a.

Standing in the kitchenette makes him feel.. some vicious breed of awkward. There isn’t a strong reason to be. He’s alone, nobody bugging him and nobody watching. But even having his socks on the same tile, the specifics come back to him and he feels god awful all over again. He was never great at forgetting. Especially nothing pertaining to you.

That thought brings fresh disgust to the surface of his skin, and Frank shoves it back down with a rough drag of his hand down his face. Not the image of you, per se, though your expression hangs perpetually over him like a rosary over a cot. The question of why he couldn’t just leave you in peace.

He guesses that he’ll never come to an answer if he keeps ignoring it like he is. He only has a vague interest in the colors moving across his TV screen, as he shifts for the first time in about half an hour to look down from his ceiling. It’s beat up, some garage sale junk made in 2013. Cable wasn’t great. But he had no idea how to get anything else on there, and Curt could never figure it out either.

So, Frank Castle, ex-marine, Kandahar-vet, partly-retired-vigilante, is reduced to watching the food network on a Friday night. And he hates to admit that it’s pretty entertaining.

He’s deep in a feature about ratatouille when the shoddy intercom by the door buzzes. And in an instant, Frank is transformed— from a man truly showing his age, considering whether the recipe on TV is worth scratching down on a notepad he keeps on the coffee table— to a man who has earned his paranoia from a laundry list of shameful deeds.

Before he knows he is doing it, he’s checking off security measures. Windows, locked. The door is locked too, twice over. Alarms are set. Or did he forget? Maybe he should’ve checked another time, before his particularly rough shift at the job site caught up to him like it now had. Frank isn’t a jittery man; the only clear difference in his gait as he traipses to the buzzer is the new hardness of his shoulders, and the movement of his eyes landing on the kitchen cabinet he designated for his SIG Sauer.

He presses the calloused tip of an index onto the button. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to; a woman’s voice bursts over the intercom system, static-fuzzed. “—llo? Helloo! You up there? Frrr-aaa-nnnk.”

Frank’s shoulders fall, a weighted breath collapsing from his nostrils. Christ. It sounded like you had been talking to the intercom box long before the static emanated from the speaker, like he had caught onto the tail end of your ramble. “Yeah.” He says, too quickly. “Yeah, I’m here. What’d’you need? You okay?”

He hates the relief that floods his system. Even worse is the readiness he speaks with; as though he had been waiting for you to ask anything of him. But, he doesn’t think of this instantly. At the moment, he is just a man in pajama pants, relieved that his neighbor is willing to speak to him at all, brushing his knuckles across his bearded jaw. Your reply dampens the relief. “I think I forgot my keys, can you, like, let me up? I reeeeally would really appreciate it, y’know. It’s cold. Pretty cold for spring.”

You don’t sound distressed, per se. More talkative than normal if that was possible, a certain drag hanging the syllables of your words. Drunk. Very, drunk. “M’ comin’ down. Stay put.”

He can’t let himself just buzz you in, let you hike up all those stairs to your floor. The decision doesn’t take much thinking. Any thinking, really. “Oh, thaaankk you, Frank! So, so much!”

He throws on the first shirt he can find (which happens to be a navy graphic-token from boot camp, more than well-worn) and is at the ground level within minutes. Frank finds you, leaning against the brick wall beside the outdoor intercom, looking out across the street as cars pass. Your face is turned away, but you’re easy for him to make out. It’s well past 11 PM, the night saturated with lamplight, red brake lights and neon signs suffusing color into the breeze. It’s only as he opens the lobby door that your attention turns to him, and he truly sees you.

The fluorescent light shining down from the concrete awning washes over your features in a way that would be unflattering for any other woman. But you aren’t any other woman, he knows. What might’ve been shimmer on your eyelids a few hours ago is now smudged around your eyes. Your hair looked a bit like it had been in an updo, and ripped free at a whim. He doesn’t smile, but some kind of lightness fills his chest.

“Awh, Frank.” You say, and he sighs through his nostrils, dips his chin imperceptibly. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t know about that.” He holds the door open as you walk— only stumbling once— into the lobby. It takes discipline not to watch you walk, not to look at the dress you wear; backless, black, short. He keeps his eyes up.

Elevators finally fixed, and so he bumps a knuckle into the button and watches the way you lean against the metal door jamb like your legs are decoration. “.. Had a good night?” Frank brings himself to ask.

The doors slide open, and he decides that a strong hand on your shoulder is a good fall-deterrent. “Oh, yeah. So fun. So, so.. uh, no. Actually. Not that fun.” Your line of reasoning crumbles before it was laid down. “Really cheap liquor. And I, like, couldn’t find any of my friends towards the end, so I just left, y’know?”

“Left?” The elevator hauls upward.

“It’s like, four blocks away.”

Something in Frank’s stomach churns, like a hard sock to the gut. He’s fairly good at concealing the feeling through a rough grunt, “You walked here?”

“Yeah!” The lightness of your reply elicits a half-groan, half-sigh. His roughened fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose, then to drag down his face, to his beard.

He wants to be angry with you; he can’t be. “Christ.” When he opens his eyes, you’re watching him with this sweet little furrow to your brow. Shaking his head and averting his look to the upward tick of floor levels, he grumbles, “Don’t do that again. You need t’get home, y’call me. From anywhere.”

The elevator dings, and the doors peel open. You nod slowly, eyes squinting as if you were thinking hard. “.. Thanks, Frank,” you murmur after a moment. He shrugs. It’s nothing. When will you get that it’s nothing, not since it’s you?

The quiet hangs as you step into the hall, one that’s comfortable considering the smell of alcohol lingering on you and the duty of caretaking wafting off Frank. You go the wrong way, first, he uses a guiding hand on your back to turn you. You laugh. He shakes his head.

Upon reaching his door, Frank watches you rifle through a purse that couldn’t possibly fit more than your phone and theoretically, keys. But, what did he know. He lets you dig around for a bit, amused, until you make a frustrated sound.

He interjects, “You lost your keys.” Saying it himself makes him nervous all over again. The kind of nervous that Frank tends to encounter often; not effectively worried, or paralyzed, but the kind that shakes him into running down a bullet pointed list. He guesses that it’s the marines that turned him into a man that converts threat into fuel. Already, he knows that he’ll have to check that club for your keys, change your locks, get you a new one. He grabs his own keys from a pocket. “.. This isn’t your door, anyway.”

“Oh, right. Fuck.” A smile crosses his features at your expression, he shakes his head. As if you had a thing to worry about.

With a jut of Frank’s chin— “C’mon.”

—

By the time he’s done setting the extra locks back into place, you’ve kicked off your heels haphazardly. Looking over his shoulder, he watches you stumble-to and slump-down-on the couch less like you were attempting to sit and more like your feet gave out.

Springing into action, Frank finds it easier to focus on the tangible task at hand than the prospect of you, drunk on his couch. He grabs a bottle of cold water, not without checking your state over his shoulder.

You aren’t black out drunk. He shouldn’t be so focused on propping you up. He shouldn’t think he’s propping you up, in any capacity. You’re not his to take care of.

The reminder is a whip to beat back the part of him that relishes in your smile, when he hands you the bottle and says with the intention of a command but the tone of a too-gentle murmur, “Drink.”

A mild sip delves into a chug. Haphazardly, you lean over to the coffee table and set down what two or three ounces is left of the bottle. Frank raises his brows at you. Okay? You nod back. Okay.

He watches you lay back and sort of sprawl over the couch, arms wayward. Your legs leave just enough room for Frank to sit on the edge of the couch. Absent-mindedly, he tugs down the bottom hem of your dress for your own sake.

“Your apartment is so bare,” your eyes are moving, tracing the walls. He shrugs. He never expected this place to be permanent. Or, atleast, to last long enough under his name (Pete’s name, he amends) to justify buying more furniture than was necessary. You smile, a little more open, a little more honest than your sober face would break open to reveal. “You need like, a painting.”

“I’m not a painting guy.” Frank squints, averts his eye. He hates how awkward he feels, seeing you again. Some vulnerability settles twixt his third and fourth rib. Some kind of fear, fear of mishandling something delicate that he’d already dropped once, and he didn’t at all expect to be handed glue to mend it. You seem none the wiser.

“There’s too many paintings for you not to like atleast one. Like, atleast a hundred thousand.”

“Yeah?”

“Because, think of it, like, people have been painting since, what, the year 500. So imagine how many there are.”

“You’re right.”

That satisfies you. Atleast, you smile and settle more into the couch cushions. “I’ll get you one for your birthday,” you chirp.

He huffs through the nostrils, lip twisting with humor. “You’re not gettin’ me anything, sweetheart.” He wishes he regretted the pet name. “If I really want a painting I can buy a painting.”

“So you really don’t want a painting?”

“Enough with the damn painting.” Frank grunts. You laugh. Loud, unabashed. Not forced to last longer to make someone feel better about a lame joke. He doesn’t think he’s a funny man, hasn’t been for a few years. He thinks he could be, if he tried.

Maybe he wants to start trying. Or maybe he’s already started, months ago.

You’re smiling at him. And he doesn’t have a clue why, can’t explain the mild upward curl to his own lips. Then you’re reaching out. To him.

“What?” Frank mutters, hating the sweetness to his tone. You’re just smiling. A little lopsidedly, and though the overhead light is off, the dim floor lamp beside the couch illuminates your features in warm yellow. Just enough that he can see the faint smudge of your eyeshadow. And, against his better judgement, he leans to you. Gives up, just in that one foot of space bridged.

It’s close enough for you to curl your fingers into his beard, not tugging, but feeling. The backs of your fingers brushing his jaw. He feels sick. “Did you trim?”

“..What?” Frank repeats. Idiocy keeps his eyes glued to yours, squinted, his voice just above a whisper, and his brow faintly drawn. He can smell your perfume, under the liquor. From here, a little mark that might’ve once been a scabbed scar from youth is visible on your chin.

“You trimmed your beard.” You say it so casually. He trimmed his beard. It’s purely observation. If anything, it’s funny to you. This isn’t difficult for you. The firm gentleness of your fingers is nauseating. Frank closes his eyes.

“Yeah.” A lame response. He barely took half an inch off, just enough to distance himself from a fictional hobo.

Where’s his resolve? He rips his eyes open, and through pure discipline, moves away. Your expression is unchanged as you drop your hand. He can’t explain the craving for distance and closeness, culminating in the same breath, in the same man, and he almost wishes he didn’t let you in, didn’t let you crash onto his couch, didn’t let you remind him.

It was hardly your fault, he reminds himself. You were drunk; he was taking you too serious. You break the silence, as if you are oblivious to the weight pressing on all sides into Frank. “Has anyone told you that you could be a good Hagrid?”

He doesn’t have to think about the chuckle that comes out from his chest. It’s something like relief from the unintentional torture you don’t realize you’re inflicting. “Christ, no. I, uh, haven’t gotten that one yet.” It feels good to smile with teeth bared, as he is now. Unplaceably good. “That’s, what, Lord of the Rings?”

“What? What’s wrong with you?” You laugh, again, features breaking into mirth. It’s easy for you, he knows. “It’s Harry Potter.”

Frank bows his head, grinning still like a boy. “Uh. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.” His eyes flick up to you, through his lashes. “Y’know, my boy loved those movies.”

“Yeah?” You rub a knuckle into your eye, further smudging your makeup.

Frank screws his face up, lifting his shoulders and nodding in emphasis. “Oh yeah. Got him the box set one year for his birthday. Back when we had the DVD player.” He’s not sure when the words to describe his son came so easily to him. Maybe he just needs him to be known to you. Maybe he just needs to say the memory aloud, for his own sanity.

You don’t seem perturbed by it. He tries not to examine the smile playing on your features too closely. You mumble under your breath, brows raising, “Harry Potter.” Conclusive.

