Your Eternal Muse @your-eternal-muse - Tumblr Blog

Nov 26, 2025

𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 ⊹ ˖

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⊹ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬— Senior year is yours: short skirts, Britney blaring, a boring boyfriend named Scotty and a reputation you sharpen like a knife—until Ellie Williams, the grungy problem you’ve been hating for years (and secretly hooking up with for months), corners you at Jackson Wang’s biggest house party.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭— 9,7k

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬— hs!au, popular/mean!reader x punk!ellie, oral sex (r!receiving), scissoring, mutual pining, cheating on bf (he's insufferable) underage drinking/party, semi-public sex, tit play, rachel + dina being absolute queens, ben sh*piro mention, ellie has facial piercings, inspired in the rodrina ship, dialogue heavy, jackson wang being the ultimate multiverse party host and jesse's cousin bcos i have incredible use of free will, strong language, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated.

Another day, another opportunity to make everyone’s life a little bit more impossible.

That’s the first thought that actually makes you smile when your alarm goes off.

You lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of senior year pressing down and the thrill of knowing you can still bend it around your little finger. Then you drag yourself up, padding over to your vanity, the floorboards cold under your bare feet.

The mirror catches you in that in-between light. Too early to look hot. You pull your hair forward, tilt your head, and get to work.

Twisting your hair into something that looks careless but took way too much time, you run your fingers through the ends until they fall just right. Concealer under your eyes, dabbed in with your ring finger. A touch of blush. Brows brushed up. Mascara. No crazy liner, no heavy shadow—just that soft, “I woke up like this” lie you’ve perfected.

Lip gloss, the shiny kind that makes your mouth look kissable. You press your lips together, check the effect, then reach for your perfume. One spritz on your wrist, dabbed on your neck. Another mist in the air that you step through.

On your bed, your outfit waits.

Your skirt is an inch away from being a hate crime against the dress code. Tiny, black, sitting folded in a perfect square. Beside it, a tight bubblegum pink top that clings more than covers, with a neckline that’s technically modest but only if you stand very, very still.

You shimmy into the skirt, tug it a fraction lower, then a fraction higher, watching the mirror. The top follows, soft cotton stretching over your chest, catching the light in all the right places. You do a little half-turn, checking the back.

They’re absolutely gonna hate this.

Which, of course, is the goal.

By the time you shove your feet into your boots and sling your bag over your shoulder, you’re put together.

The drive to school is a blast of 2000's pop music. Your car is so unmistakably you that even the seats smell like vanilla lotion and your perfume because you basically live in it. It’s a black Mini Cooper, way too cute for how recklessly you drive it. You drum your fingers on the steering wheel and sing along at every stop sign, your phone buzzing every few seconds with notifications.

Rachel:

u here yet slut?

You:

pulling in now keep ur tits on

You park (horrendously) and fix your gloss in the rearview one last time, then step out into the senior lot. The air smells like exhaustion, cheap deodorant, and teenage desperation. Perfect.

Rachel’s already waiting by the front door.

She’s leaning back against the brick column, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling on her phone with the kind of casual power that says everyone is background except her. Her brunette hair is glossy and blown-out, falling in waves over her bare shoulders. Her skirt is even shorter than yours, which should get her suspended on whatever planet the principal lives on.

The second she spots you, her face splits into a grin that’s all perfect teeth.

“What’s up, darling,” she sing-songs, pushing off the wall and immediately hooking her arm through yours like she owns you (wich she kind of does.)

“Nothing much,” you reply, leaning into her shoulder as you both start walking. “You?”

“Same,”

You both pass a group of juniors huddled by the stairs. Two of them go quiet staring at you, one girl’s gaze dragging down your outfit with equal parts judgment and envy. Rachel clocks it, rolls her eyes so hard you hear it.

“Ugh, freshmen with driver’s licenses,” she mutters. “Braver than the troops.”

You snort, then sigh. “What class do we even have right now?”

Rachel stops walking mid-stride like you’ve hit her with tragic news. She squints toward the building before declaring in the worst monotone. “Science.”

You look at each other for half a second before letting out the exact same long, miserable, synchronized groan.

“Uuuuughhhh.”

She tips her head back dramatically. “I refuse to start my day with molecules and that man’s coffee breath. Actually refuse.”

“Gonna ask that loser Matty for the homework later,” you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulder.

“Make sure to pass it to me too, slut.” She squeezes your arm. “Tonight I wanna watch Clueless for, like, the hundredth time and do my nails instead of reading whatever nonsense is in that textbook.”

“A woman of culture,”

She grins. “As if.”

You keep walking, heels clicking against tile once you’re inside, the hallway buzzing with morning chaos. Lockers slam. Someone laughs too loud. A teacher tells someone to take their hat off. The usual.

You and Rachel move through it like it’s your runway. People part just enough, eyes follow, and someone whistles, which makes Rachel flip them off without looking to see who it was.

“You saw what Liam posted last night?” she asks, scrolling while she walks, thumbs flying.

“Do I ever want to see what Liam posts?”

“He and his little band of emotionally unavailable chops were doing a ‘jam session.’” She pulls a face. “We get it, you know two chords of a Fireflies’ song.”

You’re still laughing when you step out into the open patio that leads to the science building. You’re about to make a mean joke when your gaze drifts ahead, lazy and uninterested.

And lands exactly where it always does.

Ellie.

She’s by the picnic tables with Dina and Jesse, half in the shade, half in the sun, same spot they always gravitate toward. Dina is sitting cross-legged on the table itself, curls piled on top of her head, scrolling her phone. Jesse’s talking with his hands, animated, probably telling some story that ends with him almost dying and Ellie pretending to care.

Your stomach does a stupid, embarrassing little flip before you can stop it.

Because she looks… really hot.

Hotter than usual, which is honestly offensive, because she’s already been a problem for years.

Maybe it’s the way her hair looks like she actually ran her fingers through it instead of letting entropy be her personal stylist. It’s still messy, still rebellious, but in that deliberate punk way that says I don’t care and somehow proves she absolutely does. Wild auburn strands fall into her eyes; strands you’ve held in your fist.

Maybe it’s her eyeliner, smudged and definitely not applied, dark and uneven like she dragged a thumb across it half-asleep. Her jeans, shredded at the knees, edges frayed soft from real wear. Her battered Converse look like they’ve lived a life—scuffed, drawn over in Sharpie. Her nose ring and eyebrow piercing, catching your eye as they glint silver in the sunlight.

Maybe it’s the way she lounges. One arm sprawled across the back of the bench, shoulders slouched, legs spread like the earth beneath her is lucky she sits on it. She’s laughing at something Jesse said, and you catch that stupid dent in her cheek that you’ve kissed before, that you’ve bitten before, that you’ve felt under your thumb.

