling as everything hits at once and then keeps hitting, keeps going, Ellie’s fingers still pumping through it like she wants to wring you dry.
When you finally collapse, she slows. Eases out. Kisses the corner of your mouth like she’s apologizing for something she’s not sorry for.
You try to breathe. You try to come back to yourself. But your body is buzzing — overstimulated and aching and still so hungry — and her voice in your ear doesn’t help.
“Fuck,” she murmurs, low and filthy, like it’s more for her than for you. “You made such a mess on my hand.”
You want to tell her you’re done, that you can’t take anymore, that it’s too much — but it would be a lie. Because your hands are already moving on their own, frantic and greedy, tugging at the hem of her hoodie, fumbling with the fabric, trying to shove it up and over her shoulders like your skin might catch fire if you don’t feel her against you right now.
Ellie pulls back just enough to look at you, one brow raised, the corner of her mouth twitching like she can’t quite hide the smugness blooming there.
“More?” she asks, half-laughing as she lifts her arms and lets you peel the hoodie off, the sleeves catching for a second before she’s bare from the waist up, just a ribbed tank underneath and the faint flush of exertion coloring her throat.
You shake your head, too breathless to speak, and yank the tank up too — even less graceful this time, more of a frenzied tug — until she helps you out of pity or desire or both and tosses it somewhere behind her.
You stare for a second — just a second — at the slope of her shoulders, the soft curve of her breasts, the freckles and everything else that’s always been right in front of you, just hidden under her stupid flannel shirts and sarcasm.
And then you’re grabbing at her again.
Your fingers fumble at the waistband of her boxers, and she laughs under her breath, the sound warm and dark as her hand covers yours.
“Slow down, baby,” she teases, her voice too fucking fond. “Let me help.”
You whine — actual, genuine whine — and she grins, sliding off the bed just long enough to push her boxers and sweats down in one smooth movement, her muscles flexing as she steps out of them, cocky like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.
She climbs back onto the bed, completely bare now, her skin flushed and golden in the low lamplight, her knee nudging yours open again as she leans in to kiss you, slow and deep and so, so softer than before, like now that she's fully sure you're not going anywhere, she can take her time.
You thread your fingers through her hair, bite her bottom lip gently. You’re wrecked already. You’re already oversensitive. But it doesn’t matter.
Because you need this. You need her.
“I wanna feel you,” you breathe, voice so quiet it barely makes it out.
Ellie kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw. “You will.”
And then she shifts.
Her hands slide under your thighs and she moves you like you’re nothing, guiding you up, tilting your hips, and then she’s settling between your legs again, her own leg sliding up beside yours, her fingers spreading you open just enough to line you both up, her core so warm and slick and wet against you that you shudder before anything even happens.
She hooks one of your legs over hers, the other bent beneath, and leans in close again until your foreheads are touching, your hands gripping her shoulders like you might fall off the edge of the earth if you let go.
The first slow grind of her hips makes both of you moan — low, drawn-out, guttural — because the friction is sharp and filthy and overwhelming, your soaked folds sliding against hers with no space between, just skin and slick and heat and the raw, electric shock of bare contact.
“Oh my god—” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, and Ellie groans in response, her arms bracing on either side of your shoulders now, her body hovering above yours but close enough that you feel every tremble, every shift.
“Yeah?” she murmurs, dragging her hips over yours again, slower this time, deeper. “You like that, baby?”
You nod — too hard, too fast — your voice caught in your throat because it’s so much, because the way her clit catches yours, the way your folds drag together, the stickiness, the heat, the full-body pressure of it — it’s everything.
You wrap your legs around her as best as you can in the tangle of your limbs, your heel digging into the small of her back, and she growls at that, her hips stuttering slightly before she locks herself into place and finds a rhythm — slow, grinding thrusts that rub your clits together.
You cling to her.
