ི𒂭۪۪۪۪᳝۟ 👸🏻

also just wanted to say a few things. this isn’t super important but just wanted to clarify some things since i’m new to being public on this platform.

i’m new to all this writing stuff, my intentions are just to express myself, share my work, spread love and entertain people with my writing. i cannot write all the time until the summer since i am currently in school and im under a lot of pressure, trying to maintain having good grades. i expect to please not have any issues on this blog and if u have an issue with me being a wlw follower of Christ pls don’t publicly hate on me, disrespect my beliefs, or express that on my blog with negative intentions. i am aware that being both a follower of Christ and liking women as a woman can be controversial to some. i understand historically Christianity hasn’t been the most comforting and respectful religion to individuals. i understand religion can be triggering due to religious abuse, religious psychosis and things of that sort, this is just what i believe in and the God i serve, even as a someone who is apart of lgbtq+. the way me being wlw is apart of my identity, its the same way for me following Jesus. He’s apart of my identity. i will always be respectful to people of ALL religions and i expect the same.

mr. brooks clears his throat.

“alright, students. group projects. DNA replication and genetic variation. pages 94 through 99. picked your partners for you.”

groans ripple across the room. you roll your eyes, zoning out as he goes on to list random pairs of students in the class… “david and rebecca, ashley and karen, adrian and braxton, becky and jared-“ then suddenly.

“y/n and… ellie.”

you look up from your manicured hands in your lap instantly, silence. you make a disgusted look. brows furrowed, lips pouted.

but ellie? she jerks in her seat like someone pulled a string in her back. her eyes snap up and lock on you, wide behind her crooked-ass glasses. her whole face goes red—forehead, ears, even her damn neck. she freezes. then immediately starts fumbling with her the spirals on her notebook, like she thinks if she looks busy enough, maybe you’ll ignore her.

you don’t.

you sigh heavily as you take your time walking over, swinging your hips just enough to make two boys whisper. you drop your bag next to her desk. she looks at it like it’s a bomb.

you sit down.

“so,” you say, voice flat, bored, already annoyed. “you gonna write the whole thing or just f*ck yourself to it?”

she chokes. like physically chokes, hand flying to her chest, eyes bugging out. she tries to answer, fails, tries again, and somehow makes it worse.

“i—i don’t—i wasn’t—f*ck mysel-?—no—what—”

you stare. blow a bubble. let it pop, then giggle in her face.

her face is ruined. her mouth opens and closes like a fish. she looks like she wants to die. and then crawl under the desk. and then die again.

you lean in, just a little, enough for your perfume to hit her nose.

“i still remember that sketchbook from last week by the way.”

ellie flinches.

“i wasn’t—you know.. it’s for anatomy,” she blurts, which makes no sense, and she knows it. “not like, your—i didn’t mean your anatomy, just—like—the concept of anatomy, which, like, technically—f*ck—”

you tilt your head.

ellie covers her face with her hands and groans, long and low, like she’s in pain.

“do you touch yourself to those with your hoodie on, or do you take it off to set the mood?”

“please,” she whispers. “please shut up.”

you giggle again, soft and wicked.

adrian—your adrian—is three rows in front of y’all, hearing the whole thing. you haven’t even acknowledged him since class started either.

ellie peeks through her fingers. she’s twitchy. sweaty. miserable. and when you pull your chair closer, she damn near leaps out of her skin.

“we’re gonna get an A,” you hum, dragging her open textbook toward you. “you’re gonna do all the work. and you’re gonna keep your nasty little sketchbook zipped up tight.”

she nods. small. frail.

“say ‘yes, ma’am.’”

“…yes, ma’am.”

you smile. pop another bubble.

this is gonna be fun.

ellie keeps her eyes locked on the textbook. she hasn’t spoken in five minutes. not since the “yes, ma’am.” her handwriting’s shaking. her cheeks are red. her hoodie sleeves are halfway over her fingers again, clenched tight like she’s praying.

you lean back in your seat, legs spread just a little wider, flipping your hair over your shoulder. her eyes flicker for a second—just a second—to the inside of your thigh under the desk.

you catch it.

“are you even paying attention?” you ask, fake sweet. “or are you too busy trying not to cum in your boxers?”

her pencil snaps in half.