You don’t even remember when it started.

When a casual stare lasted a second too long, or when a snarky argument turned into a kiss, or when a kiss ended up with your clothes on the floor.

The first hook up wasn’t planned. It just happened. One night, too close in someone’s basement, or maybe in the back of your car, or maybe behind the gym — it’s all blurred now — but what you remember is the heat. The shock of her mouth on yours. The rush.

You told yourself it was a one time mistake that would never happen again.

Except it happened again.

And again.

Until the rhythm of it was carved into both of you, familiar as breathing, dangerous as fire.

She became your secret addiction, the one you never confessed to Rachel, never even allowed yourself to fully acknowledge in your own head. Because in public? She’s just the messy, punk, smart-mouthed girl you pretend isn’t worth a glance.

But right now, in the sharp morning sun, the pull is immediate. The craving is automatic. Your heartbeat kicks hard and traitorously against your ribs.

You keep walking, the world watching the pretty girl doing her morning entrance, but what they don’t know is that she’s privately fight the urge to walk straight to Ellie Williams and drag her mouth onto hers.

And Ellie’s eyes flicker up mid-laugh.

Her laughter stutters. Her eyes trail down over your skirt, your bare legs, the deep neckline of your top, the glint of your lip gloss, then drag back up to your eyes.

She looks away first. She always does. Her jaw flexes once—that familiar little tick—and she leans back, taking a sip from whatever tragic, lukewarm school-coffee disaster she’s holding like she’s perfectly unaffected.

Dina snorts, flipping a curl over her shoulder. “Jesus. There they go again.”

Ellie doesn’t take the bait. She just bends down, re-tying her shoe with obsessive focus.

Jesse watches her for three slow seconds before elbowing her. “Dude. You were staring waaay too hard at Y/N.”

Ellie scoffs, still not looking up, thumb picking at a loose thread on her jeans. “You’re imagining shit. I literally hate her.”

“You only say that ‘cause you think it sounds tough,”

“No. I say it ‘cause she’s annoying.”

“You’re annoying,” Dina says absently.

Ellie flips her off without even lifting her head.

Jesse exhales a low whistle as he watches you and Rachel walk across the courtyard. “Okay, but… honestly? They look hella fine today.”

Dina nods slowly, eyes narrowing with appreciation. “Those skirts should be illegal.”

“Right??” Jesse responds. “That’s like dress code violation, indecency, and emotional assault all in one.”

“...Rachel looks hot as fuck tho.” Dina’s mouth curves.

Ellie mocks her tone. “Yall are dramatic as fuck tho.”

Jesse elbows her again. “C’mon, Williams. You’re telling me you didn’t even notice?”

She shrugs, scratching her nose ring. “Couldn’t care less.”

“Bullshit,” Dina says.

Ellie finally looks up—expression bored, voice flat. “They look… fine.”

“‘Fine’ is crazy.” Jesse echoes, laughing.

Dina raises a brow. “That’s the gayest ‘fine’ I’ve ever heard.”

Meanwhile, you’ve hardly made it ten steps when Rachel loops her arm back through yours, tugging you closer.

“Why were you looking at those losers so much?”

You snort. “They just look extra tragic today.”

Rachel glances back at their table, squinting. “I mean… Dina looks kinda fetch.”

You stop walking and stare at her. “Rachel. Stop trying to make fetch happen.”

“Boo, you whore” She groans and bumps your shoulder. “At least they have way more style than Scotty.”

Oh, right. Scotty. You forgot that he existed.

You snicker. “That’s the lowest bar humanly possible.”

“Doesn’t matter. Scotty’s still crawling under it.”

You laugh. “Don’t be mean.”

“Oh, I’ll be mean.” Rachel tosses her hair. “Your boyfriend dresses like a PE teacher.”

“He’s not my—I didn’t—he’s not—”

She barrels on. “And smells like the cheapest Axe body spray.”

You choke on your spit laughing. “Rach—”

“At least Ellie and her little band of misfits have some aesthetic going! They’re like, emo urban punk chic.”

“That… is actually accurate.”

“Thank you. I’m a genius.” She pauses and thinks for a second. “Still wouldn’t fuck Jesse though.”

You snort. “And Dina?”

“Oh, Dina’s hot. I’d let her ruin my life.”

“Fair.”

“And Ellie’s—well—Ellie’s Ellie.”

You freeze, just enough. “What... does that even mean?”

“Means what it means,” she says, jabbing a finger at you, “but accept you have tragically bad taste in men.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever.”

Rachel opens her mouth to continue, then freezes.

“Oh. Speaking of the devil...” she says, sing-song and gleeful.

You barely have time to blink before Scotty rockets into your personal space with a booming:

“HEY baby!”

Of fucking course.

He’s already grinning and clutching his protein shake, wearing the same wrinkled jersey that might actually be fused to his body at this point. You roll your eyes dramatically—just for Rachel—then spin around with a voice so sugary fake it could give someone diabetes.

“Heeey, babe!”

Rachel nearly snaps her neck looking away just so he can’t see her laugh.

And across the courtyard, Ellie rolls her eyes so hard she nearly sees last week.

“God, that guy’s voice makes me want to step in front of a bus.”

“Someone’s jealous,” Dina singsongs.

Ellie swings her backpack onto her shoulder with unnecessary force. “I just—hate loud guys.”

“Scotty isn’t even that loud,” Jesse says.

“He exists loudly,”

Meanwhile, Scotty’s hand settles on your waist as he asks, “You stopping by practice later? I wanna show you the new play—”

You cut him off lightly, “Totally,” with a little smile that says I will absolutely not be there.

Ellie sees his hand on you and her expression goes completely flat.

Dina cackles under her breath. “Oh boy….”

She looks away again, almost violently. “I literally don’t care.”

“Totally not caring,” Jesse says.

“Yep, zero feelings happening over there,” Dina adds.

Ellie shoots them both a murderous look. “If yall don’t shut the fuck up—”

The rest of the day passes in a blur, until by evening the house is quiet and the sun has dipped low, leaving your bedroom lit by warm lamplight and the amber glow of late afternoon fading into dusk.

You’re stretched across your bed in tiny shorts and that thin, low-cut pajama tank that barely qualifies as clothing—legs bare, skin soft, hair loose. The air smells like warm cotton and vanilla. A playlist hums in the room, bubblegum pop tracks that melt into the background.

You crack open your Victoria’s Secret lotion and begin smoothing it up your thighs, slow, indulgent strokes, working the lotion into your skin as the music murmurs through the speakers.

Until your phone lights up.

Ellie.