She’s everywhere — the weight of her chest brushing yours, the heat of her breath against your neck, the sweat gathering at the curve of her spine, the filthy wet sound filling the room again and again and again. It’s dizzying. It’s impossible. It’s everything you ever wanted and nothing you were ready for.
She drops her mouth to your throat again, panting now, her voice low and ragged. “You feel— shit,” she whispers. “You feel perfect.”
You let out a broken gasp — too loud — and Ellie immediately grinds down harder, like she wants to feel the exact moment your body gives up.
“That’s it,” she says, dragging her clit against yours again, harder, rougher now, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh and keep you open. “Wanna feel you, baby. Wanna make you scream into my fucking mouth.”
You nod, desperate, already so close you feel like you could break apart on the next stroke. Your whole body is trembling, thighs clenched, arms tight around her neck as you rock up to meet her every thrust, chasing the drag, the pressure, the lightning in your gut that’s curling tighter and tighter.
“Can’t— Ellie—”
“Yes, you can,” she growls, biting gently at your collarbone. “Give me another. You can take it.”
And then she rolls her hips just right — perfect, hard, deep — and your orgasm hits so hard it knocks the breath out of your lungs.
You bury your face in her shoulder and scream, muffled and high-pitched and raw, your whole body shuddering as you clench around nothing and everything at once, your pussy grinding helplessly into hers as the wave drags you under again, longer and louder and messier than the first.
Ellie groans — full, wrecked — and her hips stutter once, twice, and then she’s coming too, her whole body jerking above you, her thighs tensing as her clit twitches against yours, her voice catching on your name like a prayer.
You don’t even know how long you stay like that. Tangled and sweating and shaking and still barely breathing, your bodies locked together by sex and desperation and something that feels a lot like love.
Eventually, Ellie shifts — barely — and presses a kiss to your jaw, then your cheekbone, then your forehead, so soft and gentle, like she wasn’t just grinding into the mattress five minutes ago.
The sheets are damp, the air is heavy and you chest still flutters every time she breathes.
And then — just as your eyelids start to drift — she murmurs into your ear, voice smug and quiet and entirely too pleased with herself, “Think they heard us anyway.”
You groan. “Ellie.”
She grins against your hair. “What? You weren’t exactly being quiet.”
“I tried!”
“You screamed into my shoulder.”
You bury your face in her neck, half-laughing, half-dying. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” she says, tugging you closer, her voice dropping just enough to make your heart stutter again. “Still can't believe you made me wait two fucking years to do that.”
You huff breathless, flushed, happy in a way that almost hurts. “You’ll live.”
She laughs. “Barely.”
And just as you begin to drift in each other's arms, you already know that tomorrow morning's breakfast is going to be even funnier than tonight's dinner.
pictures from Pinterest
perm taglist (check my masterlist post if you wanna be added!): @elliewmc @machetegirl109 @valeisaslut @imliterallyjustonegirl @chaosgremlinnn @iloveclairo2016
well, hello! i don't know, i guess this scratched an ick of mine and i was in the mood to just fictionally say fuck off to bigots. also, why is it so hard to describe scissoring?? anyway, enjoy! lots of love <3
(Ps: she is a minor, and i only post her bc of her ellie cosplay)
Ps: I'm using all Ellie's tag except the smut. Please be nice, i know I also use ellie x reader or y/n even tho there's no ellie x reader/yn content. I am only using it as a tag so people would notice my post
thinking about the first time ellie realized she was in love with you.
wc : 440
tags : loser!ellie x fem!reader, modern au, fluff, dinosaur obsessed ellie.
Ellie never considered herself someone who fell in love easily. It was rare for someone to catch her attention like you did, and even more rare for someone to earn it. You earned it, in her opinion you earned a lot more than everything she gave you.
But if any of her friends asked, she wasn’t in love. Fuck, no.
She just thought about you when solving math problems, wondering if you would need help with this subject later.
She thought about you while taking your favorite class, wondering what you would do if you were there with her. Would you talk nonstop about what you like about this theme or pay total attention to the topic the teacher explained?