“i’m—i’m paying attention,” she mumbles, head down, the tips of her ears red like she’s been slapped. “mitosis. cell cycle. S-phase. DNA replication. i—i know it.”

you hum. press your knee against hers under the desk. she jerks back like she’s been shocked. you look down at her shaky hand on the table. long, twitchy fingers. drum and guitar callused.

slowly, you reach out. grab her wrist. guide it down.

“wh—what are you—” she tries to pull away, but she’s weak. pathetic. you’re stronger. meaner. so much prettier. you press her hand against your bare thigh, just above the hem of your skirt. warm skin. smooth. soft.

she stops breathing.

“f*ck,” she whispers, wide-eyed, voice cracking. “you—you can’t—i’ll f*cking—”

you don’t let go.

“don’t be a p*ssy,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded. “it’s just a little skin, right? nothing you haven’t seen in your nasty little sketches.”

her fingers twitch.

you push her hand higher. just a little.

the edge of your thong peeks out. she squeezes her eyes shut, like she can block it out. but her fingers stay.

shaking. burning. gripping your thigh like it’s keeping her alive. ellie whimpers.

you smile, slow and wicked and keep her hand right where it is. she doesn’t move at first.

your fingers are still around her wrist, soft but firm, like a leash she doesn’t want to escape. her palm is pressed flat to your thigh, skin burning hot, nails barely grazing you. you’re looking ahead like nothing’s happening. like you’re so fucking bored. like her hand being between your legs is just part of your routine.

ellie’s brain? completely fried. ‘f*ck. f*ck. f*ck’ she thought.

she doesn’t know where to look. her eyes are flicking between the worksheet and your lip gloss and your thigh and the window and the corner of the floor like any of it will help her not lose it.

her face is flushed. her mouth’s dry. her hoodie’s too hot and her fingers are twitching because all she can think about is—

‘she’s soft. she’s so soft. i can’t—f*ck—i can’t.’

you’re right next to her. in the flesh. warm. sighing softly. looking down, pencil in hand while pretending to read the textbook like her hand isn’t right there.

and now?

her fingers start to move.

slow. slight. like she doesn’t even realize at first. like muscle memory. like her horniness has taken over completely.

she slides the tips up, just a little.

then down.

tiny little strokes. featherlight. testing you. seeing what she can get away with.

you shift in your seat.

press your legs together.

you don’t look at her. but you don’t stop her either.

so she keeps going.

and her heart is slamming in her chest.

she’s so wet in her boxers, her clit becoming a rapid beating second heartbeat to the point it’s actually painful. ellie thinks she might cum just from this.

her fingers dip slightly beneath the curve of your thigh. under the edge of your thong. just barely.

her breath stutters.

you’re wet. not soaked. not dripping. just warm and soft and slightly damp and f*ckf*ck—

she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning. her forehead hits the desk. just for a second. to ground herself.

you look at her finally. say nothing. just smirk. and she knows you know exactly what you’re doing.

she doesn’t say a word. she just keeps stroking.

slow, pathetic, desperate.

and no one can see a thing.

yet, her fingers go still when she feels it. the way your c*nt clenches as she pushes past the edge of your soaked thong.

how easy it is to slip in.

how tight you are. how f*cking warm you are.

like you’ve been waiting.

ellie lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding—shaky, low—and stares at your face like it’s the only thing that matters.

you’re still looking at your notes. like this is nothing.

like her fingers aren’t buried inside you right now, moving slow, dragging against that soft spot she’s imagined so many times her body could do it with her eyes closed.

and it kinda is.

her fingers start working in that perfect rhythm she’s practiced—on herself, in the dark, in the shower, during her breakdowns after seeing you in a mini skirt.

she curls them just right.

presses deep.

slides out slick and slow, then back in, faster.

you twitch.

your thighs shift.

but you don’t look at her.

and that’s what makes her lose it.

“f*ck,” she whispers. her head is down, lips barely moving. “you’re gonna make me cum in my f*ckin’ boxers, sh*t.”

you don’t flinch. you just turn the page in the textbook, lip caught between your teeth.

ellie’s eyes flicker to your mouth.

her fingers thrust deeper. faster. the sound is obscene but muffled by the low hum of the class, the hum of the lights, the buzz of old ac.

“this p*ssy’s so f*ckin’ warm,” she whispers, voice cracked. “you’re gonna—geez—you’re gonna ruin me.”

you pulse around her. her legs shake.

she’s gritting her teeth. trying not to grunt. trying not to moan.