You pause mid-stroke, smile blooming slowly as you slide your thumb over the screen and bring it to your ear.

“Hey there, pretty.”

Her voice is low—raspy—like she’s spent the whole day smoking.

“Hey ells.”

“Mmmm… been waiting for you to pick up.”

You absentmindedly tug at the edge of your blanket, twisting it between your fingers.

“Why? Miss me that bad?”

“…maybe.”

You bite your lip.

“Uh-huh?”

Silence. Charged.

“Anyways…” she says, slow now. “What was that little look you threw me today?”

You gasp—dramatic, offended. “What look?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I literally don’t know what you mean.”

“You practically undressed me with your eyes in front of the entire school.”

You flip onto your stomach, chin on your pillow, feet kicking, but your voice keeps itself dry and unimpressed.

“Relax. I stare at losers like you all the time.”

She chokes on a laugh. “Wow. Fucking ruthless tonight.”

“I’m just saying—you always act like you invented being hot or whatever.”

“Knew it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“No,” she pushes, tone playful but predatory, “say it again.”

“Say what?”

“That you thought I looked hot.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes—she can’t see it, but she can feel it.

“I didn’t say that. I said you looked dumb.”

Ellie snorts. “You’re so bad at lying”

You drag your voice into a lazy drawl, stretching the words:

“And you’re so unbelievably annoying.”

“And hot,” she reminds you.

You fight it. You try to hold the line. Your lips press together.

Then, finally, barely above a whisper, as if the words are pulled from your throat by force:

“…and hot.”

There’s silence. Then a slow, satisfied hum—warm and victorious.

“Knew you’d get there eventually.”

You tug the blanket closer to your chest. Your voice switches, curious, teasing.

“So… why couldn’t you come over last night?”

She groans. “God. Jesse and Dina showed up uninvited. Stole my couch, ate all my snacks, and passed out.”

You laugh into the pillow. “They’re literally animals.”

“Animals I’m stuck with,” she mutters. There’s a pause, then a quieter exhale. “Sorry about that. I was really hoping to see you.”

Your breath stills just a little.

“Yeah... me too.”

There’s a beat. Then, casual, way too casual to be believable:

“Then tell your little companion dog to keep his hands to himself next time.”

You blink. “…Scotty?”

“Yeah. I saw his whole… display. Fucking PDA moment of the century.” She pauses. “Thought I might lose the ability to see permanently.”

You bite your lip, smiling. “Are you… jealous?”

“Of that clown? Fuck no.” She gives a short laugh that’s almost convincing. “He’s harmless. Harmless and brainless.”

Silence, then, slipping out before she can catch it:

“And he sure doesn’t touch you like I do.”

Your breath stutters. “Ellie—”

But she barrels on quickly, tone swinging back up, deflecting, masking.

“I just mean—like—he’s so…awkward, you know? Hands everywhere but somehow nowhere.”

“…uh-huh.”

“I mean, if he’s gonna hold you, he should at least do it right.”

You raise a brow, teasing. “And you think you do it right?”

Her voice dips.

“I know I do.”

You swallow. Hard. Your voice shifts, taunting. “Maybe don’t stare so hard then.”

She huffs a small laugh, and you can hear her tounge piercing clicking her teeth. “Too late for that.”

“...See you on Saturday?” she asks after some seconds of silence.

“Sure thing.”

“Wear something I’ll like?”

“We’ll see.”

Ellie clicks her tongue, a quiet little sound of amused warning.

“Don’t tease.”

“That’s literally my entire personality.”

She laughs, and the sound rolls straight into your pillow.

“Yeah… and it kills me.”

You smile into the fabric. “I’ll wear something cute. But definitely not for you.”

“Suuure. Goodnight, gorgeous.”

A flicker in your chest.

“Goodnight, ells.”

You pull the phone away—

But you hear it, even if it’s barely audible.

“…can’t wait to see you.”

Saturday comes faster than you expect.

The bass shakes the walls like the house itself is pre-gaming. The lights you strung around your mirror are glowing warm and golden, catching flashes of glitter as you and Rachel are mid-popstar ritual, the two of you belting “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” into makeup brushes like you’re headlining Madison Square Garden.

You’re already dressed, a red, tight, devastating dress clinging to your curves like it was tailored to your bloodstream. The fabric hugs your waist, the neckline sits scandalously soft against your chest, and your legs go on forever.

Rachel’s wearing cheetah-print shorts and a black tank. Her long chocolate brown hair falls like silk over her shoulders as she runs a brush through it, each stroke straight and glossy.

You’re leaning into the mirror when you pause and hand her the eyeliner.

“Can you do it? I’m gonna fuck it up.”

Rachel cracks her knuckles dramatically, already holding the eyeliner with surgical precision.

“Hold still, bitch.”

“I am still.”

“No, you’re like—micro-spasming.”

“My eyeball spasms because I’m ALIVE, 'Chel.”

She snorts, finishing the eyeliner with perfect mannerisms, then reaching for blush and dusting it across your cheekbones with a flourish.

Your phone buzzes on the dresser.

Scotty:

Omw, picking yall up in five

Rachel leans over your shoulder to read it, makes a face like she smelled something rotten, and lets out an evil giggle.

“‘In five’? So… he’ll be here in twenty-five.”

You laugh under your breath. “Honestly? Yeah.”

She sighs dramatically and collapses backward onto your bed. “Let’s discuss the actual crisis.”

“What crisis?”

She looks up at the ceiling as if praying. “Your boyfriend.”

You snort. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice.” She lifts a finger. “Because if I wasn’t, I’d ask why a scarecrow has a pulse.”

You giggle behind your hand. “Stop it.”

“No, seriously. Every time he talks, I feel my IQ slipping.”

You throw yourself onto the bed beside her. “He’s….”

“Dull.”

“Okay—yes.”

“And insufferable.”

“And the worst part,” you sigh, “is he’s so… normal. Like—painfully normal. Beige personality. Human oatmeal.”

Rachel gestures broadly at you — the red dress, the glossy lips, the perfume cloud in the air.

“And you,” she declares, “are not oatmeal.”

“I’m like… a dirty martini.”

“You are a super filthy martini.”

"The filthiest martini."

You both howl.

Then she quiets, eyes sliding sideways toward you. “So why are you really still with him?”

You stare at the ceiling. “Because it’s… easy. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t push me. He’s uncomplicated.”

Rachel nods slowly. “And complicated is scary.”

Your throat tightens.

Complicated has a name and a face.

Silence sits for a second. Then she changes tone entirely—bright, wicked:

“You know the little punk squad is gonna be there tonight.”

You roll your eyes instantly. Reflexive. Sharp. Automatic.