A quiet passes. He, with a grunt, rises to his feet. As if pulled by string you lift your head up, beginning to push yourself onto your shoulders. “Are you—“ you begin, but he waves his hand. The worry on your face is not too sweet for him to immediately want to shoo away.

“Not leavin’.” A soft sound of recognition leaves your lips. Frank can feel your eyes burn into him as he moves to the kitchenette. It wasn’t like he kept makeup remover around. Maybe he should start— just in case. He finds a chance to rebuild some resolve, in the simple routine; in wetting a clean wash rag from the kitchen cabinet, wringing out the warm water over the sink.

“I haven’t seen you in forever. Soo long.” He can hear rustling over his shoulder. A quick glance finds you kicking a old throw pillow at your feet onto the floor; stretching your legs out fully. Getting comfortable, he guesses. “Where’ve you been, Frank?”

He chuckles, a brief, easy sound. “Here.” He turns, bearing the wet rag in one hand. His shoulders raise to his ears, curling his lip with humor. “It’s been, what, a week?”

“A week?” You repeat. He watches you comb your tresses with painted fingernails, a faint grimace playing at your lips. An affirmative grunt from him, followed by his weight dipping the couch cushion beside your leg. You sit up, hands in your lap. “So, so weird.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, only since he doesn’t think he should. Doesn’t trust himself to say anything right. He offers the rag to you, with lips pressed and eyes squinting.

“What’s that for?” You sit up.

He waves the rag in a small circle, the movement more of a result from the shrug of his shoulder than anything. He grumbles, near awkward, “.. Y’know. Your makeup.”

Understanding washes over your face in nearly the same moment as giggles open it up. Frank doesn’t mean to stare. Truly, doesn’t. But does it count, when your own eyes screw shut with laughter for the sake of nothing but laughter? Can’t he steep his mind in the warm water of your presence a little, as long as you never notice, and never cast him away?

“Okay. Okay, alright.” Frank mutters, half to himself. He lets exasperation color his tone, but in truth he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind leaning forward, raising the rag to your face all too gently. Your cheek pulls up in a smile under his hand, sputters of giggles leaving you. “That hurt at all?”

You hum, “No.” Carefully, he brings the cloth up to the skin under your eye, lifting some smudged shadow. “Thank you. So much.”

Frank huffs through the nostrils, dabbing too gently at your eyelid to be at all efficient in removing the makeup. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s really not nothing.”

Onto the other eye, with the same care. Some part of him is anxious to break you. He tries, really does try, to find some good way to wave you off. “come on. Don’t be like that.” You peek open the clean eye at him. He huffs again, and can’t resist the upward tick of his lips. “You know I’m here.”

Here. Where was here, exactly?

He doesn’t finish the thought. Does what is right by you, and nothing more.

Frank’s focus is concentrated on the rag and the thin skin of your eyelid, and it isn’t until he’s satisfied with the lack of shadow that he moves away, tosses the rag over the back of the couch. Isn’t until then, either, that he realizes how much silence has passed, and that your expression has turned some kind of melancholy.

“I’m sorry we haven’t talked.”

So am I.

Frank stays silent. You go on.

“And i’m more sorry about the other night. Really.”

Frank doesn’t mean to fail at holding your eye. He means, really, to take this conversation like a man. But his churning stomach betrays him, and his eye dart between the notepad on coffee table, the barren wall, you. You, frowning with guilt. Why should you be guilty? He moves to amend it, almost on instinct.

“Don’t say sorry.” He mutters, quieter than he means to. He pats a rough palm against your bare shin, the curve of your warm calf on his fingers. Despite his better judgement.

The rise of your protest is nearly tangible, alcohol having washed away any trace of a poker face. “Seriously, sweetheart.” There it is again. He squints briefly as if flinching from the craving thing inside of him.

“But I was wrong. So, so wrong.” Frank shakes his head at you. He leans over, grabbing the near empty water bottle, handing it to you with what he hopes is a firm, expectant expression.

“You gotta sober up.” He grunts. It’s an easy way out from under the wing of your pity. He can’t stand it— can’t stand the look on your face, like you owe him a fucking thing. Especially not some lame words for his sake. You take the water, delicately.

“I wish I didn’t.”

“.. Didn’t, what?”

“Didn’t leave, that night.”

He reminds himself to close his parted lips, to squeeze the hell out of his jaw, teeth-crushingly tight, in order to keep from saying anything from the chest. You frown at him, quiet, stone still until your head lolls to the side drowsily, ear finding the top of the couch back.

Frank turns his cheek with a weighty sigh through the nose. Hands splayed atop his thighs, and in a nervous tick, he curls his lip, looking to the far wall like it might give him a line. What else can he do? Warily, he glances at you in his peripheral. Sipping the water bottle until it's only hollow plastic. Like you’ve already forgotten this conversation, who last spoke, and said what.

There’s nothing to do. That’s the only right answer. Leave you be. Don’t search for meaning in words from a drunk woman. Even if that woman is you, and he wants to, worse than he’s wanted to find meaning in anything for fucking years.

“..S’my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed, y’know?” No response. He makes a lame, hesitating noise like his throat is a step ahead of his head, creating sound before his lips form words.

“Maybe you were right. I could’ve, uh, drunk too much.” A lie. He winces as the words pass his lips. “I don’t remember. I don’t know what man roundin’ on fifty gets, fuckin’— wine drunk.” Frank chuckles at himself, then, though it’s more of a grunt laced with weak humor.

Silence.

“..I just don’t you t’.. I don’t know. Think I’m some asshole.” He swipes his thumb against the crooked bridge of his nose, and can’t help the flit of his eyes from wall to wall. Another kind of humorless huff through the nostrils. “Maybe that ship has sailed. I just.. it’s good to have company. Y’know? I don’t want t’be the one that ruins that.”

He lets the quiet breathe a few seconds, until he gives himself the humility to look over his shoulder, see if he’s said something wrong. Instead, Frank hums a short, low note, in something close to amusement.

You’re all but knocked out cold. Maybe that’s for the better. He has a feeling your neck will hurt like hell tomorrow, craned like that. In his mind it’s hardly a decision; he’ll take the couch.

If you’re at all roused by Frank’s arms shifting under your knees and against your back to lift you, then you give him the kindness of not letting him know it.

He’s not a good man, he knows that; but if he’s anything, he’s dutiful. He doesn’t allow himself to appreciate your weight in his arms, as he moves to put his bedroom door open with his broad back; slow enough to not rock you. Neither does he give himself any credit, nor kindness to himself for pulling the comforter over you, closing the blinds so that you can sleep into the daylight.

Frank does, however, allowed himself to linger in the doorway. Callouses on the cool door handle, chest full and heavy with something familiar and suffocating. He does not try to name it. Does not try to recall the lifetime ago when this feeling was constant, surrounding him, woven into the fibers of his muscle and tendon.

He wants to be grateful to have been given another chance to feel it. But Frank is a man who puts a ravine between what is craving and what is deserved. And he does not deserve this.

He pulls the door closed against the jamb with a click.

tag list; @starrvine , @macenotclub , @castawayclub , @thuul-box , @dungeons-bat , @slowbutterflies, @esmereldalopez0, @chompwoman , @marcysbear , @ellabellabunny123, @rapturousfrog , @nonyabusinesswhatmynameis , @lotsa-juicy-shit , @final-sights, @gimmethatfuckinmic , @seenthroughmia , @cj-theyoungling, @escapefromrealitylol , @jeonzll , @mrsdarcyinlovewithbuckybarnes , @scarredtarts , @wstelandbaby, @stars4birdie , @kkovenn , @criesinlies , @ze1na, @groovylandpeanuthorse, @wannabespacesmuggler , @gumdropgirl , @smile-child-13 , @min-chimchim03 , @the-b33skn33s , @natalia42069 , @fromsaltandsea , @plutos-orbit8 , @garotadecanela , @buckybarneswife125 , @wondermelody , @wkhannah , @valeriasmblanco01 , @entoxicant , @blackhawkfanatic , @chanangela , @lilithlusworld , @purplepickle69 , @xmenfan7, @lifesanenigma, @pone21 , @astarlitsoul , @H2Obluedream, @nohamboninggg334 , @ohmygodthebogisback , @smiithys, @bartonsparrow25 , @uselessnewt , @dethspllz , @powellssaturn , @lonelyghost-stuff @rachel121009 , @yl, @pinkgirl006 , @moodyeep, @valhallavalkyrie9 , @beezelblub

It was your second date with Ellie (third, if you counted the night at your apartment - when you eventually got to watch that movie), and you were somehow even more nervous than you had been the first time. 

You had woken up the following morning just before sunrise as she was getting ready to leave. You weren’t sure if she had slept - if she could sleep - but Ellie had kissed the top of your head and disappeared silently through the front door as you were still blinking the dreams from your eyes. The spot in your bed where she had lain, limbs tangled in yours, was still cold to the touch. 

When you checked your phone after work that day, you found that enough money for three months’ rent had been deposited into your bank account. 

In the rush of everything, you had somehow forgotten why you had met Ellie in the first place. Seeking had remained unopened in your phone since your first date, an afterthought that you hadn’t gotten around the remembering. Ellie being a vampire (your brain still hesitated over the word, as though it would sting you) had taken precedent over everything else.

And while you felt a little weird about getting paid for having sex with her, the peace of getting your landlord off your back for a few months made up for it. 

(In the end, that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A rich woman spoiling you in exchange for sex? That was all the agreement called for, right?) 

Even so, you couldn’t stop the excitement blooming, warm and vulnerable, in your chest when she texted you a few days later. 

ellie: i sent you a present. i want you to wear it tomorrow. can i pick you up at 8? 

The present you found sitting outside your apartment door, a long red box with your name on it. You gathered it quickly into your arms, thanking whoever was listening that nobody in your building had stolen it before you’d gotten home. Once safely inside, you kicked off your shoes - your sore feet let out a sigh of relief at the cool linoleum tile - threw your bag onto the couch, and scurried away into your room. You set the box carefully on your bed - handling it as though it were something priceless - and lifted the lid. 

“Shit,” you said aloud into the quiet of your apartment. 

The next night, just as she'd promised, Ellie knocked on your door at 8 o’clock sharp. You were still trying to clip your necklace when you opened the door, your clumsy fingers fumbling the clasp; when you saw Ellie, however, you almost dropped the thing altogether.

Her hair was pulled back away from her face, tied half-up with a ribbon that dangled loosely from the locks, as though she were a heartthrob in a Jane Austen novel. She had emphasized her natural beauty - which you couldn’t tell if she was inhumanly beautiful, like the Cullens, or if that genuinely was just how she looked in life - by lining her eyes with a deep, smoky brown liner, highlighting the different shades of her eyes, the golden hues blending with the green like watercolor. She (thankfully) hadn’t covered her freckles, but had added a touch of blush to her bloodless cheeks, and highlight that made her cheekbones look sharp enough to cut. 

You didn’t realize you were staring until Ellie grinned, pulling at the collar of her shirt - black and short-sleeved, unbuttoned just enough to see the cut of her collarbone and the gentle slope of her chest, and tucked into a pair of deep brown slacks. She finally said, laughing, “Do you want a picture?” 

You blinked, blood pooling in your own cheeks as you held the door open for her, briefly forgetting that you had to verbally invite her inside. When she stepped into your space, you could smell the warm spice of her perfume; that and her proximity made your head spin, and you still had a hard time believing she didn’t have some weird vampire allure drawing you in. You also didn’t think you’d care if she did. 

“Sorry,” you finally said, the apology cushioned by a laugh. Her eyes were so intense on yours that you had to look away. “You're just…. You're really beautiful.” 

When the silence stretched on just long enough to be uncomfortable, you finally looked up, turning back to find Ellie staring at you. The raw, open vulnerability in her eyes made something under your skin flutter, like a pulse you had never been aware of - like some part of your heart was reaching towards her. 