“can’t believe i get to finger you in bio,” she breathes, nose brushing your shoulder. “you’re so mean to me—so f*ckin’ mean—and you’re so wet. you like this? letting the loser do this to you?”

your pencil scratches across the paper like nothing’s happening.

you’re breathing harder now. lips parted. eyes still down.

but your hips start moving—tiny little rocks forward against her fingers—and that’s when ellie knows you’re close.

she curves them deep, presses her palm against your clit, and starts pumping harder.

you clamp your thighs.

grip the edge of your worksheet.

swallow a whimper.

“good f*ckin’ girl,” she mutters, barely audible. “take it. just take it. i’ll make you cum so hard you won’t walk to 5th period.”

and you?

you turn your head just slightly.

lips brush her ear.

“then do it, perv.”

ellie’s gone. she’s imagined this so many times. in her sketchbook. in the shower. in her f*cking dreams.

you sitting on her lap, whispering in her ear, your lip gloss smearing on her neck, your tits bouncing while you ride her neon green strap—

you calling her a freak while grinding on her face—

you licking her fingers while sitting on her bed like a brat—

suddenly, she jerks awake with a sharp inhale, eyes wide, hoodie tangled around her arms, face flushed, sheets kicked off the bed.

her room’s still dark, lit only by the faint glow of her lava lamp and the blinking red light of her PS3. her sketchbook’s open next to her—flipped to a half-finished drawing of you sitting on her lap with your thong around one ankle.

her hand’s still in her boxers.

and yeah… they’re soaked.

disgusting. tragic. predictable.

ellie groans. drags her forearm over her face like it’ll wipe the sin away. mutters to herself.

“f*ck”

her voice cracks. she rolls onto her back, staring at the popcorn textured ceiling. her stomach flips. her hips twitch.

and suddenly she’s grinding her hand into her boxers again—again—because the image won’t leave her brain.

your face when you bit your lip.

your whisper in her ear.

your p*ssy squeezing her fingers like it needed her.

it’s too bad this is one of them. just another one of her pathetic dreams.

taglist : @deliciouslydeviantsatan, @valeisaslut, @dollinrehab, @l0veylace, @velvetinkbym, @liztreez, @elliesgffrfr, @sleepingwasp, @brooks-lin, @lovelessswan, @cherrylipsmakerss, @shookkatofthat, @mars4hellokitty, @jaydonisnothere, @ellieslittleslutt, @pussyeatercunt, @livvietalks, @angelsglitch, @robiceps, @lesb4ellie, @sparkle-jump-rope-queen, @sweet-anonyme, @mylettterstoyou, @pinkpigtailedjoy, @pink7princess, @nahcala, @mascspleasegetmepregnant, @sincerlykelsss

she’s not even pretending anymore. just fully drawing you. boobs front and center. pink glitter gel pen already on standby. there’s a little bubble by your nipples that says:

“soft?? or dangerous??”

then she gasps. you turned your head and looked at her. and because the universe hates her, her stupid clammy hand jerks—

sketchbook goes flying.

sprawled open on the tile.

right at your feet.

you look down. brows furrow. blink. then, slowly, you bend over—boobs still out—and pick it up with two manicured fingers like it’s covered in germs.

“…what the actual f*ck is this.”

ellie’s already stammering. “i-i was just—it’s for a project—i’m in—uh—figure drawing—?”

you hold up the page. “is that supposed to be me? are these my tits?”

she’s practically vibrating. “they’re—they’re really distinctive.”

now, the whole locker room is watching. girls whispering. dina’s jaw is dropped. someone’s filming on their pink razr.

you flip through the sketchbook. pages of you in different bras. different outfits. one of you in a bikini you haven’t even worn yet.

you hold one up. “why am i in a schoolgirl skirt with whipped cream on my chest?”

ellie squeaks. “i—it’s symbolic?”

you raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “symbolic of what? your weird little loser nut fantasy?”

she shrinks.

“geez,” you mutter. “you’re so pathetic.”

that made ellie wet as if she wasn’t already. she opens her mouth. closes it. opens it again. “i think I’m in love with you,” she says.

you burst out laughing. “no sh*t, perv.”

ellie freezes. she looks like you just stabbed her in the chest with a glittery gel pen.