She thought about the jokes you made on the phone earlier in the middle of the cafeteria, laughing to herself while dina talked about something ellie wasn’t even sure she heard.
She thought about how gorgeous you looked while laughing with your friends, passing down the hallway and giving her a wave and a shy smile.
She immediately noticed your cheeks turning a bit red whenever you saw her staring, and how you tried to hide your face from her.
But the time she really knew she was madly in love with you was when, in the middle of the afternoon, you randomly knocked on her door, sweet voice calling out her name. When she opened up the door, she could swear that was what heaven looked like. You were wearing a little white sundress with boots and carrying a little basket that smelled really good, like it carried some kind of sweet thing inside.
“Hey, Els. I was making cookies for my cousin who is obsessed with dinosaurs and thought about you, so I wanted to bring you some.” You said while taking out a little container with dinosaur-shaped cookies and showing it to her.
Ellie could’ve sworn you were doing it on purpose. It was incomprehensible for her how a gorgeous girl like you could be so thoughtful, loving and talented. In that moment you had her forever wrapped around your fingers.
It was a surprise to you when she suddenly pulled you in for a passionate kiss, but you couldn’t be happier about it. Her hands ran along your waist, gently pulling you as close as possible. Her lips were soft and warm, like she was prepared for this all day long.
You slowly pulled away from the kiss.
“I don’t even have a cousin, I just wanted to bake you something. If I knew that would be your reaction I would have done it a lot earlier.” You chuckled while laying your head on her neck, leaving gentle kisses in the sensitive area.
Her eyes were lost in you, all she could say was “Fuck, I love you.”
you have been dating ellie for the longest time. going through thick and thin together and coming out stronger than ever. she loves you dearly, maybe more than you even think she does. she's obsessed with you.
you're just as obsessed with her. you love her eyes, the way they sparkle when they see you. you love her smile when she sees something she likes. ellie became your person. the girl you loved the most.
so now, getting ready for bed with her felt natural, except there is a small twist. ellie has been asking you to do skin to skin with her, nonsexual nudity with each other. you immediately agreed, and now the time has come.
she is already laying in bed. her skin has goosebumps from the small chill in the room. she lays fully in your view, from her breasts to her feet. you smile at her, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
then, you undress yourself. you pull your shirt off, boobs coming into her view. today was a no bra day. your shorts and panties come off next. ellie watches you with awe, in complete adoration with you.
she holds her arms out, hands reaching for your bare waist. you climb onto the bed, hovering over her as her hands meet your waist. they're warm against your skin, feeling comforting and safe.
you smile and lay yourself completely on top of her. your chest meets hers, legs tangle with hers, and faces so close you can feel her breath mix with yours. she smiles, pecking your lips and gently squeezing your ass.
you giggle against her lips, kissing down her cheek. she wraps her arms around your waist tightly, getting comfortable with the feel of your skin on hers.
"you're beautiful. the most beautiful." she whispers in your ear. she kisses your shoulder and sighs contentedly.
you look back at her, seeing nothing but love in her eyes. she smiles, meeting your lips with hers. they caress your lips gently, feeling like sweet honey on your lips. you could drink her in all day if you had the time.
you feel her smile against your lips, shifting your position and rolling you onto your back. her lips stay on yours as she straddles your hips. your hands explore her body, squeezing her breasts softly then dipping to her tummy. there's nothing sexual about your touches. you just want to feel her under your fingertips.
she sighs against your lips, pulling away and sitting straight up. you can see her clearly now. the way her chest heaves up and down, the tiny roll of skin on her tummy, and her beautiful thighs.
you smile once more at her, pulling her in by her shoulders. she gets comfortable on top of you. her legs wrap around yours, her face presses into your neck, and her hands find your waist.
you both sigh at the same time. completely happy with being naked with each other.