A rich woman spoiling you in exchange for sex. 

Right? 

Ellie stuttered for a moment, and she had never struck you as someone easily at a loss for words, but watching her tongue trip over itself made the soft touch of fondness spread in your chest, warm in your stomach. You were sure that if she could, she would be flushed red - you suddenly wished more than anything that you could see it. 

“Shit, sorry,” she said, scratching the back of her neck and trying to break the tension with a laugh, like taking a butter knife to stone. “It’s just…. I can’t remember the last time someone said that to me.” 

Suddenly, you were more than willing to stay home and spell out every beautiful thing about her. You would trace your finger over the slope of her nose, down to the point of her lips and the jut of her jaw. You'd count the freckles speckled across her cheeks and map out new constellations. You'd press your lips to the sharp cut of her collarbones, run your tongue down the gentle slope of her chest and press the words into the hollow cut of her hips. You'd show her just how beautiful she was, until it was the only word she knew. 

But you couldn't, because feelings like that would violate the unspoken contract you had signed when you first matched with her. Still, as you swallowed around the lump in your throat, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying, “I'll just have to make up for lost time, then.” 

Ellie turned away, but you still caught the flash of the smile she was trying to hide. She stepped around you into your apartment, coughing to fill the silence as you finally shut the door. You watched her carefully, a ball of anxiety bubbling in your chest, afraid you had overstepped some unwritten boundary. You never had been very good at the whole “no strings attached” thing; it just made you feel like a limp marionette. 

But when Ellie turned back to you, she was smiling, and you couldn’t tell if it was a strategically placed mask or if it was real, but the knot in your chest loosened at the sight of it nonetheless. 

“Anyway,” she said, too loud and too big in the awkward space between you, “fuck whatever I’m wearing. Look at you.” 

Taking your hand, Ellie twirled you around slowly, and you could feel her eyes raking over every angle of you. You couldn’t blame her - if you were honest, you had also stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror for an embarrassingly long time, unable to believe the person looking back at you was yourself. And if you were really honest, you had fallen a little bit in love with yourself. 

The dress she had sent you was such a deep red it looked nearly like blood - which you found needlessly amusing, if a little obvious. The silk was so smooth it felt more like water than fabric, gliding over your skin in a way that made just wearing the damn thing feel sensual. It had taken you far too long to figure out how to tie the back by yourself, trying to turn your head like an owl to see the intricate strings in the bathroom mirror (you still weren't sure if you had done it right). The skirt only covered half your thigh, and you had to resist the urge to pull it down further when Ellie's eyes swept over the exposed expanse of your legs. 

“You,” she said, tugging you closer to press a kiss to your lips, “look good enough to eat.” 

You couldn’t help the surprised snort that her words pulled from you, even if a part of you - a small part buried somewhere behind your ribs that prodded you every now and then - trembled at the hunger in her eyes. That small, insignificant part felt like a field mouse before the watchful eyes of an owl. 

But the present part of you just pushed Ellie away, rolling your eyes in mock disgust. “Ha ha, you think you're so funny.” 

Laying her hand over yours against her chest, Ellie opened her mouth in a poor performance of indignance. “Excuse you,” she said, pulling you close even as you pretended to push her away. “I’m hilarious.” 

“Okay, well, can you stop being so hilarious and help me put this on?” you said, holding out the necklace you had been wrestling when she arrived. You were sure that she could feel the hummingbird beat of your heart in your fingers against her chest. That field mouse part of you noted the stillness behind her own chest, silent under your touch. 

Pouting, Ellie took the chain, releasing you so you could turn around. When she wrapped it around your neck, cursing with the clasp, the shock of her cold fingers against your skin made you gasp. She managed to clasp it but didn’t move away; her cold fingers flitted over your pulse, and you suddenly remembered that she could hear it. You couldn't decide if it was hot or endlessly embarrassing that she could hear your desire. 

Ellie's hands traveled south, skirting over your waist before gripping your hips, pulling you close so that your back pressed against the gentle slope of her chest. When she pressed her nose to the spot where your shoulder met your neck, you couldn’t help but tilt your head, granting her access to press her lips to your feverish skin. You shivered when her tongue darted out, tasting where your heart beat the hardest; it jumped as though reaching out for her touch. 

You sighed and Ellie hummed against your neck before releasing you; you stumbled at the sudden loss and heard her stifle a laugh.

”Come on, we’re going to be late,” she said, offering you her arm. When you took it, she pulled you close to press her lips to your ear. “And if I have my hands on you any longer, we’re never going to leave.” 

Ellie refused to tell you where she was taking you, but you were quickly becoming familiar with the playful glint in her eyes. The Royce hummed along the highway, streetlights bouncing off the white leather under your thighs; Ellie had one hand on your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles over your skin. When you looked at her - her profile cast in hazy silhouette, a lazy smile pulling at her lips - you wondered, in 200 years, how many girls had had this exact view.

You wondered what became of them.

As if sensing your gaze, Ellie looked at you from the corner of her eye and smiled, squeezing your thigh. Mistaking your admiration for impatience, she assured you, “We're almost there, darling.” 

Truthfully, when Ellie pulled into the nearly empty parking lot, you almost laughed. When you had pulled on this dress that had wealth stitched into every fiber, climbed into this car that purred with luxury, and taken the hand of this inhumanly beautiful woman, you hadn't expected it would lead to this. 

So it was with tremendous effort that you stifled your surprised laugh when Ellie parked by the entrance of the science museum and killed the engine. When she looked at you, her eyes were so bright it made your chest ache to look at it, and you almost kissed her right there under the glow of the planetarium dome overhead. 

“I rented it out for us,” she said with the same excitement that kids would use to talk about Christmas. “We have it to ourselves for the entire night.” 

You snorted, unable to stop the stupid smile from spreading across your face. “In movies, when someone says they rented out a museum, they mean some grand art museum. The Louvre or something.” Before that wonderful smile could fall from Ellie’s face, you turned to her, your own eyes alight with childish excitement, and said, “This is so much better.”

Ellie didn’t waste any time, jogging around the car to open the door for you and offering you her arm. At the door, you were greeted by a bored-looking college student, purple bags under his eyes and pink, star-shaped pimple patches stuck to his jaw. He muttered a half-hearted greeting, but his face lit up when Ellie handed him cash, obscuring the amount from your curious eyes. 

Inside, the museum had been transformed into a small, luxurious haven. The lights - usually bright, searing fluorescents - had been dimmed to a soft glow; you didn’t know they even had a setting that wasn't headache-inducing. Though you were sure it was against safety protocol, there were candles along the welcome desk, casting Ellie's bright eyes in liquid gold, as though ichor ran through her veins, moving around her silent heart. 

Another worker was waiting at the desk, looking distinctively more chipper than the college student had. She was an older woman - crows feet wrinkled around her eyes when she smiled, her dark hair streaked with grey - and she was holding out two sparkling champagne chutes. The sweet perfume coming from them hung over her like a hazy cloud. 

“Always good to see you, Ellie,” she said, a playful lilt pulling at the vowels. Her eyes sparkled, and you could see her smirk on a far younger face. “It's been a while.” 

Ellie winced, smiling sheepishly as she took the flutes from the woman. She handed you one as she said, “Yeah, sorry, Dina. Time's, uh… gotten away from me.” You could hear the irony in her voice, but there was a genuine apology in her eyes. 

The woman - Dina - put her hands on her hips, glaring at Ellie even as she fought back a smile. She watched Ellie for several long moments, an intensity in her eyes that made you squirm, caught in the crossfire. You were just beginning to feel like you were intruding on something when she finally cleared her throat and looked away. Brushing her hands down over her thighs, she said, “Well, if you ever want to come riding again, you're always welcome. JJ's always asking about you.” She patted Ellie's arm and turned away. “Now you two go have fun.”

Ellie raised her glass in a toast before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you away. She didn't offer any explanation to whatever weird tension had clouded the entrance, so you waited until you were out of earshot before saying, “Okay, what was that about?” 

Ellie winced again, taking a sip of champagne to avoid answering. She didn’t look at you, sounding embarrassed when she said, “Dina and I, uh…. We were a thing, about… thirty years ago?” Your brain short-circuited; while you were waiting for it to reboot, she continued, “It was a few years, but I didn’t want her to know about….” She trailed off, gesturing to herself as though to encompass her entire self. “So, I told her I was moving and fucked off for a few decades. When I came back, she was married with a four year old.” She chuckled, but there was a sorrow in her eyes that made your chest hurt. 

“And she,” you said haltingly, choosing your words carefully, “didn’t recognize you?” 

“She did. But most people don't think that their past flings would look the same thirty years later.” She sighed, releasing your shoulders to rub the back of her head. “Dina thinks I'm her ex's niece with a freaky resemblance.” 

The mention of an aunt drew your mind back to the picture at her house, and the girl smiling next to Ellie. “You did have a sister, didn’t you?” 

Ellie didn't answer for a long time, her eyes distant. When she finally looked at you, she smiled and said, “Come on, I want to see the dinosaurs.” 

You dropped the subject, letting her take your hand and lead you down the hall. The curiosity gnawed at you, impossible to ignore, but you couldn't bring yourself to wipe away the ecstatic smile on her face when you approached the towering T-Rex skeleton. Ellie spread her arms wide, the champagne sloshing in its flute and dripping down her fingers. 

She didn’t seem to care, laughing and saying, “Two hundred years and I still can’t believe these fuckers actually existed.” 

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth and looking around at the empty gallery. Still, you ventured, “Maybe you shouldn’t declare that to the world?” 

But Ellie didn’t seem to hear you. She circled the giant skeleton, as slow and deliberate as a predator, but the threat of it was softened by the child-like glee on her face. You couldn’t help but notice that the corners of her eyes wrinkled when she smilled; it was as though her pleasure were tangible, like you could reach out and touch her skin and feel the warmth of her ecstasy. 

The thought, though a pretty one, made shame bubble in your chest. You clasped your hands around the glass in your hand, taking a sip to keep yourself from reaching across a carefully built barrier into uncharted territory. 

A marionette without her strings.

”When I was alive,” Ellie said softly, appearing at your shoulder and breaking you from your thoughts, “we still thought these were dragons.” 

You hummed and found yourself unconsciously leaning into her touch, feeling her cold hand find your waist and thrilling in the goosebumps that rose over your skin. The buzz in your fingertips had nothing to do with the champagne you’d finished and everything to do with her proximity - as though by simply being near her, lightning ran through your blood. You were heady with it, and found that you couldn’t speak in anything louder than a murmur: “Who’s to say they aren’t?”

Ellie snorted, tugging you closer. “A ton of scientists, for one.”

“Sure,” you said, turning in her grasp so you could meet her eyes. “But when you were-” you hesitated over the word, “-alive, you also had to use candles and gas instead of lightbulbs. You could only communicate by letters, yet now you met me on your phone. Who’s to say what things will look like in 200 more years?” 

And suddenly, it hit you like a kick to your chest, leaving you bruised and winded. In 200 years, you would be gone - long, long gone - and Ellie would still be here. She may find a way to keep her family’s 400 year old home standing. She’d find a new girl to spoil. She would adapt to the new styles the turn of the centuries had to offer, but she would still look the same - still have those bright green eyes, her freckles unmarked by the wrinkles of time. She would look just as beautiful as you saw her, and just as beautiful as she had been in 1816. 

And, more than likely, she would forget about you. 

It took a moment before you realized Ellie was still talking to you, a moment longer before you could hear her past the ringing in your ears. Her brows were furrowed, her lips pinched around concern, so you forced a smile when you said, “What?” 

Ellie laughed softly, the sound nearly nonexistent, and said, “Where’d you go?” 