“wait—hold on—please,” she says, voice going higher than her GPA’s ever been. “you can’t—you can’t keep that.”

you arch a brow, already flipping to the next page. “i absolutely can. possession is, like, nine-tenths of the law. ever heard of it?”

ellie lunges forward instinctively—then thinks better of it. hands up, like she’s in a hostage negotiation. “okay. okay. let’s talk. we can talk. that sketchbook—it’s not safe for the public. you haven’t even seen the worst pages.”

you pause, intrigued. “oh? there’s worse?”

she twitches. visibly. “page sixteen is a crime. i drew that at 3AM while watching wild things and—i wasn’t in my right mind. please.”

you start turning the page. she yelps.

“i’ll pay you!” you glance up. “with what? your lunch tokens?”

“i’ll sell my PS3. i’ll—i’ll do your homework—“ you hold up a page. “is this me… as a sexy vampire?”

ellie visibly short-circuits. “okay, that one was experimental.”

you smirk. “you gave me fangs.”

“it was a metaphor!”

“for what?!”

she just breathes. hard. ragged. “desire?”

you’re wheezing now, flipping faster. “why am I in a maid outfit on this page?”

she slaps her forehead. “that one’s not done! you’re supposed to be stepping on me!”

you look up, stunned.

“i was in a weird place, okay?!”

you cackle, stepping back as she reaches forward again. “if you touch me, i will literally call coach vera and tell her you’re having a pervert episode.”

she groans, dropping her face into her hands. “i was gonna burn it. i swear. i had a lighter and everything and then i remembered i have asthma and the fumes might kill me—”

you flip another page. pause. “is that… my bra on your head?”

she’s now just crouching behind a bench like a feral animal. “i was doing character study.”

you tuck the sketchbook under your arm and fix her with a smile that’s all teeth. “i’m keeping this.”

ellie just whimpers.

you lean in, giggle mockingly, casually evil. “i’m putting sticky notes on the ones i like best.”

she makes a strangled noise. and not in the usual creepy, horny way—this one’s real. “page seventeen has smudges—don’t judge me by that one!”

her shoulders slump. glasses fogged beyond saving. she’s blinking a lot, like she’s trying not to cry. it’s giving tragic victorian orphan. if victorian orphans wore spider-man boxers and thought about your boobs 24/7.

you pause.

“huh.”

it’s not like you feel bad, exactly. but it’s… visible. pathetic, even for her. she’s gone quiet. staring at the floor like the sketchbook was her only shot at happiness and now you’re gonna frame it above your bed like a serial killer trophy.

you sigh. loudly. dramatically. like it pains you to be merciful.

“my goodness, fine.”

you shove the sketchbook toward her chest. “take your little porn diary, freak.”

ellie grabs it like it’s a newborn baby. cradles it. whispers, “thank you” like you just pulled her out of a burning building.

“i don’t want your loser fantasies anyway,” you mutter, tossing your hair, adjusting your bra strap. “half of them didn’t even make sense. why was i riding you with a neon penis in thigh-highs?”

ellie doesn’t answer. she’s too busy clutching the book to her chest like it’s her oxygen supply.

you roll your eyes. “ugh. you’re welcome or whatever.”

she looks up at you, eyes glassy behind her crooked frames.

“…you have a really beautiful soul,” she says.

you just pat her head like a dog. “clean your glasses, williams. you’re fogging up again.”

and with that you flip your hair over your shoulder and start walking away back to your locker, muttering just loud enough for her to hear:

“sick in the head. go draw a tree or something, loser. get a grip.”

just like that, you’re gone—lip gloss shining, the kind of exit that belongs in a teen movie finale. girls part like the red sea. you don’t even look back.

ellie just stands there. silent. cradling her returned sketchbook like it’s the ark of the covenant. knees weak. boxers sticking.

she flips open to page sixteen. stares at the half-finished drawing of you in a silk robe that’s barely on, licking frosting off your finger in a kitchen that says “boobie bakery” on a pink neon sign in the back. you’re surrounded by cupcakes. in the bottom corner, ellie had scribbled in shaky handwriting:

“i’d let her eat me like dessert. respectfully. or not.”

her hand trembles. she closes the sketchbook gently. holds it to her chest. eyes wide. flushed.

you’d seen it. maybe not that one, but enough. enough to know.

and you still gave it back. called her sick in the head, sure. but didn’t kill her. ellie sinks to the bench.

her chest is tight.

her glasses are fogging again.

she’s pretty sure her boxers are ruined forever.

she whispers, “she noticed me…”

then slowly slumps against the locker, eyes wide, cheeks pink, heart doing backflips.

she’s never been more down bad in her life.

and tragically? she’s only gonna get worse.