“Ellie’s invited? God. Jackson’s standards are in hell.”

Rachel pauses, staring at you like she just discovered the single answer for a million questions.

“…I wasn’t talking about Ellie.”

You blink. “Then who—?”

“Liam and his mediocre band of chops. But WOW, fascinating that you went straight to Ellie.”

You go still. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I don’t care about Ellie.”

Rachel raises a brow. “Right. You don’t care. That’s why you said her name before I even finished my sentence.”

You open your mouth—close it—open it again.

“I… literally… hate her…”

“Oh, absolutely. You hate her so much you picked a dress that makes your boobs look supernatural and might send her into cardiac arrest.”

You smack her arm. “SHUT UP. I don’t like Ellie.”

Rachel shrugs innocently. “I never said you did!”

You shoot her a murderous squint.

Britney flips into “Gimme More.”

Rachel shoots upright. “YES. Lips.”

You both grab your lip liners and exaggerate your cupid’s bows, and just when you finish, a truck horn bleats aggressively.

She parts the curtains, deadpan. “And behold… your personal Uber XL.”

You stand, pull your dress down over your thighs. Rachel’s jaw drops.

“Holy fuck. You better hope Ellie doesn’t see you first tonight, because she’ll probably cum in those crusty jeans of hers.”

You pick up your bag. “I told you,” you mutter, quiet, steady — a practiced lie. “I don’t care if she’s there.”

Rachel sings lightly under her breath, “You sooooo don’t caaaare…”

“Enough!”

Meanwhile, Ellie is not getting ready. Not in the girl-coded sense, anyway. There’s no perfume-cloud ritual, no outfit selection method, no lip gloss, no skincare.

Her outfit is whatever she grabbed off the floor: a beat-up leather jacket that looks like it belonged to three previous owners, baggy jeans hanging low on her hips, converse that look like they’ve seen riots and eyeliner smudged with a thumb rub.

She’s in the garage, her natural habitat.

Bare concrete floor, string lights that flicker on death’s door, an ancient Sex Pistols poster half-torn and taped crookedly to brick. A cheap bluetooth speaker blasting Alive so loud the bass vibrates in the ribcage.

Her, Dina, and Jesse are slumped on battered chairs that don’t match — not in color, shape, or structural integrity — pregaming like they’re warming up for a prison riot.

Jesse’s already on beer number… two? Three? Who knows. “Bro, Jackson’s parties always go fucking insane. Rich kids have no self-control.”

Ellie takes a sip of warm beer, wipes her mouth with her sleeve. The flash of ink on her forearm catches in the dim light.

Jesse taps his boot against hers. “Yo. The princess is gonna be there.”

Ellie groans with the passion of a dying animal. “Ugh. Of course she is. Scotty too? God. Just kill me.”

He grins and shakes his head. “You’re obsessed.”

“Shut the fuck up. I literally want her dead.”

Dina snorts into her drink. “Oh, yeah. Because nothing says ‘I hate her’ like staring at her ass for forty-five uninterrupted seconds yesterday.”

Ellie goes instantly pink in the ears. “I did not—”

“You did,” Jesse says without even looking up.

Ellie flips him off.

Dina kicks her feet up onto the paint-splattered table. “Be honest: you’re gonna lose your shit when you see her tonight.”

“No. Why the fuck would I—”

Jesse sing-songs in a taunting melody: “Y/N’s gonna be thereee—”

Ellie goes still. “…Eat shit.”

Pearl Jam rips through the speaker, and the guitar solo fills the silences.

Jesse wipes his chin dramatically. “I’m Jackson’s cousin. Which means I’m getting first access to the top-shelf shit tonight. But the real entertainment?” He jerks a thumb at Ellie. “Watching you lose your mind every time Miss Congeniality walks by.”

“I’m not—”

Dina leans forward, eyebrows up. “You’ve had a crush since you were, like, fifteen.”

Ellie scoffs, picking at her chipped black nail polish like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Can you not.”

“She’s right,” Jesse cuts in. “We literally found a sketch of her in your notebook once.”

Ellie nearly falls sideways off her chair, beer sloshing. “That wasn’t— I was practicing linework—!”

“Duda. It was her tits.”

“ARTISTIC. ANATOMICAL. STUDY.”

Dina wheezes with laughter, nearly spilling his beer. “Is that what you call jerking off over it?”

Ellie throws a crushed can at her knees. “I didn’t—fuck off—!”

Jesse is giggling so hard he wipes tears from his eyes. “You get so visibly deranged every time we drag you. It’s embarrassing.”

Ellie jumps up, starts pacing like an agitated wolf. “I hate her. She’s— she’s fucking princessy. She walks around like she owns every room she enters.”

“And you look at her like she’s the second coming of Christ in heels.”

“I DO NOT.”

“Oh yeah?” Dina cackles. “Then why’d you walk face-first into a pole staring at her last month?”

“BECAUSE THE POLE WAS IN THE WAY—”

Jesse groans, standing and stretching. “Oh my god. Ellie… just admit it. You’re down astronomically bad.”

Ellie bites her thumbnail, aggressively refusing eye contact with them. “Whatever. You both can choke.”

"Okay," Jesse stands, cracking his back. “Finish your beer. We’re leaving.”

Ellie chugs the rest in one go.

Dina crushes her can under her combat boot. “Jackson’s cousin perks. Tonight, we drink like royalty.”

Ellie snatches her keys off the workbench and jams them into her carabiner. “Let’s go before I sober up.”

Jesse loops an arm around her shoulders. “If she looks hot tonight — which she will — try not to drool on the floor, yeah?”

Ellie shrugs him off. “Enough!”

Scotty’s truck rattles down the street like every loose bolt is begging for mercy, country radio humming through the cheap speakers, and he is TALKING. Giving a TED Talk on being insufferable.

“All I’m saying is people don’t grind hard enough anymore. Like, mindset is everything. I’ve been waking up at 5am, cold showers, protein, mental clarity, alpha focus—”

Rachel sits stiff in the backseat, staring dead ahead like she’s mentally filing an insurance claim for emotional damage.

You nod vaguely, not registering a single word. “Totally.”

Scotty beams. “Right? YES. Exactly. Success is internal, it’s about discipline. I’ve been listening to Ben Shapiro’s podcast, and he was talking about—”

You stifle a laugh.

“And it’s like — men today? They don’t have direction. They don’t have purpose. They’re beta. They’re cucks. They surrender to society instead of shaping it—”

You glance at Rachel in the rearview and confirm your suspicion that she's been dissociating ever since she got into the truck.

Scotty gestures with his hand while driving, terrifyingly. “And people stopped listening to real music. It's all modern crap. Country is authentic. It’s honest. Not like—whatever that girl listens to.”