You shrugged, unwilling to voice the perverse thought for fear of it manifesting itself, transforming into a ball of existential dread in your chest that you couldn’t force out. “Just… lost in thought, I guess.” Before she could respond, you plowed ahead, “They have a planetarium, right?” 

Without waiting for her response, you grabbed Ellie’s hand and pulled her into the next exhibit, and the next, leaving the thought to fossilize beneath the dinosaurs where it couldn’t touch either of you. If you put enough space between you and that penetrating thought, maybe you wouldn’t even see the damning line that your heart so desperately wanted to cross. 

As long as you had lived in this city, you had never before been to the planetarium. You had never had time, and the shows were always during your working hours anyway. Honestly, when you walked into the giant dome, you were incredibly underwhelmed; it was nothing more than a large circular room, a grey dome reaching high above your heads. Chairs were scattered around the edges of the room, and a stack of mats were piled at one end, next to what you assumed was the control desk, which stood empty. 

Your heart sinking, you were just about to turn to leave when Ellie strode over to the desk and picked up a remote. With a click of a button, the room was plunged into total darkness, only the red Exit sign illuminating one corner of the room. 

Your ears were ringing, and you were just about to call out to Ellie, reaching a hand into the darkness in desperation, when you heard another click and then a galaxy burst through the room. 

If you believed more in the supernatural (vampires were already pushing it), you would have thought it was actually magic. The Milky Way stretched over the ceiling, billions of stars blinking like lighthouses in a vast sea. The galaxy painted the space in dazzling shades of blue and purple and red, so many colors bleeding together, a watercolor mosaic before your eyes. And in the center of the universe, stars reflecting in her eyes and a heart-shattering smile on her lips, stood Ellie. 

She had her hands in her pockets, stance relaxed - a performance of nonchalance - but you could hear the tell-tale excitement lacing her words when she said, “It’s prerecorded. I thought it’d be nice if it was just us here.” 

You felt a flush rising to your cheeks and hoped it was drowned out by the supernova above you. Taking two mats, Ellie led you to the center of the room, where the dome and the universe were the highest. You pushed your mats together so that when Ellie laid on her back, you could curl into her side and lay your head on her chest, her arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer. Her chest was a silent echo chamber beneath you. 

“It's crazy how much more of the universe there is since I was alive,” she murmured, her voice a warm vibration in her chest, disturbing the unsettling silence. When you looked up at her, the galaxy was reflected in her eyes, as if she held the universe itself inside. “I remember when they discovered Neptune.” 

You snorted involuntarily. “Are you telling me you're older than fucking Neptune?” 

You squealed when she pinched your shoulder, squirming even as her arm tightened around you, holding you close. “Neptune’s, like, four-billion years old.” 

“Oh,” you said thoughtfully, nodding your head against her. “So you’re pretty close.” 

Ellie shoved you away; you laughed, loud and free, as you rolled over onto your own mat, uncaring of who heard your delight bouncing off the dome. Who could care about something like that when the entire universe was just an arm’s-length away? 

Ellie followed you, rolling on top of you and pressing you into the mat. You squealed again when she dug her fingers into your side, her laughter infectious when she said, “God, you love being an asshole, huh?”

She leaned down to kiss you, swallowing the argument that was poised on your tongue. You giggled into her mouth, her lips tasting like sweet champagne, and reached up to tangle your fingers in her hair. You couldn’t control the urge to hold her closer; it was like a tangible ache in your chest, even as the distant, rational part of your brain told you not to get attached. Surely you were allowed to indulge, right? 

When Ellie gently pressed her tongue between your teeth, you tasted the sharp tang of metal, and that distant, rational part of your brain lit up like a red Danger! sign. When it began to wonder where the taste had come from, you just smothered it and pulled her closer, sighing into her mouth. 

“You’re insufferable,” she murmured against your lips, her hand drifting down your side to grip your hip. The fabric of your dress slid over your skin like water, her fingers cold through the silk.

“You-” You almost choked on your words, stopping yourself just short of saying You love it. You weren’t sure what rules pushed against those unwritten, imaginary boundaries, but love, even if spoken teasingly and sarcastically, felt like too big of a word to fit within the lines. 

Thankfully, you didn’t have to think about it for too long. Ellie’s hands drifted even further south, cold fingers gripping the bare skin of your thigh, pushing your legs apart so she could slot her knee between them. You gasped against her lips when you felt the rough fabric of her slacks press against you, only the thin fabric of your underwear separating her from the warmth that was already pooling between your thighs. 

You pushed at her shoulders, and she pulled back just enough to see you; you couldn’t make out her features, silhouetted against the Milky Way above her. Her breath fanned against your cheeks, and you were only able to say, stupidly, “Ellie, we’re in public.” 

Ellie only hummed, ducking her head to press her lips to your jaw. You felt her fangs against the soft skin of your pulse and your protests died in your throat. 

“Hardly,” she murmured against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone - her mouth seemingly the only warm part of her. “The door’s closed, and the only people here are a few employees. All you have to do,” she paused, nipping at your skin; you gasped at the sting - “is stay quiet. Which shouldn’t be a problem, right?” Ellie pressed her knee into you, the friction pulling a moan from your chest that you just barely bit back. “But,” she continued, voice low and rough, pressed into your skin like a brand, “if you say the word, I’ll stop.” 

In way of answering, you tangled your fingers in her hair and gave it a gentle tug, grinding your hips down against her knee. You felt Ellie smile against your skin when you whimpered, your pulse jumping against her lips when she murmured, “That’s my girl.” 

With low patience and rough fingers, Ellie tugged down the neckline of your dress, stretching out the straps - part of you cringed at damaging something so expensive, but you figured Ellie would simply buy you another one anyway. Wasting no time, she wrapped her lips around your nipple, sucking it roughly into her hot mouth. You pressed your lips closed against the whimper it forced from you, sparks shooting through your veins. 

Her other hand, which had been pressing bruises into your hip, ventured south, gliding down your stomach to press right between your legs - right where you wanted her most. Her fingers pressed against your clit through your panties and you choked on a moan. 

You thought she was going to tease you - make you wait for it, like she seemed so inclined to do before - but the door to the hall was like a ticking time bomb. Ellie was quick to dip her fingers under the hem of your underwear, pushing the fabric aside so she could dip her fingers into the warmth of your need. 

Sighing against your skin, Ellie lifted her head, the stars shining in her eyes, and said, voice low and rough, “You’re always so ready for me.” 

She kissed you as she pressed two fingers into you, swallowing your moan. You whimpered when she curled her fingers inside of you and felt her smile against your lips. 

When she pulled away, you lifted your head, chasing her mouth, but she just chuckled and pressed you back down into the mat. She wore the galaxy like a halo around her head, and you could just barely see that heartbreaking smile against her silhouette, her fangs flashing behind her lips. You whimpered again when she stilled her hand, choosing instead to draw slow circles over that soft spot inside of you. 

Dipping her head to nip at your jaw, Ellie shushed you even as you felt her grinning against your skin. “Need you to focus for me, baby,” she said, voice nothing more than a husky murmur. “Need you to be a good girl and stay nice and quiet for me, okay?” 

You nodded without fully registering what she was saying - all you could focus on was the spiced warmth of her perfume and the way her fingers seemed to create twice as many stars in the universe above you. 

“Can you touch yourself for me?” Ellie met your eyes, head tilted and that crooked smirk making something behind your chest flutter. 

You nodded again, bleary-eyed, and watched as though through a dream as Ellie took your wrist, guiding two of your fingers into her mouth. Her fangs caught on your skin, and you felt the warmth of blood beading there. Her eyes darkened as she ran her tongue over your fingers, wetting them for you. You felt her moan at the metal sweetness of your blood, and could feel the restraint as she released your fingers with a pop of her lips. 

When you brought your hand down between your own legs, Ellie pressed the palm of her free hand to your mouth before drawing her fingers out of you, silencing the moan that wracked your chest when she slammed back into you. 

You wanted to scream - you wanted to cry out her name, uncaring of who heard you. But all you could do was whimper weakly against her hand, listening to her murmur gentle praises in your ear in stark contrast to the way she slammed into you over and over again. You rubbed desperate circles over your clit, chasing a high that brought the prick of tears to your eyes. 

Ellie removed the hand from your mouth and kissed you when you came, swallowing every whimper and gasp as though they were the sweetest wine. You brought your free hand up to tug desperately at her hair, as though it would keep you from floating up to join the stars above you. 

As your body slowly became limp and loose once more, Ellie gently slid her fingers out of you. She traced a single, gentle circle over your clit, chuckling when you shuddered from the sensitivity, before lifting herself off of you. She took a moment to straighten your dress for you, pulling it back down to cover your thighs (Such a gentleman, you giggled), and leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead - it shouldn’t have made your chest ache as much as it did. A small part of you wanted to curl up in embarrassment knowing that she could hear the way your heart reached for her. 

But Ellie didn’t comment on it. She just lifted her head, bracing herself on her elbow as she leaned over you, and murmured, “Are you spent for the night?” 

But you weren’t. In fact, a newfound adrenaline lit up in your veins, sparking as though there was fire beneath your skin. A stupidly reckless want had been brewing in your chest since the night she had come to your apartment, and now - here, under the stars - you felt like you were going to burst from the size of it. 

So it was as though that want had taken over your mouth when you said, “Actually, can we go back to your place?” 

___

The drive back to Ellie’s house was the longest twenty minutes you had ever experienced. Your fingers drummed restless against the leather beneath you, tapping absently to the beat of whatever rock song was playing from the speakers. Ellie’s hand on your bare thigh was freezing in contrast to the warmth still prominent in the pit of your stomach. 

Ellie, for her part, took every road 20 over the speed limit. If it had been any of your friends that were driving, you would have been yelling at them to slow down, gripping the overhead handle as though your life depended on it. But, inexplicably, you trusted her to get you there safely. 

The car was hardly in park before Ellie killed the engine and hopped out, hurrying around the other side to open the door for you. As she took your hand, you felt a spark of confidence - nearly leaning into arrogance - at the fact that she was in such a huge, reckless hurry to get her hands on you again. 

Once inside - after a full minute of her fumbling with her keys - Ellie immediately crowded you against the door, hands on your hips and her thigh wedged between your legs. The way she kissed you made you lightheaded, holding you with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. She pressed her tongue past your lips, so fucking warm, coaxing a moan from your throat- 

You needed to focus. 

It took incredible strength to pull away from her, and a cocky warmth spread through your chest at the gentle whine that came from her when you broke away. Ellie was pouting, her eyes trained on your mouth, brow pinched as though from the effort of holding herself back. You couldn’t contain your smile, tracing your thumb over her bottom lip and loving the way her mouth parted, a soft sigh brushing over your cheeks. 

Looking at her through your lashes, you said, “I haven’t even seen your room yet.” 

You caught the flash of a smile before Ellie took your hand, leading you up a set of ornate stairs; you didn’t even have time to admire the detailed vine engravings on the banister before she pulled you into her room. 

It was nearly as big as your apartment. Large bay windows took up the far wall, nothing but streetlights and darkness visible past the curtains. Vintage furniture dotted the room - a large vanity dresser stood on one corner, and you realized Ellie must have replaced the mirror with a modern one, because you could see her pulling you across the room. A whole chandelier - albeit a small one - hung from the high ceiling, reflecting a warm glow through the room. 

You locked onto the large four-poster bed, the sheets still rumpled, a mountain of pillows thrown haphazardly against the headboard. Without giving yourself time to second-guess this, you pushed Ellie backwards, loving how she went willingly - obediently - until the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed. 

“Let me take care of you this time,” you murmured, guiding her up the bed, her short hair splayed against the plush pillows. Crawling over her, you ran your hands up her chest, fingers dancing over her throat - you ignored the stillness where her pulse should’ve been, unwilling to let yourself lose your courage. You focused instead on the way her lips parted, looking up at you with hooded eyes, her hands braced on your thighs. “I want to see what you look like when you come undone.” 