• she’s, OF COURSE, obsessed with dinosaurs. she’ll say corny pick up lines like “i think if i was a dinosaur, i’d be a simp-o-saurus. because… y’know… for you. i’m simpin’ real hard.” and then she’d probably smack herself in the head after like “what the f*ck was i thinking…”.

• even though she’s HEAVILY bullied (specifically for being a lesbian who’s obsessed with you) shes blessed enough to constantly third wheel with dina and jesse.

• quite literally owns a rubber “i heart boobies” bracelet that she insists is for breast cancer awareness, but really she just thinks boobs are awesome and it’s the only time she’s allowed to say it out loud.

• she’s knows how to skate and does it quite frequently as a source of transportation (until joel gives her his rusted up, old, monster truck that ellie isn’t allowed to get till she passes spanish).

• death note is her favorite manga. she bought the first volume from a crusty used bookstore with joel, and it unlocked something feral inside her. the intensity? the drama? the moral conflict? she ate it up. once accidentally moaned when reading a panel of misa sitting on light’s lap. would never admit that.

• she owns a fake death note she made and writes adrian’s name in it “adrian luis davis – punched in the nuts by a ghost and then falls in a porta-potty in front of the whole school. dies of embarrassment.” then she drew a tiny doodle of him slipping on a banana peel. and if another boy makes you laugh? she flips open her ‘death note’, glares over her glasses, and mutters “he’s done for.”.

• she’d be a marching band lesbian idc, she’d play percussion and have the most wrinkled up band uniform ever. and she literally never wears the hat right. it’s always tilted or falling off her head. one time it flew off during a performance and she had to kick it off the field. she was mad until she looked over and saw you laughing at her in the stands.

• still plays the guitar, (she does in every universe), and she practices every single day. after school, while watching invader zim. she zones out completely when she’s playing. it’s the only time her brain shuts up—unless she’s thinking about your boobs. then it’s just chaos. one night she was home alone and played “the only exception” by paramore after smoking weed and cried because it reminded her of you.

• she didn’t tell anyone. just laid on the floor of her living room like a snow angel in her spider-man boxers whimpering.

• she owns a jennifer’s body DVD and keeps it hidden under her bed. watches it on mute when joel isn’t home. she has the kiss scene with needy memorized (she sometimes even rewatches it and imagines it as u and her).

• she owns a chunky PS3 and plays GTA IV when she’s had a bad day, or is just like super angry as her own therapy. she’ll storm into her room, throw her backpack down, and boots up her fat, fingerprint-covered PS3. the fan’s loud, the controller’s kinda sticky from soda, and the GTA IV disc is always already in. she plays like a menace—steals a car, blasts the liberty rock radio station, and causes chaos in liberty city.

• but if she’s super mad?! like adrian calling her out in front of the whole class once again?! his arms around your waist while you just sit there?! she types cheat codes into her cracked notebook and gives niko bellic rocket launchers and infinite health. she’s full on blowing up traffic jams, launching grenades into alleyways, and driving into the water just for the hell of it.

• when joel checks on her like, “you alright, kiddo?” she just grunts “yeah,” while casually tossing molotovs at cop cars with dead eyes. but she plays minecraft when she’s just chilling. she builds the ugliest dirt houses with torches everywhere and lives like a little swamp gremlin. has one big chest labeled “STUFF” and refuses to organize it. she wears full iron armor and still falls in lava. blames lag.

• OBSESSED WITH SPIDER-MAN. she literally has spider-man bedsheets and posters in her room; one above her bed, one crooked on the celling holding on by a thread (when her fan is on too long it almost blows off), and one behind her door.

• when she writes about you in her journal she puts “my MJ <3”. she even draws it. little comic panels where she’s spidey saving MJ (you) from some made-up villain that originates from adrian. ellie gives herself abs and a six-pack. no shame.

• she also owns a knock off spider-man costume. it’s from walmart and a little too tight, with faded colors and one busted web-shooter strap. she wears it with her dirty converse and grey sweatpants and thinks she’s the coolest thing ever. wears it to the store when joel isn’t paying attention. she once got it stuck in the dryer and cried.