You blink. “What girl?”

“Elleanor? Elluz? Elliana? Whatever,” Scotty shrugs. “Her and her group's whole vibe is so weird.”

You force a calm and unbothered tone, but your pulse is already spiking. “Why are you even bringing them up....”

“Because they're freaks. Like punk is just… cosplay rebellion. If you listen to REAL lyrics? Real country? It’s about America, roots, tradition—and also I think modern feminism—”

Rachel cuts in loudly.

“OH LOOK. WE’RE HERE. THANK GOD.”

Scotty blinks. “Oh — yeah! Right on time. Ten minutes exactly.”

You and Rachel share a look that says:

Ten minutes of relentless suffering.

At that exact moment, outside the truck’s window you hear the growl of an engine. A van whips around the corner: spray-painted, rust-chewing on the wheel wells, hard rock pouring through the windows at full volume.

Jesse behind the wheel, sunglasses on. Dina hanging half out the passenger window. Ellie slouched behind them—eyes half-lidded and lazy from pregame beer.

Scotty pulls up at the curb.

They pull up at the exact same second.

Rachel just whispers under her breath staring at the van like it’s a circus act arriving in synchronized chaos “…lol.”

Both car doors slam, yours with a neat click, theirs with a BANG–thud–rattle.

Rachel straightens your outfit with a quick tug at your hem, already in hostess mode. You toss your hair once, smooth the gloss on your lips with a press, and the two of you start toward the front gate, heels ticking on the sidewalk.

Behind you, Jesse’s rambling, voice booming with alcohol enthusiasm:

“And bro, wait ‘til you see the pool lights, Jackson FUCKING installed lasers—like actual lasers—”

Dina nearly trips over the curb, clutching her phone. “OH MY GOD I LOVE RICH PEOPLE.”

Ellie grumbles, leather jacket sleeve slipping halfway down her wrist—her walk slower than the others, steps dragging a little, “Good. Maybe I’ll die in there.”

They’re behind you now, their footsteps uneven, their laughter too loud.

And just as the walkway narrows, Ellie draws even with you. For a second, it’s just you and her passing under the warm wash of a patio light.

Shoulders brush.

Skin meets leather.

You smell her—cedar, beer, nicotine gum, something warm, and your heart threatens to beat out of your chest, but you refuse to face her. And in a millisecond, fast enough for no one to notice, she leans in, mouth near your ear.

Her voice slips into you like heat:

“You don’t make it easy, you know. Walking around in shit like that.”

Your pulse jumps so hard your breath hitches. You don’t answer. You don’t turn.

Her eyes follow that silent reaction, that slight jolt in your neck, the flutter beneath your collarbone, and she can’t hide the smug tilt of her mouth.

But Rachel sees. Oh, she sees. Her eyes flick back and forth—connecting dots like a detective solving a murder.

But she doesn’t blow it up yet.

You don’t look at Ellie. Ellie doesn’t look at you.

You tell yourself the shiver in your spine is from the night air.

Scotty jogs ahead to ring the doorbell like an eager dog, waving at Jackson through the window.

Rachel falls into step beside you as the door swings open.

She leans in close, voice barely audible: “What did she just say to you?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

But your cheeks are warm and the lie tastes like sugar on your tongue.

And Inside, the party isn’t just loud—it’s cinematic.

Fog rolls out low over the floor like dry ice in a music video. LED strips pulse in time with the bass: blue—violet—magenta—white flash—repeat. The air smells like cherry ice vape, spilled vodka, chlorine drifting in from the glass doors leading to the pool. People are everywhere, on the stairs, on the couches, on the counters, grinding in the hallways, laughing in clumps near the bar.

And at the center of it all: Jackson Wang.

He’s standing on the marble staircase like it’s his royal balcony—champagne flute in one hand, mic in the other, shirt half-buttoned, gold chain shining.

“WELCOME MY BEAUTIFUL BROKE ASS FRIENDS!” he announces, voice booming over the music for just a second. “TONIGHT—WE DRINK LIKE WE’RE ON FORBES AND FUCK LIKE WE’RE ON SPRING BREAK!”

The crowd howls. Someone throws glow sticks.

Jesse mutters as he pushes through the crowd toward the bar, “God he’s insufferable.”

At the bar, Jackson drapes an arm around Jesse. “Little cousin! I saved the expensive shit for you,” he says, pointing to a sleek dark whiskey bottle that costs more than someone's rent.

“Drink responsibly,” he adds—before winking dramatically—“or don’t.”

Jesse groans. “You’re lucky I like having rich relatives.”

Jackson gives Ellie a nod, chin lifting. “Williams.”

Ellie lifts her beer like a salute. “Wang.”

“You good?”

“Chillin’.”

They fade into the crowd—Dina going to find people to scream with, Jesse snagging shots, Ellie leaning against the counter near the bar.

Meanwhile, Rachel yanks you straight into the thrumming pulse of the dance floor.

“You’re not allowed to stand pretty tonight,” she says. “You’re dancing.”

The DJ rolls into a remix—heavy bass, dark driving beat—The Weeknd’s tracks. You and Rachel press into the rhythm, hips swaying, bodies loose, no effort, no hesitation. You laugh with her, hair flipping, glow on your skin.

Scotty arrives. Uninvited. “BABEEE! It’s crowded!” he half-shouts.

“It’s a PARTY.”

He looks impressed, like you invented the concept. Then he tries to dance, with confidence. And zero actual ability.

He’s not… terrible. He’s just… aggressively average. Over-enthusiastic. Off-beat. Hands wandering.

He plants them at your hips. Then lower. Then back up again like he’s searching for the Instruction Manual of Sexy Touch Positioning.

You don’t stop him. You even laugh back at him, lips parted, head thrown slightly back—your dress shifting higher with every move.

People start noticing, eyes following your movements, scanning your legs, your hair, the trail of light across your skin.

You’re a highlight in the room.

And Ellie sees you.

She’s mid-sip of her beer, Jesse saying something beside her—but her eyes land on you like a sniper scope clicking into place.

Her thumb taps the neck of the beer bottle, slow at first, then faster, an impatient beat that matches the song.

“Dude…”

Ellie doesn’t look away. “Don’t.”

“You’re staring.”

“I don’t—” Ellie shrugs, tries to look casual. “I’m just—looking in that direction.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s a free house.”

“So you’re just… observing the alcohol table right next to her ass.”

Ellie closes her eyes with a pained expression. “…Fuck you.”

Across the room, Rachel leans in behind you, eyes flicking toward Ellie, voice low in your ear:

“She’s watching.”