Need was a better word for it, but it got caught in your throat and you had to swallow it back down so it would sit right next to your desperate heart. 

You undid the top button of Ellie’s shirt - mouth watering at the sharp slope of her collarbones - and then the second, and then you lost your patience and reached for the hem instead, pulling it up and over her head. You couldn’t decide where you wanted your hands first, overwhelmed by the miles of porcelain skin beneath you, choosing to run your hands up her sides, smiling when she squeezed your thighs. 

You couldn’t stop yourself from saying, soft as a secret, “You’re beautiful.” 

That vulnerability was there again, just as it had been when you spoke those same words earlier in the evening. The difference now was Ellie didn’t turn away or laugh it off - she looked up at you, those green eyes bared before you, and smiled, real and open and only for you. 

Your hands had made their way to her bare chest, and you let your fingers graze over the soft swell of her breasts, motivated by the way she arched up into your touch. You traced your thumbs in gentle circles over her nipples, your legs clenching at the soft moan that filled the room like music. You leaned down to kiss her - you couldn’t help it, you had to know what that moan tasted like - and Ellie reached up to tangle a hand in your hair, holding you there as though you might float away. 

You pulled away just enough to reach down and undo the button of her trousers, but she still whined at the loss, raising her head to try to catch your lips. You couldn’t help but laugh - you were heady with it, intoxicated by the way her eyes shined as though you were back amongst the stars. 

Ellie let you go just long enough for you to push her trousers down her legs and onto the floor, her boxers following shortly after, and then she was bare before you, miles and miles of freckled skin making your head spin. She spread her legs so you could kneel between them, the skirt of your dress brushing her bare thighs, fabric sparkling from the low light of the chandelier. Everything seemed so hazy, you weren’t quite convinced you weren’t dreaming. 

If you were a different person, you would take your time - make her wait for it, like she had made you nearly beg for it. But you weren’t that person, and your patience was already wearing far too thin, so you already found yourself brushing your fingers over the curls between her legs. 

Ellie shifted her hips, pressing down against your hand, just as impatient as you were. You wanted to see her flush so badly it ached, wanted to see her desire written in beautiful pink letters over that freckled skin. But you settled for her delicious gasp when you ran your fingers through the slick already pooled between her thighs. 

“God, Ellie,” you said, leaning down to brush your lips over her jaw, “you're so fucking wet already.” Just for a bite of irony, you sank your teeth right where her pulse should have been, sucking it into your mouth even though you knew there wouldn’t be a mark to show for it; it was enough just to hear her whine, low and desperate, in your ear. 

You'd give her an easy one - just one, because you couldn’t predict how the next part would play out, and you couldn’t miss the opportunity to unravel her. So you dipped just the tips of your fingers inside of her, loving the desperate way she gasped for air she didn’t need, before gliding your slick fingers over her aching clit.

You could have lived happily off of Ellie's moans alone, swallowing them as though they were ambrosia. You circled your fingers over her clit and watched, transfixed, as she arched up into your touch, mouth dropping open and the sweetest sounds filling the air. You wished you could bottle it, pluck a note from the air and keep it as your own instead of settling for the memory of each cadence. You leaned over her, taking her nipple into your mouth to see just how many notes she could reach. 

The first one came quickly, with a whine low in Ellie’s throat and her hands gripping the sheets. You rubbed soft circles over her clit, gently working her over the edge until her body stopped shaking and the tension in her muscles relaxed.

That was the easy part. And you knew she could hear your heart pounding against your ribcage, fighting to break free, at what you wanted - what you needed - to do next. 

You planted a kiss to her cheek before you climbed off of her, watching her blink blearily up at you. You only gave her a few minutes to relax, just long enough for you to position yourself against the headboard, gathering a pile of pillows to support your back, your skirt pooling around you like water - or like blood, you thought in a haze. 

Once you had gotten settled, you touched Ellie’s arm and said, “Come here.” 

She looked up at you with a question in her eyes, but she didn’t argue when you patted your lap. You helped her sit up, gently guiding her to straddle one of your thighs, lifting your knee just enough for her to sit back on. She sighed when her bare pussy brushed against your skin. She wore the dim glow of the chandelier like a halo around her head; she looked so inhumanly beautiful that you couldn’t help but voice it once more. 

“I’ve been thinking about this all day, you know,” you murmured, unwilling to speak any louder for fear of shattering the hazy glow around you. You reached up and cupped her cheek with one hand as your other snaked down between her legs, lowering your knee to make room. Ellie leaned her head into your hand, gasping when your fingers brushed over her sensitive clit. “How you’d look. How you’d sound.” You gently pressed one finger into her, revelling in the low groan it pulled from her. “How I could best make you come undone.” 

It wasn’t technically a lie, you thought as you pressed another finger into her, unbearable heat pooling between your legs when she dropped her head against your shoulder with a moan. You had thought about how you could unravel her, but it wasn’t just your hand you wanted to use. 

So, knowing that she could hear the way your heart raged inside of your chest - knowing she could hear the anxiety and adrenaline coursing through you like fire in your veins - you said, “Bite me.” 

Ellie froze, her entire body tensing. She lifted her head from your shoulder to meet your eyes and you saw the question written within the green flecks. She hesitated, her hands squeezing your shoulders, mouth pressed into one hard line. You couldn’t quite believe that you were sticking your head into the bear’s maw and begging for it to bite down, but you just curled your fingers inside of her, watching the way her eyelashes fluttered, and repeated, “Bite me, Ellie.” 

You saw her eyes flash with something akin to hunger - a primeval hunger - before she lowered her head and sank her teeth into your neck. 

You felt it when her fangs broke skin, but the hot, blinding pain lasted only for a moment - only in the space between gasps. Then it was replaced by a warmth you had never experienced before, as though your blood had turned to ichor, radiant and golden beneath your skin. You felt Ellie shift, rolling her hips against your hand, riding your fingers, and the sound she made sent pleasure racing down your spine. 

You weren’t sure what it was - if it was venom or pheromones or something else entirely - but when Ellie drank from you, it was a euphoric high unlike anything you had felt before. As she rocked against your hand, riding out her own pleasure and moaning against your skin, you found yourself whimpering alongside her.

It felt so fucking good, as though she were fucking you herself. You heard yourself distantly, voice rising louder than you had ever been before, but it was as though you were hearing yourself through a dream. You reached up with your free hand, feeling as though you were floating, and braced your hand against the back of Ellie’s head to hold her there. Her own fingers tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to give her better access, and your eyes rolled back in your head as white-hot pleasure ran beneath your skin. She could have drained you dry for all you cared - you just didn’t want her to stop. 

“Fuck.” You couldn’t tell if you whimpered the word or shouted it. All you knew was Ellie’s body rocking against you, hips stuttering, moaning right in your ear - pressing the sound into your fucking veins like a drug. The heat in your stomach was rising higher and higher, thighs clenching around the pleasure, not wanting it to end. 

You came at the same time, your body arching up into Ellie as she rode out her high. She released you with a moan, her hands tightening in your hair as she pressed her face into your shoulder, body shaking as the waves crashed over her. You thought you cried out her name, but you couldn’t be sure; it felt like you were floating. 

It was several long minutes before Ellie moved again, twitching against you in the aftermath. When she finally lifted her head, you should have been sick - your blood had smeared over her mouth, lips stained red with the very thing that kept you alive. Instead, you tilted your head up and kissed her, uncaring of the sharp metal that filled your mouth, tasting your own life. 

Ellie lifted herself off of you, wincing at the sudden emptiness. Wiping her mouth, she grimaced, said, “Give me a second,” and disappeared through a door, presumably to the en suite bathroom. When she returned a minute later, her face was clean and she wore a black robe, left open so you could see the sharp expanse of her body. She came back to the bed and wiped a warm, wet towel over your neck; you didn't look at the stain that was left behind.

“Come on,” she murmured, taking your hand and pulling you from the bed. When you complained, she only said, “I know - it took a lot out of you, and if you don’t eat, you’ll feel even more like shit when you wake up.” 

You didn’t understand what she meant until you stood up; the room tilted around you, your knees weak, so you didn’t complain any more as Ellie helped you up, one arm around your waist to support you. You let her strip you out of your dress - noting the wetness around the skirt, unsure of which of you had been the cause - and help you into one of her own shirts. 

You reached to touch your own neck, expecting the wound to still be open and surprised when your fingers came away clean. Confused and dazed, you said, “Am I not…?” 

Ellie shook her head, leaning over the press a gentle kiss to the tender spot. “When we feed, it kind of… cauterizes the wound. Less of a mess that way.” 

She guided you downstairs, supporting your weight, your knees feeling as though they would give out beneath you. You were too dazed to take in the kitchen she led you to - only that it was large with dark wood, a giant island taking up the middle of it. It was here that Ellie deposited you, setting you on one of the bar stools before she left you to patter about the kitchen. 

“I thought vampires didn’t eat food,” you said, resting your head in your hand, your eyelids impossibly heavy. It required more focus than it should’ve to keep them open, so you kept yourself distracted by watching her scramble about the kitchen. Her robe had fallen even more open, so you could see the swell of her breasts and the dark hair between her legs. 

“We don’t,” she said, disappearing into a large pantry, her voice muffled through the door. “But I, um… I wanted you to stay over sometime, so I went shopping. I wasn’t entirely sure what you liked, so I kind of just… bought a lot.” 

You couldn’t help but smile - at the thoughtfulness and the way she smiled at you sheepishly when she reappeared, arms laden with food. Embarrassingly, your stomach growled when you saw it. 

“Why don’t you snack on this while I make you some actual food?” she said, passing a plastic container of cookies over to you. “I know it’s not, like, the best for humans to eat, but the sugar will help.” 

You were on your second cookie when you stilled, a sudden dread filling your throat so you couldn’t swallow another bite. Looking up at her where she was preparing the stove, you waited until she met your eyes before asking, “Will I…,” you gauged your words carefully, “you know… turn?” 

Something akin to amusement flashing in her eyes, Ellie said, “No, you won’t turn - it requires a lot more steps than simply biting. If that’s all it took, there’d be a lot more of us running around.” You weren’t sure if that made you feel better; as though sensing your discomfort, Ellie rounded the island and kissed you gently, a soothing hand running over your back. “Something like that is really hard on your body. Stop worrying and just let me take care of you, okay?” 

You nodded, sleepily blinking up at her and wanting nothing more than to curl up in her plush bed. But she was right, it wouldn’t be good for you to fall asleep after losing so much blood. So you rested your chin on the counter and watched as she bustled about the kitchen, preparing food she didn’t require but had bought anyway, and wondering when you could do it again. 

DAY 6: massage ⟢ ambessa

DAY 7: public sex ⟢ sevika

DAY 8: punishments ⟢ ambessa

DAY 9: cockwarming ⟢ sevika

DAY 10: scent kink ⟢ sevika

DAY 11: roleplay ⟢ sevika

DAY 12: phone sex ⟢ sevika

DAY 13: hate sex ⟢ ambessa

DAY 14: gifts ⟢ ambessa

DAY 15: sexting ⟢ sevika

DAY 16: collar ⟢ ambessa

DAY 17: sexual fantasy ⟢ sevika

DAY 18: rewards ⟢ ambessa

DAY 19: begging ⟢ sevika

DAY 20: choking ⟢ sevika

DAY 21: nude modeling ⟢ ambessa

DAY 22: dacryphillia ⟢ sevika

DAY 23: cum play ⟢ sevika

DAY 24: car sex ⟢ sevika

DAY 25: food play ⟢ ambessa

DAY 26: porn ⟢ ambessa

DAY 27: chest play ⟢ sevika

DAY 28: orgasm control ⟢ sevika

DAY 29: praise ⟢ amebssa

DAY 30: mirror ⟢ ambessa

DAY 31: double penetration ⟢ sevika & ambessa

𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗧, 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗗𝗔𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗧 – 𝟭𝟵𝟳𝟬

The sun hung heavy, making everything shimmer like it was dipped in syrup. It smelled like gasoline and sun-warmed peaches. Main Street buzzed with lazy summer motion—men in rolled-up sleeves and suspenders leaning against shopfronts, kids weaving between cars on banana-seat bikes, the Baptist church’s marquee announcing a bake sale in fading letters. A payphone rang, and no one picked up. The storefront windows reflected all of it in warped glass, a dog asleep under a Chevy, teenage girls in bell-bottoms chewing gum and eyeing boys through thick lashes. 