• only wears boxers. various different pairs that r always peaking out of her sweatpants, cargos, or jeans. her favorite pair? her prized possession? a pair of faded-ass spider-man boxers. they’re red and blue with tiny spidey logos all over. she’s had them since middle school and refuses to let them go—even though they’re worn thin, have a little hole on the thigh, and the elastic’s basically screaming for mercy.

• she calls them her “lucky boxers” and lowkey wears them on days she knows she might see you. she also owns black boxers with little green dinosaurs on them and classic plaid ones that r oversized and practically fall off her hips. the waistband’s always showing. always. at this point, it’s part of the fit. she doesn’t even care if they get bunched under her jeans—just tugs at them in the hallway like “gotta air it out.”

• if she’s nervous around you, she adjusts her boxers way too much and acts like it’s not because she’s turned on.

• and for some reason, this loser is like freakishly good at soccer? beastly good. jaw-dropping good. weirdly good. but then again it’s probably because she’s a lesbian. she’s fast, aggressive, strategic—she plays forward like she isn’t afraid to slide tackle some 6’0 dude to the ground. she gets called for fouls all the time because she plays like she’s ready to fight. her coach yells at her all the time; “williams! dial it down!”, “williams, it’s not that deep—GET OFF HER!”.

• she wears the same cleats from middle school. they’re black, duct-taped, and smell like her garage. her shin guards are always crooked, and her socks never match.

• she once tried to hit you up by calling you mamacita with the worst accent you’ve ever heard. thought it was smooth. just for you to hit her with the dirtiest look ever. let’s just say she never said that out loud again.

• her all time favorite soda is dr pepper. she drinks it a little too much… her bedroom is a crime scene of empty cans. they’re stacked into little pyramids on her windowsill, crammed into her backpack, one might even be under her pillow. joel once tripped over a can pyramid and she screamed like he destroyed a sacred monument. BUT she swears it “makes her smarter.” she’ll sip it during math tests like it’s brain juice. “it’s got 23 flavors, joel. i’m running on 23 IQ boosts right now.”.

• literally owns a faded, crusty dr pepper graphic tee. it’s oversized and has holes in the collar, but she thinks it’s high fashion. it was $3 at goodwill and she treats it like a designer item. if she’s wearing it under her flannel, it’s a special day. she also 100% has a dr pepper can tab on a necklace chain. she popped it off her “lucky can” and wears it under her shirt. when you find it one day and asks about it, ellie stutters, “it’s—it’s like, uh, for good luck. and stuff…”

• dina notices ellie in class going through her sketchbook, finds one page where your name is written next to a sketch of you in a princess outfit. next to it? ellie’s self-insert knight version—sword drawn, hearts floating around them. dina looks up slowly and goes, “ellie… have you spoken to her yet?”

• “she said ‘thanks’ when I let her borrow a pencil. we’re basically married.”

— NSFW

• she gets turned on by the stupidest things about you. the way you chew gum, the way you fix your hair, the sound of your laugh, the way you tie your shoes, the way you stretch in class and your shirt rides up a little. she’ll cross her legs in AP biology like “be cool. don’t squirm. don’t look at her boobs again.” just to take another quick glance down.

• ellie found out what a strap was from the L word. she saw shane pull it out of a drawer once and nearly passed out. didn’t even know what it was called at first—just googled “lesbian harness thing from l word” on ask jeeves. then, when scrolling online she saw this neon green strap-on with a ugly, cheap, fake leather, hideous colored harness—and for some reason, she bought it. i mean the harness was only $29.99, dildo $14.99 and with a shipping of $8 dollars, it’s not like she could afford those $90 ones. now it’s growing dust under her bed.

• her cute, hideous glasses always slide off her nose when she catches you near her in a mini skirt (or she pushes them up to get a better look at my tits) and because of this, she can quite literally draw your tits from pure memory. no reference. no glances. just pure gay brain storage. she knows the exact curve, how they rest when you’re sitting vs standing, how they look in that one white top with the scoop neckline that makes her borderline pass out.

• but even though she knows them like the back of her hand, she still sneaks glances when she thinks you’re not looking. sometimes you’re bent over the locker room bathroom mirror, adjusting your necklace or putting on lip gloss, and she’s across the room—pretending to tie her converse back on but she’s staring dead at your tits in the mirror reflection like she’s about to start drooling.