You don’t look. You don’t turn. But you feel it, that sensation of heat on the back of your neck.

“She can choke,” you mutter.

“…you.”

You shove her gently. “Shut up.”

The song shifts—something poppy and upbeat—and Scotty immediately belts the lyrics horribly off-key.

“This is my JAM!!!”

It isn’t. No one else reacts. He’s shouting starfish-armed in the middle of the floor. You grit your teeth.

Scotty dips you dramatically—wrong timing—and nearly drops you. You scramble upright.

He beams. “Sorry! Sorry! Got excited!”

You force a smile. “It’s fine.”

And behind you, Ellie’s jaw ticks.

“Bro… Just admit it. You’re fucking jealous.”

Ellie drags her tongue over her teeth, eyes still on you.

“I literally don’t give a shit,” she says, words clipped, lying through her teeth.

Jesse pats her shoulder. “Sure. And I’m a Disney princess.”

And from across the party, just for one second—you glance over.

You don’t even register the song that’s playing anymore. Not the bodies brushing past you. Not Scotty talking or Rachel dancing beside you.

Because your gaze catches on her across the room.

Eyes meet. Storm-to-spark. And suddenly the music, the lights, the bodies, all smear into meaningless color around that single locked stare. You look away first, because you have to. Because if you don’t, someone will notice, and that’s more dangerous than any rumor.

But later, when Scotty gets distracted talking about microdosing discipline or whatever the fuck, and Rachel wanders off in search of alcohol that doesn’t taste like nail polish remover, you slip away.

You disappear into the hallway, leaving behind sweat and neon and noise.

Here, it’s different.

Dim, quiet, warm. The bass seeps through the wall like a muted pulse. Shadowed corners. Amber sconces. Soft, forgiving light. It feels like a liminal space, a world between worlds.

Your breathing slows as you walk deeper in.

And as you turn the corner—

Ellie.

Of fucking course.

She stops too suddenly. You stop just a fraction too late. Now you’re facing each other in a narrow corridor, trapped between old wallpaper and a locked bathroom door.

Up close, she looks even more dangerous than from across the house.

Her auburn hair looks like it’s been blown by wind, touched by hands, pulled on by fists, messily perfect. Her eyeliner is smudged from sweat. Her pierced eyebrow glints in the warm light, a small silver bar cutting through her brow.

She leans casually against the wall, but up close, you feel her presence, her attention.

You stand a few paces away, arms crossed — the only shield you have left.

“Are you following me?” you ask, chin raised.

Ellie scoffs, head tipping back against the wall. “Yeah, totally. Because the entire world revolves around you.”

You shrug lightly. “It does for most people.”

Her mouth twitches — the beginning of a grin — and she rakes a hand through her hair, exposing her tattoo for a second: dark ink curling across the inside of her forearm.

Silence slips between you, molten, alive, humming with unspoken history.

Then Ellie speaks, lightly, but not lightly at all:

“Nice dress.”

You keep your face still. “Don’t talk to me in public.”

Her eyes flick down your figure slowly, then back up. “Better than talking to your boyfriend.”

“Jealous, much?”

Ellie turns her head fully now, eyes dragging down and up your body again, slower this time.

“Jealous of who? Skinny-Jeans McYeehaw? Be serious.”

You try not to laugh but a little smile slips through anyway. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s fucking hilarious,” she counters.

Your perfume hits her. Hers hits you. Or maybe it’s sweat. Or smoke. Or Ellie.

You lean back against the other wall now, mirroring her. Your dress glimmers in the hallway light. Her eyes catch on your exposed shoulder.

You pretend not to see, but she mutters low but loud enough for you to catch it.

“You look really fucking hot.”

Your breath stutters. You steer into deflection: “…Again. Don’t talk to me in public.”

Her lip ring shifts as she grins. “You literally spoke to me first.”

“I didn’t.”

“Bullshit.”

You push off the wall, closing half the distance between you.

She notices. Her breathing changes, just enough. Her jaw tightens, just enough. Her eyes drop to your lips.

“You're insufferable,” you whisper.

Ellie’s head tilts slightly forward, as if her body already decided to respond before her brain did.

“You didn't say that last Friday...”

Your pulse kicks. “Ellie—”

“What?”

“You’re drunk.”

She lifts a brow piercing. “Not really.”

“You’re buzzed.”

“Maybe.”

“And you’re being… annoying.”

She chuckles, rough and soft at once. “You’re the one stomping down the hallway like it owes you rent.”

“I had to pee.”

“Right.” She nods slowly. “Absolutely nothing to do with the fact I walked here at the same time.”

You open your mouth to argue. She beats you to it, voice barely above breath:

“You really think I don’t notice when you follow me?”

You feel heat creep up your neck. You shake your head. “I wasn’t following you.”

Ellie smirks, slow and knowing. “Sure. And we haven’t been hooking up for months.”

Your heart gives a violent kick. Images race through you. Ellie’s mouth on your throat Your fingers tangled in her hair. Gasps in the backseat. Clothes shoved aside. Her voice in the dark. Yours in her ear

“That’s… different.”

Ellie leans in — her lips almost grazing your jaw — and breathes:

“Is it?”

And you don’t have a comeback.

Because she’s right there. Right there.

Just before the situation escalates, the bathroom door explodes open and Jackson Wang bursts out shirtless, visibly black out drunk, wearing sunglasses indoors.

He shrieks, “ARE YOU TWO FORMING AN ALLIANCE OR WHAT?!”

You spring apart like magnets snapping away.

“No!” you bark.

“Yes.” Ellie says simultaneously.

Jackson nods like that’s sexy and strolls away humming to himself.

Ellie shifts aside, letting you pass, and you move toward the bathroom as fast as you can. Your shoulder brushes her chest as you step inside and shut the door. Your hands grip the sink — hard — because you’re shaking.

Ellie’s voice floats through the door, muffled but undeniable:

"Meet me at the van... unless you're too scared Scotty will find out."

You stare at your reflection.

Flushed cheeks. Smudged lipstick. Eyes too bright.

And the worst part?

You don’t know if you’re furious…or thrilled.

You take your time, way more than you need to. You close the toilet seat lid, sit, lean forward, elbows to knees. You breathe. You silently curse her. You stand again and reapply lip gloss with steady, practiced strokes, slow enough to look composed, quick enough to betray urgency. You fix your hair. You pull the straps of your dress back into perfect place.

And when you finally leave the bathroom, Ellie is gone.

That alone sends your pulse into a stumble.

You step into the hallway and follow the sound, down toward the thumping heart of the house. The party returns in a rush: the roar of bass, the shrieks of laughter, the splash from the pool out back.