You stepped out of the general store with a paper bag hugged to your chest, the hem of your gingham dress fluttering just below your knees. Mama had stitched the dress herself—blue and white, with rick rack trim and puffed sleeves that always made you feel a little like a doll. Waves from the overnight braid clung to the nape of your neck, a few rebellious strands escaping the casual hold of the blue bow that partially swept your hair back. You blinked up at the sky, squinting at the streaks of orange clouds stretching above the telephone lines—the kind of day where even the air felt too slow to move.

You were supposed to be picking up twine. Just twine. Mama said don’t dawdle. And you meant to listen, you really did.

But the sun had kissed your cheekbones just right when you stepped outside, and your best dress fluttered around your knees like it had a mind of its own. You’d swiped a little color on your lips, dabbed something sweet at your wrists, and suddenly it felt like a shame to waste all that softness on errands and string.

The town shimmered with slow magic, and you thought—maybe just a minute. Long enough to let your shadow drift down the long road. 

“Well, butter my biscuit,” she rasped, her voice winding out like an old record spinning up to speed. But even then, you didn’t look up. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” The words skimmed over you once again, swallowed by the hum of the street.

Her sunglasses sat low on her nose, just enough to peek over them. And you felt it, eventually—her gaze pressing against your back like sunlight through glass.

When you did notice her, you nearly dropped your bags. You froze mid-step, the soft rustle of your skirt the only sound you could focus on, too caught up in the wandering place inside your head to realize you’d drawn eyes—her eyes.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?”

“I just—I didn’t think—” You glanced around nervously, as if someone might catch you, might judge you for that brief, fleeting interaction. “—you were talkin’ to me.”

An easy, crooked smile spread across her freckled, kissed features, completely unbothered by your attention, as if it were expected.

She sat like she owned the street. Cream suit rumpled just right, sleeves cuffed, legs spread unapologetically wide on the sun-bleached bench outside the barbershop. Her boots were scuffed, one toe resting on the edge of a planter gone wild with ivy and weeds. A matchbook balanced on her thigh. Smoke coiled lazy from the cigarette in her hand.

She looked like something forbidden, a name you weren’t supposed to utter out loud.

The way she lounged, all broad shoulders and slack hips, like no one had ever told her to be smaller, taking up space in a way you’d been taught not to.

And God, she was handsome.

You’d never seen a girl like that.

Not pretty. Not sweet. Not the kind of beauty you could fold into a letter or press in the pages of a Bible. 

It felt wrong, even standing there. The longer you looked, the more your stomach twisted. Her eyes were impossibly clear beneath those sunglasses, the color of a green sea you might fall into and never surface from.

“Oh, I’m definitely talkin’ to you.” She chuckled like you were a song she liked on the radio. She flicked ash onto the sidewalk, smirking. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. You just came ‘round that corner like some kinda angel. Had to say somethin’ before I passed out.” She hooked two fingers into the loose toothpick tie hanging open at her collar, gave it a lazy tug. Then came the sleeves, pushed up slowly, the fabric slid back to reveal ink curling up her forearm in dark, intricate spirals, too complex to catch in just a glance.

She moved like none of it mattered. Like buttons and neatness were someone else’s concern.

The chatter blurred, soft and faraway, and the street seemed to still with your heartbeat. Whether it had stuttered or was just trying to catch up, you couldn’t quite tell. 

You clutched your bags tighter. Light as a whisper, a breeze stirred the air, lifting the loose strands of your hair until they caught the sun as they swayed. “I’m just pickin’ up groceries.”  

The red-brunette stood, dusted off her slacks with one palm, and swaggered up to you with the kind of confidence you’d only ever seen in the movies. She walked like she was born in slow motion. People kept staring—especially the older men, brows furrowed, jaws tight in disgust. But the girl barely seemed to notice.

“Mind if I carry that for you?” She nodded toward the paper bags clutched to your chest.

You held the bags a little tighter as a woman passed—hair wound tight in curlers beneath a net, polyester skirt rustling sharp with starch. She didn’t slow, didn’t speak, just cast a glance like she could smell the sin from a mile off.

It landed hard within you, and suddenly, all you could picture was the sharp sting of your mother’s disappointment, or the hushed whispers of the ladies from church if they ever found out you’d dared even glance at a woman like her.

You shifted on your heels, the weight of it all making your shoes feel too small.

“It’s not heavy,” you blunted out too quickly, voice a little too light.

“I know. I just like the excuse.” She grinned around the cigarette. “To walk you a while.”

A wave of warmth climbed your nape, and your tongue felt like it had grown too large for your mouth, adhering to the palate. “I don’t—um… I don’t usually walk with people.”

She laughed, “Didn’t think you did.” There was a beat. She looked down, eyes flicking to your hands, bare and tense around the crinkling paper.

The smoke feathered from her lips as she voiced her observation. “No ring... which implies no husband?”

You shook your head, lips pressing in a bloodless line. “No, ma’am.”

“Good,” she stated, “Would’ve made this a little awkward.”

You struggled to find the right words—an excuse, something to make her leave—but she was already bridging the distance, her voice softening to a velvety whisper. “Truth is…” A crooked smile played on her lips even before the words were out, “I don’t usually flirt with pretty girls in broad daylight either.” A pause hung in the air, “But here we are.” 

Your breath caught in your throat.

The woman’s smile turned smug at your reaction. She stepped back a pace, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under her boot without looking. Then held out her hand to you, palm up like she was offering to dance right there in the middle of the sidewalk. “C’mon. I’ll be a gentleman.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking around. A man sweeping the barbershop steps muttered something under his breath. 

You knew how people looked at girls like her. 

Girls who wore pants too well, who swaggered instead of simpered. 

Girls who smiled at other girls like it meant something.

But then she winked at you. Like you were safe with her. Like she was daring you to stop caring who might be watching.

Your fingers trembled as you placed your bags in her hands.

“There we go,” she brought her hand close enough for her knuckles to intentionally graze yours. “You got a name, sweet thing?” 

“Mhm.”

She cocked her head, accompanied by the upward flick of her scarred eyebrow. “Well?” 

You swallowed hard and whispered it, barely a breath. It wasn’t meant to be heard, but somehow, she caught it anyway. Rolled it around her tongue like she wanted to taste it. And maybe she was already imagining tasting you. 

“Well, ain’t that sweet,” she drawled, “You got a name like a lullaby.”

Your knees went soft. It felt like being kissed without ever being touched.

Her words read like a script no boy had ever dared recite, and her eyes held a lingering focus that didn’t glance past you but through you. Not like the fleeting glances you’d grown accustomed to from boys.

You tried to reel yourself back in, grasping for something safe. You thought about boys—their easy smiles, their clumsy hands, the way they used to say your name.

But it didn’t help. The warmth in your chest refused to settle because a compliment from a woman sings in your blood in a way a thousand boyish smiles never did.

You didn’t know what to make of the erratic flutter behind your ribs, or the way your eyes kept drifting to her mouth like they had a mind of their own.

“Wh-what’s your name?”

She smiled, like the question pleased her. “Ellie.”

“Ellie,” her name escaped your lips as soft as a prayer like it had been waiting on your tongue all your life, half-whispered, half-sighed.

She stepped in a little closer, just enough for you to catch the scent of cologne and cigarettes clinging to her collar. “I like the way you say my name,” she crooned. “Real pretty.”

Your heart was galloping in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, what to do. You weren’t used to feeling like this—all fluttery and breathless in the best possible way.

You walked beside her, barely breathing, trying not to smile too wide. Ellie filled the air around her, filled you. She talked so easy, teasing and bold, like she didn’t care who heard her.

“You always wear blue?” she asked, eyes dipping down to your dress.

“I—well, yeah. I like it.”

“Looks real nice with your eyes.” 

“You talk awful funny.”

“Funny?” she grinned. “You mean smooth.”

You looked at her. “I mean like you wanna get in trouble.”

That made her laugh, loud and full. “Maybe I do.”

Your mouth opened and closed. You had no idea what to say to that either.

“You’re blushin’, darlin’.”

“Am not.” You couldn’t quite meet her eyes, the warmth of your skin betrayed you.

“Mm.” Her gaze lingered. “Looks good on you. Like a peach just startin’ to ripen.”

You could feel the flush crawl up your neck, like shame and sugar melting together, and you swore you were about to sink straight into the concrete.

“Where’s your car, sugar?” The paper grocery bags crinkled in her arms as their weight shifted, bottles of wine clinking softly against each other beneath rustling folds.

You pointed, wordless, and started walking with her toward it, your white shoes crunching over gravel. Her boots were louder. Heavier. You wondered if she always sounded like that when she walked, like she didn’t care who heard her coming.

Ellie handed your bags back with a mock-bow and a tip of her invisible hat. When you reached your car, she opened the door for you and stepped back, hands slipping into her pockets, giving you room without being overbearing.

“You gonna be at the market this Sunday?”

You nodded before you even thought about it. You weren’t planning on it, but now you were. “Maybe.”

Ellie grinned, all teeth and trouble. 

“Good. I’ll bring somethin’ sweet for you. Maybe we can… share.” She stepped back slowly, still watching you like you were something rare and shiny. “Don’t be a stranger, peaches.”

You stood there, rooted to the spot, your head spinning and heart stumbling over itself, your eyes following her every step as she walked away, one hand casually tucked into her pocket.

You didn’t even know girls could look at you that way.

That you could like it so much.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞𝗘𝗧 – 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬, 𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚

It was louder than usual that morning—the kind of noise that filled the air with life. Dust danced in gold clouds, kicked up by horses’ hooves pounding down the dirt road, their heads held high. The smell of hay and livestock mingled with the sharp scent of fresh tomatoes and dirt. Farmers’ kids ran barefoot between the rows of vegetables, their laughter mingling with the rustling of leaves, feet quick against the earth like they were part of it, chasing after stray chickens. 

Radio music crackled from an open truck bed, some sweet-voiced woman singing about heartache and heaven. The sun was already high, soaking into the back of your little dress, the edges of your shoes digging uncomfortably into the dirt. 

You scanned the crowd, eyes catching on the burst of color—the floral prints of women’s dresses fluttering in the heat, the worn denim of men leaning over their carts, the earthy scent of dirt and sweat clinging to everyone. The smell of fresh bread and sizzling sausages through the air, mingling with the heavier scent of gasoline from the nearby pumps.

Her form bloomed in your sight, a forbidden fruit you couldn’t resist gazing upon, as if your very pupils were designed to drink in her image like a secret indulgence.

Leaning casually against the front of her truck, her stance exuded an unhurried calm, one boot pressed against the bumper. Her shoulders hung loose in a slouch. She was dressed down today—but only by a sliver of intention. No jacket, but her slacks clung like they were made for her, and suspenders lay across her chest, catching the light with their worn edges. A white tee, simple, sleeves rolled, giving just a peek of muscle and sun-kissed skin. A cherry lollipop hung between her lips, bright against the earth-toned world. Her hair was shorter than usual, messy in a way that looked intentional—like it’d been tousled by wind or a fight with a bedhead.

She looked like every sin you’d ever been warned about—the kind your mama had whispered about in hushed tones, the one she swore would steal your innocence and taint your soul with a single touch, drag you to hell without a single hesitation, and leave you there, lost and aching—with no salvation in sight.