• and she’s memorized every single bra you own. color, fabric, lace pattern, where it cuts on your back, how the straps sit on your shoulders, whether the padding lifts your tits or not. she knows which ones you wear when you want to feel cute and which ones are for laundry day.

• when she’s high? forget about it. she starts rambling about the “artistic gravity” of your tits, how the curve reminds her of renaissance sculptures, and how she wants to sculpt them from memory using clay she found behind the garage. dina and jesse once walked in on this monologue and left in silence.

• she doesn’t even smoke that often—maybe once every couple weeks if someone else has it. but every time she does? she turns into a flushed, squirmy, glassy-eyed mess who gets insanely horny within ten minutes. like clockwork. doesn’t matter if it’s a chill high or a head high—ellie’s already halfway down bad the moment it hits her bloodstream.

• one time she smoked weed in dina’s garage with her and jesse. the three of them snuck out to her garage—lights off, old couch, lava lamp glowing. they pass it around like total amateurs, coughing and giggling and pretending to be cool. ten minutes in, ellie is absolutely done for.

• her knees are pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves over her hands, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed bright pink. she’s quiet, too quiet, until dina looks over and goes: “ellie… you good?” and ellie just mumbles, “mhm… i’m chillin’…” while clearly not chillin’.

• she’s thinking about you in a miniskirt. she’s thinking about your glossed-up lips. she’s thinking about your thighs on either side of her head. jesse’s rambling about alien conspiracies meanwhile ellie’s gripping the edge of the blanket, vibrating with how badly she needs to excuse herself. she finally blurts out “i’m gonna go… uh… bathroom. real quick.”

• she bolts toward the house, slamming the bathroom door shut. she barely locks it before her hand’s down her boxers—moaning softly into her arm, her mind spiraling with nothing but you. how pretty you are, how good you smell, how soft your thighs would feel wrapped around her flushed face.

• and her sketchbook is a problem. deep in her sketchbook, the parts she refuses to let anyone else see, are filthy. you sitting on her face, moaning. you spread open with your fingers, juice dripping down your thighs, her name scratched onto your skin. you with hickeys on your chest, teary eyes, flushed cheeks, and the exact position your mouth makes when you’re cumming.

• she’s drawn close-ups of your tits in her sketchbook more times than she can count. like full-studies. the shading, the softness, how the nipples perk when you’re cold. she knows which way they tilt when you’re laying on your side. she draws them squished under her hands. she draws them from memory and gets mad when it’s not perfect.

• and some of her sketches are drawn from scenarios she wishes happened. you sitting in her lap in just your mini skirt with your hand around her neck, you pulling her by the collar into bed with a kiss, you in the school bathroom kissing her against a stall door.

• in which ellie draws herself completely cornered against the stall door. her cheeks are flushed bright red, glasses fogged up, and her lips are shiny from your lip gloss—because you kissed it off her. in the corner of the page, ellie scribbled: “she wore juicy perfume. i could smell it all over me after.”

• remember ellie’s medieval fantasies? well let’s just say they’re not all innocent… a specific one is where she drew you pressed to the castle wall, dress lifted, bent over. ellie’s behind you, armor still on, her gauntlet clamped around your mouth while she takes you with a thick medieval strap—drawn with detailed curve and shimmer of neon green (yes, she draws the neon green strap even in fantasy).

you in a ballgown, tits perky and glowing, eyes soft, tied to a tower.

ellie was the knight, naturally. messy armor, converse still drawn on, sword raised. saving you from sir adrian the d*ckhead.

“ellie,” dina said softly, sipping her chocolate milk like it was wine, “please tell me that’s not her again.” jesse leaned over and glanced down. “is… is that her boobs again?”

“she drew the lace detail,” dina whispered, slightly horrified. “ellie.”

ellie’s ears turned red. “i—i’m just… practicing anatomy.”

“that’s the fifteenth ‘anatomy’ sketch this week,” jesse muttered. “you’re not fooling anyone.”

“she’s wearing that bra today,” ellie said under her breath, dreamily. “the pink one. the push-up. victoria’s secret. i know the straps.”

dina choked. “you memorized her bras?!”