"i love you." you say softly. your breath caresses her shoulder softly. you feel her kiss your neck, smiling against your skin.
Gamer!Ellie who loves playing Minecraft with you; the two of you always end up in a deep two-week phase of playing for hours on end.
Gamer!Ellie who always puts her bed next to yours.
“Ellie, what are you doing?”
“Just helping you finish building your bedroom,”
She places a dark green bed right next to your blush pink bed. Even though you can’t see Ellie’s face right now, you can picture the stupid grin that she’s making. Ellie hears you let out a deep sigh through your headset.
“Oh c’mon! Pink goes good with green!” She protests.
“Goes well with green.” you correct her.
Gamer!Ellie who teases you for playing with cave sounds off cause they’re scary; she’ll never admit she has them off too.
Gamer!Ellie who is ridiculously good at Fortnite and you hate to admit it.
“#1 Victory Royal” glows across the top of your screen.
“Let's play one more round, and then I need to sleep.” You say.
“Hmmm maybe we should stop here, my back kinda hurts.” Ellie says.
“Oh no! Are you okay?” You ask obliviously.
“Yeah it’s just been tough carrying this duo the whole time.”
Ellie is met by the sound of you ending the call, and you are soon met by a flood of text messages.
Gamer!Ellie who is usually really good at Mario Kart, but mysteriously happens to lose whenever you’re around…
Dina finished in first place, closely followed by Jesse.
“Not fair! I was first like the whole time.” Jesse said.
“Doesn’t look like it.” Dina smirked.
Normally Ellie would tell them to get a room, but she didn’t pay any mind to Dina and Jesse’s usual banter because all her attention was on you. Something about the way your hair sprawled across your hoodie, and the way your face looked when you were completely focused captivated her.
You came through in fourth place, and all of you looked at Ellie’s corner of the screen as you waited for her to finish. You all watched her carelessly drive straight into a banana peel.
“Hey, so you’re actually supposed to drive around those.” Dina said sarcastically.
“Well, who the fuck left that there!?” Ellie complained.
In the next round, Jesse got first, followed by Dina in second, and you in third. As for Ellie, she was lagging behind again. She kept falling off the track over and over because her eyes weren’t on the road. Did you always have a mole on the side of your neck? Even though she’s known you for so long, Ellie loved noticing new things about you, like the smell of your new perfume and the mix of new and old rings you’re wearing today.
“Can’t park there.” Jesse said as Ellie drove off the edge again.
“Shut up.” Ellie scoffed.
“Sucks to suck.” Dina laughed.
“Damn, Ellie you kinda do suck. 10th place??” Jesse questioned.
“Yeah, is something distracting you, Ellie?” Dina teased.
“Something or someone?” Jesse added on.
“I hate you two.” She grumbled.
Gamer!Ellie who cries when you finish playing Red Dead Redemption 2.
Gamer!Ellie who always says “chat” even though it’s just the two of you playing on facetime.
Gamer!Ellie who loves Super Smash Bros and has a strange way of asking you to play with her.
“I’m bored, I don’t know what to do.” You sigh as you slump into the couch.
“You tryna smash?” Ellie asks casually, as if talking about something simple like the weather.
You bolt upright.
“What are you talking about!?”
“Oh… I thought you said you love that game. You always play Kirby and eat everyone.”
“Ellie, you freak.”
Gamer!Ellie who takes Just Dance way too seriously.
Ellie has just lost another round to you, she’s been on a losing streak for about 3 songs in a row now.
“You’re not doing it right!” Ellie insists.
“What are you talking about?”
“I can see you only moving the arm with the controller.”
“Yeah, and I’m still beating yo-”
Ellie cuts you off by throwing a couch pillow at your face.
“Get up and dance for real or else I’m gonna smash you again.”
Gamer!Ellie who is horrible at parkour and hates Roblox obbys with a passion.
Gamer!Ellie who ragequits when she’s not a pro at a game she literally just started; but if you say you like the game, she’ll start it up again immediately.