When Ellie’s eyes found yours from across the market, narrowing slightly before the corner of her mouth twitched upward, in that instant, you realized.

You were already damned.

When she saw you, she stood up slowly, her hand drifting to the lollipop she’d left abandoned on the dirt. It fell without a sound, like it never mattered, the world fading as soon as your eyes met.

You were divine. Too pure, too innocent looking—like something she had no right to even glimpse, let alone touch.

An angel wrapped in cute little bows and soft cotton, and she couldn’t help but feel the sharp sting of her own worthlessness. You were a walk through spring, a memory of sunshine, your white dress dotted with yellow flowers that seemed to dance with every movement, white lacey socks pulled up your ankles, the kind that didn’t belong on the dusty ground of a market. In one hand, you clutched a basket, tucked with care under the same white bow that held your front pieces back.

She wondered how you even spoke to her the first time. You looked at her with that wide-eyed innocence, something she could never touch without breaking.

And yet, there you were. Standing in front of her, like you had no idea how much you haunted her every waking thought.

“Hey there, peaches.”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. “Hi, Ellie.”

“You came.”

“I said I would.”

“Thought maybe you’d get spooked.”

Eyes fixed on the ground, a small, involuntary shrug flickered through your shoulder, “Was thinkin’ about it.”

She laughed. “Still came anyway?”

You peeked up at her through your lashes. “...you asked me to.”

Your reaction stole her words, if only for a moment. The playful light in her eyes receded, replaced by something else you couldn’t quite put into words. “C’mon,” she said after a beat. “I brought you somethin’.”

Leading you to her truck’s side, she opened the door with a casual gesture and a small grin. Inside, she produced a small cloth bag, its contents utterly defying your expectations. 

Not the imagined sweetness of fruit, nor the comforting aroma of baked goods. Instead, nestled within was a pack of rolling papers, a small, metallic tin filled with something green and intensely pungent, a scent that made your nose wrinkle in unfamiliarity.

“Ever smoked?” 

You blinked, confusion plain on your face, “Cigarettes?”

A laugh bubbled up in her throat at your naivete, as if you’d emerged from some long-forgotten corner of the world. “Not exactly.”

You stared at the pouch.

“Oh,” you said, “That’s… bad, isn’t it?”

Ellie raised a brow. “You think I look like I care about bad?”

You worried your lip, caught between curiosity and apprehension. 

She leaned in closer. “Don’t gotta, if you don’t wanna. I just thought… might be nice to loosen you up a little. You get all red every time I talk.”

“i do not.” You blurted, heat blooming across your cheeks, too quick, too revealing, proving her point. After a moment’s hesitation, a soft, “...Just one,” escaped your lips.

𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥 – 𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗘’𝗦 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗘

You didn’t even mean to say yes when she asked you to come by after the market. But your head nodded like your body already knew the answer, even if your mouth didn’t. 

Now you were sitting on the creaky little couch in Ellie’s place, your knees pressed tight together, still in the same sundress you’d worn all morning, straps slipping off your shoulders from the way you kept shifting, you didn’t even bother fixing them.

Her place was smaller than you’d imagined. 

One-room sort of thing, tucked above a mechanic’s shop with peeling wallpaper that had once been floral but now just looked tired, with a slanted ceiling and windows left cracked open to let in the breeze. 

The couch was old and scratchy, covered in a wool blanket that smelled faintly of cigarettes and cedar. A single lamp glowed in the corner, casting long shadows on the bare wood floor. 

On the wall above the couch were thumbtacked sketches—charcoal, pencil, some ink. Mostly portraits. A few unfinished, just the ghost of a face and a jawline sketched in bold strokes. You thought you recognized your own bow in one of them, half-drawn. An easel sat in the far corner, facing the window, a canvas perched on it like a masterpiece she hadn’t decided whether or not to share. Smudged with blue and amber, half-born. A stool nearby was stained with paint and cigarette burns, and an old coffee cup full of brushes balancing on the windowsill.

The kitchen was barely more than a sink and stove, cluttered with mismatched mugs and half-empty bottles of something strong. A few records leaned against the wall, sleeves worn soft at the edges, like she’d played the same ones over and over but never quite got around to putting them away. Her guitar leaned against the wall beside the record player, strings a little dusty but tuned. You wondered if she played for people, or just for herself. 

There were boots by the door, grease on the floor, and a jacket tossed over the back of a chair like she’d rushed out of it hours ago.

The breeze curled through the open window, stirring the lace curtain just enough to make the whole room feel like a half-remembered dream.

Ellie lit a joint with a match struck against her boot, the flame flickered in her palm before it caught. She took a slow drag, then leaned in, holding it between her fingers as she brought it to your lips. “Just a little,” she encouraged you, voice thick with smoke, “Promise you’ll like it.”

You did, even if it made you cough the first time. That made her laugh, a sound curling around your spine. But then it started to sink in, blooming warm behind your ribs, softening your edges until everything felt farther away. Everything except her. She was too close. One leg tucked beneath her, the other braced on the floor. Shoulder draped over the back of the couch. Her fingers brushed yours every so often—careless, like she wasn’t even thinking about it. But you knew she was. 

Everything Ellie did was on purpose.

You couldn’t stop giggling. You didn’t even know why—some dumb story, maybe. Something about the way she said it. The way she looked at you between drags, like she already knew what you were gonna say before you said it. You sat cross-legged, hands folded in your lap, trying not to fidget. And Ellie sat wide-legged beside you, elbow on the armrest, watching you like she was trying to memorize the curve of your mouth when you laughed.

You kept staring at Ellie’s mouth when she talked—slow and syrupy, every word dragging like molasses down the nape of your neck. 

Her voice was a sin in itself, making you feel all the things it shouldn’t. She was too close. Sat next to you with her legs open, one knee brushing yours every time she shifted. Your dress rode up a little higher each time. 

“So?” she grinned, catching the way your dazed eyes trailed after her lips. “How’s it feel?”

You blinked at her, sluggish and loose. “I feel like…” You glanced down at your fingers. “Like they’re not mine.”

Her head fell back as she laughed, “Good. That’s what it’s s’posed to feel like.”

You nodded, dizzy. Then, a softer “I like it,” slipped out.

Her eyes dropped to your mouth.

You didn’t notice.

You were still fixated on her lashes, long and thick, speckles of green catching the amber light spilling in from the window.

“You’re not like anyone back home,” you murmured.

That got her leaning in, just a little. Close enough to feel her breath. “No?” she pressed, “And what’s that mean, baby?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “You talk different. You look at me like I’m not just some dumb girl.”

The freckled woman scoffed, “You’re not some dumb girl,” she remarked, and something sultrier curled in her tone. “You’re the kind that don’t even know how fuckin’ sweet she is. All soft and wet and waitin’ to be tasted.”

Your breath caught.

She leaned in further, elbow pressing into the back of the couch, her thigh now fully against yours.

“You’re pretty as an angel,” She whispered, so close her nose almost brushed yours, worshipful eyes of yours stayed glued to her lips like scripture, as if missing a single word might tear a page from the only book that ever truly had you. “And when you look at me like that—like you want me to touch you but you’re too good to ask for it—I wanna ruin you.”

“I wanna mess up that pretty little bow you wear like it’s gonna save you.”

You could only manage a breathless, “What?” your lungs pulled too tight to drag anything else out of your throat.

Her hand settled on your thigh with confident claim, slender fingers teasing the hem of your dress. “I said,” she repeated, “I wanna taste you.”

You swallowed hard.

She kissed you.

And may God forgive you for the way you let her. 

For how your lips parted without thought, without prayer, like sin was sewn into your flesh and begging to be fed. 

It felt too good to be wrong. 

Too soft to be unholy. But then her pink muscle brushed yours, slowly, coaxing, and you whimpered. 

Her hand slid up your thigh, fingers sinking into the tender flesh like she had every right, like God had created you for her palms alone. 

Her teeth grazed you, and you swore the heavens cracked open.

You didn’t push her away.

You leaned in.

You burned.

And if this was blasphemy, then hell had never felt so holy.

This wasn’t the hurried fumble of the boy in the field, all clumsy want and impatient demand. This was a languid devotion, her mouth a slow burn against yours, tasting like nothing but salvation. 

A wordless prayer of surrender escaped your lips as your hips stirred on the couch, a movement born of a pleasure that felt both sacrilegious and utterly true. Shame clawed at your throat, the taste of transgression bitter on your tongue, yet despite it all, every part of you screamed to surrender. To let her take from you, because it felt more like coming home than any prayer ever had.

She retreated just enough to speak, her breath brushing against your mouth, sweet and trembling, “That good, baby?” 

You nodded again, dazed. “Mmm… never felt nothin’ like that.”

Her hand slipped higher up your thigh, fingers curling possessively. “That boy you were talkin’ ‘bout… he kiss you like this?”

You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. “Didn’t kiss me much at all.”

A low hum of satisfaction vibrated in Ellie’s chest. 

Ah, it seemed to say, you’re as caught as I am.

“What a fool,” she replied instead, nudging your chin back so she could look at you. “Should’ve known better than to leave a sweet thing like you wanting.”

You were a flower turning towards the warmth of her touch, an unstoppable bloom of a smile on your face that mirrored your body’s involuntary drift towards her. 

You didn’t know what it was—the weed, the kiss or her—but you didn’t care.

The world outside became a muted backdrop. The curtains’ languid dance, the cicadas’ desperate cries. 

Everything had collapsed into the soft slide of Ellie’s fingers on your thigh, the blissful hum in your head, and the way your whole body pulsed between your legs like you were born just to ache.

“You’re really lettin’ me touch you, huh?”

A slow, heated nod was your only response, lashes drifting down like weighted petals, mind struggling to keep pace with the ascent of her hand. It slid higher beneath your skirt, a place no other touch had ever been granted access.

“No one’s ever—?”

You shook your head—barely—and Ellie grinned like the devil just stepped into church. “God. Look at you.” The name felt obscene in her mouth, like it didn’t belong there. 

You prayed he wasn’t watching. Hoped he’d close his eyes and pretend he didn’t see you like this—willingly trembling under another woman’s touch, soaked through, begging.

Soft lips brushed the delicate angle of your jawline, lingered on the warmth of your cheek, and a heated sigh whispered against your throat.

“You’re just sittin’ there,” she mapped soft circles onto your bare thigh, “high and horny, lettin’ a girl put her hands up your skirt. And you ain’t got a clue what to do with yourself, do you?”

An involuntary clench tightened your thighs, a reflexive action born of both embarrassment and a burgeoning heat that had your cunt tingling, every nerve singing under her attentive stare. Her grin stretched wider, “Oh, baby. You want me that bad already?”

The words tangled in your throat, strangled by the molten ache pooling low in your belly. Still, you shook your head, trembling, chest heaving as if the air had sunk its teeth into the narrowing passage. 

You didn’t even know what to beg for—only that her touch was the only thing tethering you to heaven. That if she didn’t give it to you, you might start sobbing.

“No,” you breathed, eyes wet and shining, lashes trembling like butterfly wings. “I need you.”

The sound of your voice widened Ellie’s grin, a flash of pearly white against her kiss-bruised mouth, hawking at you like she was about to devour you whole.

“Yeah?” Her fingers traced your jawline, gently tilting your face toward hers once again, “You need me to touch you, huh?”

You nodded—helpless, desperate, thighs pressed tight together like it could ease the throbbing between them. Your mouth opened to answer, but all you could manage was a shaky exhale, like you couldn’t quite let yourself ask for it. Didn’t know how.

Her fingers ghosted right where your thighs met, and it knocked the air right out of you. Your hips twitched forward on instinct. You weren’t trying to be subtle anymore. “Mm-mm,” Ellie hummed, cruel fingers hovering but not touching. “You gotta use your words, peaches. Can’t give you what you want if you don’t ask for it.”