“i don’t need to look. i see them when i close my eyes,” ellie whispered, then slowly blinked, biting her lip. “f*ck, i’m gonna nut right here.”

jesse looked away. “this is concerning.”. dina leaned in, serious now. “ellie. she is never gonna want you. babe… she’s dating adrian. she told you to stop calling her mamacita.”

“she doesn’t hate me,” ellie muttered, defensive. “she just doesn’t know me yet.”

“you said she told you to ‘stop breathing near her,’” jesse pointed out.

ellie went quiet. still staring. you were giggling at something your boyfriend said. your gloss was shining. your boobs were… goodness. ellie had to adjust her hoodie.

and then—she saw it.

adrian… was looking at another girl’s ass. right in front of you.

and not even subtly. full turn. smirk. a wink.

you didn’t see it. but ellie did.

she felt something in her chest snap.

“…f*ck it,” ellie said suddenly, slamming her sketchbook shut. “i can’t.”

dina blinked. “ellie—what are you doing?”

“she’s not staying with that meathead. not while i’m here. i swear to God.”

jesse watched her stand. “bro. please don’t.”

ellie was already halfway to your table, glasses sliding, spider-man boxers probably damp, confidence nonexistent—but the delusion?

unbreakable.

you looked up just as she approached.

she stopped right at your table. her voice cracked a little. “h- hey… can I talk to you?”

you looked up slowly, straw still between your glossed lips, sipping your strawberry milk just like the princess you are in her sketches. your lashes fluttered, eyes big and bored.

“…you wanna talk to me?” you said, raising a brow. “about what?”

ellie’s heart thudded so hard she swore everyone could hear it. her hands were jammed in the front pocket of her hoodie, sketchbook awkwardly stuffed in the back of her jeans, peeking out like a secret.

“i- uh—” she cleared her throat. “i just— i had something to say.”

adrian, your muscle-brained boyfriend, didn’t even wait. he leaned forward, smirking with some BBQ sauce on his thumb. “yo, is this the girl who wrote you that weird poem in homeroom?”

you blinked. “what poem?”

ellie turned the color of a stop sign. “i didn’t— that wasn’t—it wasn’t weird—”

“she’s the band girl, right?” adrian laughed. “what was it again—something about your ’glossed lips guiding her sword’?”

“it was a metaphor!” ellie snapped, voice cracking again.

you looked her up and down. glasses slipping. hoodie wrinkled. fingers twitching. you caught the sketchbook spine sticking out her back pocket, and your brain flickered—was that glittery gel pen on the edge?

adrian scoffed. “nah, baby, don’t waste your time. this girl’s clearly obsessed.”

“i’m not obsessed,” ellie mumbled. “i just… admire her. from afar. and sometimes from slightly less afar. but not in a creepy way.”

you blinked slowly. “slightly less afar?”

ellie swallowed hard. she could barely look at you. your push-up bra was peeking out beneath your VS pink zip up, your boobs right there and glowing under the fluorescent cafeteria light like the holy grail.

“i just think you’re, like… really smart,” ellie blurted.

you squinted. “smart?”

“yeah,” she nodded fast, flustered. “like, not just hot. you’re smart-hot. your notes in AP Bio are color-coded and your handwriting’s, like, freakishly neat. i saw it once and cried a little.”

adrian burst out laughing. “yo, this b*tch is wild.”

you ignored him. still staring at ellie. “you… cried?”

ellie pushed her glasses up. “i also drew you in medieval armor once. you were holding a staff made of lip gloss and the souls of men who hurt you. your bra was historically inaccurate but, like, it made sense narratively.”

adrian stood up now. “alright, you’re done—”

“no,” you said suddenly, sharp. “she’s not.”

adrian turned, stunned. you looked back at ellie, tilting your head.

“what was i holding again?” you asked.

ellie froze. “uh. a staff. made of—of fenty gloss and vengeance.”

you smiled. real smile. not sarcastic, not mocking. you leaned in just a little, lashes fluttering.

“and what were you wearing?”

ellie nearly passed out. “…spidey armor. i think. it had boob padding for—well. i didn’t want to be historically inaccurate either.”

you giggled. adorable, deadly. the sound of lesbo nerd death.

ellie stood frozen. your eyes sparkled. you didn’t say anything else—you just slowly turned back to your fries like it was nothing. ellie didn’t know if she’d just won or if you were about to file a restraining order.

dina and jesse were in the back mouthing WHAT THE F*CK.