Gamer!Ellie who knows all the fnaf lore and made a powerpoint presentation with a complete timeline to present it to you.
Gamer!Ellie who always goes first in Roblox horror games so that you don't have to be scared. (she also dies first too, but she's trying her best.)
Gamer!Ellie who loves playing choice-based games with you and debating which option is better. You two get into a heated debate over the Life is Strange 1 ending.
(Warning: lis 1 spoilers ahead.)
“Arcadia bay is the only right answer.” Ellie says.
She’s about to lock in her decision, but you snatch the controller from her hands.
“What the hell!? I’m keeping them together no matter what! We didn’t do all this for nothing.” You respond.
“You can’t just sacrifice a ton of people for one person. Imagine the guilt that one person would have to live with.” Ellie reasoned.
“I can’t believe you would watch the two of them go on this whole journey together only to rip them apart at the end. I’m not just gonna let Chloe go.” You said.
“Okay fine. Imagine if you do keep them together, Chloe’s probably gonna feel some crazy survivor’s guilt that’ll strain their relationship down the line.”
After going back and forth for what feels like an eternity, you reluctantly find yourself agreeing with Ellie.
“Ugh fine.” You hand the controller back to her, and even though you both agree it’s the right thing to do, your heart still hurts a little as you watch Ellie choose many people over the one person that really mattered.
“So… would you be mad if someone chose your life over a ton of people, Ellie?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Gamer!Ellie who loves Jin from Ghost of Tsushima, even though you don’t see eye to eye.
(Warning: Ghost of Tsushima spoilers ahead.)
“I can’t believe Jin threw everything away for revenge.” You said.
“What? He’s a hero.” Ellie says.
“Hero?! He killed like hundreds or thousands of people!”
“Jin had no choice but to kill his enemies. If he let them live, they would’ve just come after him.”
“Okay, but he could’ve at least killed them honorably. He was so blinded by revenge he threw away his honor and his family name. He lost so much, was it really worth it?”
Ellie went quiet. Then, she turned to you with a fake serious expression- she has such a bad poker face around you. You could tell that beneath her stern face, she was holding back a laugh.
“Honor died on the beach.” Ellie said, mimicking Jin’s voice as she said his iconic line.
“Okay, Ghost of Seattle over here.” You laughed.
Gamer!Ellie who loves that you never get tired of listening to her ramble about her favorite games and comics, because poor Dina and Jesse have had Savage Starlight explained to them hundreds of times now.
Gamer!Ellie who stays up late playing games with you long into the night.
Ellie and you have been taking turns playing Ellie’s favorite Legend of Zelda game for hours now. The sun is long gone, and you’re fighting to stay awake while Ellie is solving puzzles.
“Okay, I can’t figure this out. Do you wanna try?” Ellie hands you the controller, only to see you’ve fallen asleep on the couch.
Ellie giggles quietly, careful not to wake you, and takes a picture. She’s definitely going to send this to you with some silly message for you to see when you wake up. Ellie gently picks you up and carries you to your bed. She tucks you in and lays down beside you, watching you sleep. She wonders what you dream about, and she moves a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“Good night,” Ellie whispers as she places a soft kiss upon your forehead.
You wake up with her head on your chest and you decide to sleep in, holding her close.
Ty for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated :3
Comment 🪷 to be added to my taglist!
Author’s note: This my first fanfic, I hope u guys like it!! I started off writing cute/silly ones, but then started to notice parallels between tlou and other games I’ve played. Ugh I would love to know Ellie’s opinions if she was able to play. I love imagining modern au Ellie. Also, did anyone catch the Wicked reference hehe 💗💚 I need gamer Ellie so badddd
· · ─ · ᡣ𐭩 can be read as a stand alone! if you’re doing so this would be considered bbf!ellie or situationship!ellie :p enjoy .݁ ˖𓂃. series masterlist 𓂃⊹