But Rachel isn’t by the bar laughing with Jackson. She’s not in the kitchen filming a drunken thristtrap. She’s not demolishing a girl in the corner with backhanded compliments. She’s just... absent.

Scotty too. No deep voice announcing his daily protein intake, no enthusiastic hand claiming your waist as territory. He’s gone as well.

Your eyes comb through the crowd again, searching, but the only familiar face you catch is Jesse, sleeves rolled up, back arched over the kitchen island as he and Jackson are screaming over a shot competition.

The room spins around you — people yelling, lights flashing — but suddenly you’re a still point in chaos.

You know exactly where Ellie went.

And exactly who she expects to follow.

You move through the party with a kind of desperate purpose masked in indifference—pretending you’re just walking, just existing—but your heartbeat gives you away. The way your eyes skip past every face just to check the next. The way your breath stutters every time you almost see her and then don’t. The heat of the house presses against your skin, your dress suddenly sticky, your legs trembling in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.

When you reach the back patio, the air changes. Cooler. Quieter. The night sky stretches black overhead and the street just beyond the fence looks empty. Except there. On the curb.

The van.

You see the dim yellow glow of the cabin light through the dusty windows. You step off the patio, heels tapping against the concrete like you’re counting steps to your own execution. You get closer, and the quiet feels thick—like the silence itself knows what you’re doing and is holding its breath.

The van door isn’t just unlocked, it’s slightly ajar.

You pause, one hand hovering near the handle, heart screaming against your ribs.

Then you pull it open.

Ellie is inside.

She’s sitting forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped loosely, head bowed like she’s been waiting. The second she sees you, her expression changes like a match catching fire. Her eyes drag down your legs, slow, hungry, possessive in a way that feels ancient.

Then she leans back into the seat, legs opening lazily, making room.

Neither of you say a word.

You climb inside.

The door slams shut behind you.

The darkness swallows you both.

And then she’s on you.

Her hands find your hips and drag you onto her lap with a kind of frustrated urgency like she’s been waiting forever and ran out of patience in minute one. Her mouth is on yours in a split instant, lips bruising, breath hot, desire unfiltered, messy. You gasp into her and she uses that second to slip her tongue against yours, deep, greedy, unrestrained.

Her hands slide up your thighs—slow at first, then harder—until her fingers are under your dress, gripping the backs of your legs as she pulls you closer. You feel her rings scraping lightly against your skin. You feel her thighs flex beneath you.

You bite her lip softly, rolling it in your tongue. You taste cheap beer on her mouth. You taste want.

One of your hands gets lost in her hair, messing it, pulling it, and Ellie groans into you, low and involuntary. She kisses like she’s angry at time itself, as if she’s trying to steal back every minute she ever had to pretend she didn’t want you.

Your dress rides up your thighs. Her hand slides over your ass, gripping hard. Your breath breaks into a shaky moan against her mouth. And she laughs—hungry-soft, almost taunting—before devouring your mouth again, harder.

You gasp against her lips, and she murmurs into the kiss, voice low and wrecked with satisfaction:

“Knew you’d come.”

Her other hand trails up your spine, fingers sliding beneath the thin fabric of your dress.

“You always do.”

Her fingertips brush your lower back—then higher—until she gathers the hem of your dress in her fist, bunching it upward with slow, merciless purpose. You feel the cool air of the van interior graze your skin as more of you is exposed, inch by inch, until—

The dress is off.

She strips it from you in one unstoppable motion until you’re bare, the only thing on your body being a black thong, skin glowing in the low cabin light.

Ellie stares at your chest for exactly one heartbeat, her breathing gone uneven, before she leans in and closes her mouth around you.

The sensation punches a sound out of you—ragged, uncontrolled.

Her tongue traces along the swell of your breast, teasing first in barely-there strokes, before she sucks harder, lips closing around your nipple, pulling at you like she’s starving.

You arch into her, fingers digging into her shoulders.

“F-fuck—”

She hums against you, vibration hot and sinful.

You reach for her, shoving her leather jacket off her shoulders with impatient fingers. The jacket falls to the van floor in a heavy thud. Your hands roam under her shirt—over warm skin, along the defined ridges of her stomach—until you pull the shirt off entirely.

Her chest lays bare now, tattoos shifting with every breath, freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations.

She looks you over and lifts her head from your chest just long enough to smirk.

“Impatient, much?”

You're flushed, breathing hard, eyes blown wide—but you bite back: “You talk too much.”

She laughs and flips you beneath her in one motion, pinning you against the van bench. Her thighs cage your hips. Her hands trap your wrists beside your head.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she purrs, leaning down to nip at your jaw, “you love when I talk.”

Your voice comes out thready, defiant: “Maybe I prefer when you shut up.”

She grins against your throat—then sinks her teeth there—eliciting another helpless sound from your lips.

“Make me.”

You twist a hand free, grab her neck, and pull her down to you. Now you’re kissing again—rough, uncoordinated, breathless—a collision rather than a kiss, heat and impatience and pure hunger.

Your legs slide open beneath her. Her hand cups your jaw and your other hand claws at her back. It’s messy, and desperate, and unbearably intimate.

Her thumb lingers at your bottom lip, and for a moment you both just… exist there—breathing the same shallow air, bodies nearly trembling into each other. Her eyes search yours with that dark intensity she never shows anyone else.

“Look at you,” she whispers. “You’re shaking.”

You scoff, trying for composure and failing. “You’re—”

“—the reason.” She finishes softly.

Her hands slide down your waist. She touches the place your thigh meets your hip, that vulnerable curve, and you shiver. Ellie spends a moment just feeling you, fingertips gliding like she’s mapping out a familiar coastline, one she’s memorized but still returns to in reverence.

Then she kisses down your throat. Your breath catches when she reaches your collarbone, when she pauses there, lips pressing in a way that feels like she’s marking you.

Outside the van, someone screams into the night — like a drunken mating call — followed by a wave of laughter.

But in here?

It’s just the two of you. Just breath. Just heat.

And when she finally sinks down onto her knees, your heart stumbles. She looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and knowing.

“Missed this,” she murmurs.

You swallow hard. “Ellie—”

She doesn’t wait. Her hands slide up your thighs, thumbs brushing the tender inside skin near your center. Then she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your thong.

You gasp. She grins, feral and shyly pleased all at once, and pulls it down slowly, enjoying the suspense itself. When the thin fabric hits your ankles, she twirls it once around her finger, and just like that, tucks it into her back pocket.

“I’m keeping that.”

Before you can reply, she leans forward—and when her mouth meets you, thought dissolves.

Your world compresses into heat, pulse, and sensation. You gasp too loudly, startled by your own reaction, and her hands clamp onto your thighs with steady, certain pressure, keeping you anchored in your body when you feel yourself lurching out of it.

“Oh fuck…” The words tear out of you, shaky and raw.

She hums softly, and the vibration of her voice spreads through you in a wave, just as the cool bump of her tongue piercing sweeps across your clit. The contrast is unbearable—the cold metal, the soft heat of her mouth, the slick rhythm of her tongue working in precise strokes.

Your entire body jolts, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a cry, back arching off the seat as your fingers convulse in the leather.

“Jesus— Fuck—”

She laughs under her breath, pleased with herself. The sound thrums through you, and her response is barely intelligible against your skin. “Thought you liked when I used it.”

You try to laugh back—try for wit, composure, something—but all that escapes is a desperate, broken release of breath. “Like isn’t—strong enough.”

There’s a ruthless steadiness to her now, a knowing precision in the way her tongue flicks in rapid, tight strokes against your clit, the piercing pressing and rubbing in maddening rhythm.

It feels practiced—not in experience with others, but in knowing you, your responses, your sounds. Every movement suggests memory: stored knowledge of what unravels you.

Your breathing begins to fall apart in stuttered pieces. Your thighs tremble and threaten to close, instinctive and overwhelmed, but Ellie keeps you wide open, hands strong and unmoving. She lifts her gaze, pupils blown wide, and there’s worship in it—not gentle or sweet, but reverent in a rough, obsessive way.

“Ellie—” Her name scrapes out of you like a plea.

She pulls back only an inch, just enough for you to feel the wet air chilling where her mouth had been moments before. Her voice is steady, coaxing.

“Shh. I’ve got you.” Her thumb rubs small, grounding circles at your hip.

Then she ruins you again. Slow at first—the piercing drags across your clit in a deliberate slide that forces a raw sound from your throat—then faster, focused, flicking with efficient cruelty, mouth sealed around you in a tight pull. It sends electricity skating up your spine until your vision sharpens, then blurs, then sharpens again.

You break on a gasp, involuntary and helpless.

Ellie moans against you, tasting the reaction, feeding on it. The sound is low and reverent. She pulls you deeper into her mouth, tongue pressing and circling in relentless patterns until your thighs are shaking uncontrollably, your hand flying down to grab her hair—not to push her away, but to keep her there.

She looks up at you again, face flushed, lips slick, breathing heavy against your skin. This time she doesn’t whisper. She demands:

“Look at me.”

You do.

You couldn’t look away if you tried.

You let out a choked scream, coming undone at the sight.

You’re still shaking when she rises up between your legs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lips are stained with you, pupils unfocused, breathing uneven. You reach for her waist with restless urgency, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her jeans. She stops breathing for a second, then nods once, almost imperceptibly.

You undo the button. Then the zipper.

Her jeans slide down her hips, revealing the faint line of muscle along her stomach and the edge of black boxer briefs. Your hands skim over the skin you uncover, tracing heat into her. She lets you. She wants you to. She steps out of the denim and the briefs follow, leaving her bared and flushed in the soft shadowed interior of the van.

Ellie climbs back onto you with a kind of urgency that is almost greedy. Your hands skate up her thighs and over her hips, holding her close. When your legs shift and press together, tangling into each other, there’s a sudden mutual gasp. Heat meeting heat. Contact that is both familiar and still devastating.

She grinds forward first, a surprised inhale slipping through her teeth. “Fuck… been thinking about this all night.”

You tighten your grip on her hips and answer with a broken breath. “Been thinking about it for longer than that.”

Her forehead drops to yours, noses brushing, breath mingling. You move together in slow rhythm that builds quickly, each motion adding to a rising pressure. She gasps your name, soft and strained, voice cracking just enough to show how undone she is.

Your legs lock tighter around hers, thighs trembling. Ellie’s hand slips up and behind your neck, holding you still while she moves with growing intensity. The friction becomes sharp, intoxicating, relentless. You can’t hear the music outside anymore, only the sound of both of you breathing too hard, too close, too desperate.

She mutters against your cheek, voice rough and reverent. “Every time… every single time… I forget how insane you feel.”

You bite down softly on her shoulder and she groans, nails digging into the seat beside your head. Movement turns sharper now, bodies sliding and tightening, the contact impossible to separate or slow.

Your voice catches. “Ellie… God—!”

She answers with a whispered growl of your name, the sound half-suffering and half-devotion. You feel her trembling beneath your hands as the rhythm tips toward breaking point. The whole van rocks with your movement, windows fogging, breaths coming in gasps you can’t swallow down.

And somewhere in the blur of heat and friction and shared breathing, it happens— that moment where sensation folds into surrender.

She presses her forehead harder to yours, eyes shut, voice falling apart into sound. “Don’t stop—just keep—”

You match her, move with her, ride it out as everything sharpens, then softens, then goes incandescent.

You fall into it together, bodies clinging, muscles twitching, breath stolen.

When it ebbs, the two of you stay there—still pressed close, still shaking from aftershocks—her hand cupping the back of your neck, your fingers tangled in her hair, neither of you speaking.

The stillness after hits almost harder than the act itself.

Ellie’s breath slows against your cheek, her forehead still pressed to yours, skin warm and damp. Your fingers stay curled in her hair, hers linger at your neck, thumb stroking once, so gentle it almost hurts.

Silence.

Just the hum of the engine off, the soft rasp of fabric against skin, your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest.

You don’t move. Neither does she. You don’t want to.

Your mind drifts to her laugh, to the way she looks at you when no one else is watching, to every stolen kiss in parked cars, to every secret touch behind closed doors, to the way she said your name tonight like it meant something.

And you can't stop yourself from thinking: I could just tell her. Right now.

I could tell Scotty to fuck off. I could stop pretending. I could just look Ellie in the eye and say I think I’m in love with you.

You inhale, shaky, gathering the courage, the sentence forming.

“Ellie, I—”

SLAM.

The van door jerks open so hard the whole vehicle shudders.

Rachel and Dina tumble halfway inside, hands everywhere, mouths attached, mid-makeout, until Rachel's eyes dart up—

—and land on you and Ellie.

“oH MY FUCKING GOD I KNEW YOU TWO WERE FUCKING”

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓— @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @isabelckl @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @thinkingabtellie @ssijht @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @angellvk @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @satellitespinner @yunaversalluv @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @letmebeurbaby @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @marscardigan @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @les4elliewilliams @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater @savagestarlight28 ࿐

your-eternal-muse

OUR LORD AND SAVIOR VAL NEVER DISAPPOINTS

#literally #i need at least 3 seasons of this please and thank you #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams smut #ellie x reader #sapphic smut #ellie the last of us #tlou part 2 #the last of us 2

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