You whimpered, legs falling open just a little wider like your body was trying to beg for you, the damp spot on your panties obvious now, sticky and embarrassing. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at her, eyes glued to her hand, too ashamed to exist.

“Please,” you panted, “Ellie… I don’t—I don’t know how. I need—” You dragged in a breath, fingers curling around her tattooed forearm. “I need you to touch me.”

Relief and humiliation crashed over you at once.

Ellie’s grin vanished, emerald mists deepening to a shadowed woods as she finally slipped her hand under the sticky lace, rough pads brushing against your dripping heat. You gasped, your back arching like a puppet cut loose, mouth falling open as if you’d just been shown a heaven they never mentioned in church. 

It was like nothing you’d ever felt before—no fumbling manly touch had ever made you feel like this.

Her damp, swollen lips returned to the column of your neck, her hand moving skillfully like she knew exactly what you needed even when you didn’t. It was more than you’d ever had, but enough to make you feel like a step further away from grace. 

“Jesus,” The redhead mused. “You’re drippin’. And I haven’t even gotten started.”

A soft wave of a pout rippled across your lower lip, “It’s embarrassing—”

“No, baby,” she said, eyes darkening. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. All nice and wet for me.”

Her fingers didn’t rush. Just parted your folds slowly, the way someone might peel something sacred, something she’d fantasized about in the quietest, filthiest corners of her mind. 

And god, had she fantasized. 

The instant those jade eyes locked onto your angelic form, all flustered and struggling with those bags, the sway of your hair, and the teasing lift of your dress in the breeze, something darker took root. Almost as if you had already been declared by her gaze, and backing down wasn’t in her vocabulary. 

She slid two fingers through your center, dragging the wetness up—pausing just beneath the hood of your pulsating clit, letting you feel the threat of her pads.

Your hips bucked without permission, and Ellie smiled like she’d caught you red handed. Like she knew exactly what kind of girl you were. Knew you’d melt the second she touched you.

Her thumb brushed lazy, feather-light circles over your bud—just enough to make you twitch, but not enough to satisfy. Her breath hitched at the sound you made. That desperate little whimper, the one that made her throb in her boxers.

“Fuck,” she muttered more to herself than to you, eyes glued to where her fingers glistened with your wetness, “Bet you touch this sweet little pussy all the time, don’t you?” 

You hesitated, heat crawling up your throat, shame curling in your belly, your cunt making it impossible to let you lie. “I… I do. A lot.”

“Yeah?” Her voice dipped, “Rub your clit when no one’s watching? Cry into your pillow ‘cause you can’t get deep enough?”

An instinctive clench tightened your thighs, and a helpless nod bobbed your head before your useless brain could catch up. “… it never feels this good.”

She moved closer, her body warm against your side, her ragged breathing in your ear was enough to make you moan and clench around emptiness. Your legs parted further, hips rolling into her touch like you couldn’t help it. It was pathetic, but she loved it.

“Yeah, baby—that’s ‘cause it takes someone who knows how to play with a body like yours. Knows how to make it beg.”

Ellie let pleased moan, and fuck, it did something to you. That sound alone was enough to twist up your stomach and make you see stars. She could feel your pulse, frantic and fluttering beneath her drenched fingertips, your body thrumming like it no longer belonged to you.

And god, she loved how easy it was to make you melt under her filthy touch. “You feel that?” she rasped, eyes locked on your face like she was starving. “Your pussy’s throbbing, peaches.”

The perfect orbit of her fingers around your clit elicited a soft cry, your white-clad toes curling in response. “You sound like an angel when I touch you like this.” 

And then her fingers slipped in.

Just one, but even that felt like too much.

Your breath hitched, eyes wide as your body tensed, your cunt pulsing around her knuckle-deep finger. It resisted the intrusion, unsure whether to draw her in or push her out. 

You weren’t used to this. Barely used to your pillow and your own fingers. The stretch burned. Not unbearably painful, but rather unfamiliar. A pressure that made your belly flutter and your muscles tense.

“Shhh… breathe, baby,” Ellie cooed, feeling the way your muscles spasmed around her knuckle. “I got you. You’re okay. Just a little stretch—not used to bein’ touched like this, are you?”

You whimpered, head pressing back into the cushions, your trembling hands fisting the hem of your dress, pulling it up higher as if that’d somehow help you handle it better. 

She didn’t move. Just kept her finger still, letting you feel the shape of her inside you.

“So tight,” she echoed, awestruck. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

Your lips trembled. You were breathing too fast, high in your chest, and she noticed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Talk to me,” she coaxed. “Too much?”

You shook your head fast, even as your legs trembled open wider for her. Your hips chased the burn, the friction, the stretch. You couldn’t help it—it hurt just right. 

“I’ve never—” Your voice broke on a gasp when she curled her finger just slightly.

“You never let anyone in, hm?” Her thumb circled your clit again like she was trying to distract you.

You shook your head again. Ellie smiled proudly against your cheek, “You weren’t made for boys, were you? Just this—just my fuckin’ fingers.”

You nodded, whimpering like you’d been waiting your whole life to hear someone talk to you like that.

“Good girl,” Her free hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck “So fucking good for me. Gonna let me split you open? Make you cry on my fingers?” it was only when you nodded that she started to move—just a shallow pump of her finger, careful not to push too hard. You whimpered at the way it dragged against your walls, slicked by how fucking wet you already were.

Your head dropped against her shoulder, eyes rolling behind fluttering lids, mouth falling open in a silent moan as she rubbed your clit harder, finger picking up speed and going deeper into your warm channel. The wet sounds were obscene, and she made sure you heard every one of them.

A second finger eased in beside the first, and your body seized. The stretch was obscene, deeper now, fuller than you’d ever been. It made your toes curl and your back bow painfully, a whimper crawling up your throat before you could choke on it.

“Shhh, shhh,” she cooed, her mouth warm and wet against your temple. “That’s it, just like that.”

You clung to her like she was your last breath—fingers fisted into the fabric of her shirt, damp with your sweat and hers. Whispering profanity into your hair, words you shouldn’t have liked, shouldn’t have needed.

“Just wanna feel you come on my fingers.” Her hand moved with slow cruelty. Two fingers stroking deep, dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again, her palm pressing down just right to grind your clit. It was too much. Not enough. Too fucking perfect.

Your legs trembled uncontrollably, the breaths leaving your throat were nothing but ragged little sobs, lips parted, eyes unfocused.

“Ellie—I’m gonna—” your voice cracked around it, barely coherent.

And she laughed, like she knew you wouldn’t last. Knew from the way your pussy acted like it’s been waiting its whole life for someone like her to ruin it.

You cried out—something between a sob and a moan—and your orgasm tore through you like lightning. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t soft. It broke you. 

Your body locked up, cunt spasming hard around her fingers, slick soaking her wrist as you came with a wail that didn’t sound like it could belong to someone innocent.

She didn’t stop. Just slowed, dragging it out, milking it from you until you collapsed on her chest, boneless and heaving, while her soaked fingers twitched lazily inside you.

“There you go,” she murmured into your hair, breathless, reverent. “Thought you were a good girl, huh? Thought you were shy. Thought you’d make me wait…”

Her fingers slipped out with a wet noise that made you wince, made your whole body clench around the void left behind.

“But look at you,” she smirked, sucking her fingers into her mouth without shame. “you let a girl you’ve known for, what, a week?—split you open on a couch you’ve never even sat on before.” You should’ve felt ashamed, but your cunt fluttered. 

You were still panting against her chest, eyes glassy, body limp. She watched you try to come back to yourself—loved how long it was taking, how fucked-out you looked. 

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Not so innocent after all, huh?”

It wasn’t a question, but a truth laid bare, torn from you like the peel of a summer fruit. She saw past the bright flesh, down to the bruise blooming beneath. The decay you’d dressed in sweetness, perfumed and pretty, but still rotting all the same.

She didn’t flinch at your filth. Didn’t pull away from the part of you they all tried to smother—your mother, with her disappointed eyes and clipped silence, who looked at you like a stain she couldn’t scrub out, or the pastor, whose voice trembled with disgust when he spoke about girls like you.

Instead, she kissed the crown of your head like you were something meant to be worshiped, even as she ruined you.

You’d spent your whole life begging God to fix you. Whispering prayers into the dark with trembling hands, trying to crush that part of yourself into dust.

But it didn’t die.

It waited.

And now, with her inside you, coaxing it out like a secret she already knew, you finally understood—there was never anything to save.

You were never innocent.

You were made for this.

“Gonna see how many I can take from you before you start begging me to stop.”

You were still trying to remember how to think when Ellie leaned in and kissed you, her tongue sliding against yours, and all you could taste was yourself. When she pulled back, her eyes were hooded, mouth glistening with your spit, and there was something feral behind her grin.

Then she pulled you up.

“Panties off. Now.” was the first thing she demanded. You obeyed on instinct, fingers fumbling as you reached under your dress, barely balancing as you stepped out of the soaked lace. You hadn’t even managed to gather yourself before her rough hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward impatiently.

Your breath caught.

“You’re sitting on my  face.”

No questions. No sweet talk. Just a demand as she threw herself onto the couch, stripping off her shirt with one fluid motion. Her back hit the cushions. Her hands found your hips before your knees could even hit the cushions, guiding you up, already dragging you over her salivating mouth. You straddled her face, thighs trembling on either side of her flushed skin, cunt hovering above her lips

Your brow crumpled a knot of delicious torment that only seemed to deepen like the one in your stomach. “Ellie, I—I don’t know if I can-”

Her eyes lifted, beholding something sacred and profane at the same time. “You can. You will. Sit.” 

Strong arms wrapped around the plushness of your thighs, dragging you down before your brain could even catch up. Your breath hitched as Ellie buried her face between your legs without hesitation, licking a stripe through your folds like she’d been starving for it. The heat of her tongue against your still-sensitive cunt made your head fall back, a soft, broken whimper leaving your lips.

Your hands scrambled to lift the bunched-up fabric of your dress, needing to see her. And there she was, eyes fluttered shut like in prayer, her lashes damp, mouth glistening with you. She moaned like you were the best thing she had ever had in her life.

“Taste like fucking peaches,” she husked against your clitoris, “Could eat you for hours.”

She sucked your clit into her mouth, flicked it until your thighs clamped around her ears on instinct. 

The wetness at the base of your lashes registered a beat late, it wasn’t until you blinked that you consciously recognized the gathering tears. “Ellie—it’s—too much—” you sobbed, the words barely audible through the quiver in your voice.

Her grip on your hips only tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as she dragged you down harder. She didn’t stop. Her tongue fucked you deep, filthy and focused, button up nose bumping against your rosebud every time she moved. You cried out, overwhelmed, your whole body twitching from the overstimulation, nerves tingling from your earlier orgasm. Your hands flew back for balance, clutching at the couch behind you as your vision swam.

Your thighs started to lift, trying to get away, but the auburn-haired woman dragged you right back down with a bruising grip.

“I said sit.”

Impure mewls caught in your throat. You couldn’t do anything but obey. 

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore—just garbled, desperate nonsense between sobs and gasps.

She sucked your clit harder this time. You came almost instantly, with a scream, whining her name over and over. You reached for her, pushed weakly at her forehead, but she wouldn’t budge, unwilling to relinquish the newfound sacred ground.

“You come again,” she growled, breath scorching against your sensitive bud, “or I’ll keep you here all night.”

And you did. Again, and again, each time more indecent than the last. 

Until you were slumped forward, dress wrinkled around your waist, mouth open but soundless, legs shaking like you’d run through hell just to end up in her defiled mouth.

You couldn’t see. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything except ride.

Spit and slick dripped down her chin. Your thighs were shaking so hard they knocked against the blade of her shoulders. You sobbed, begged, whispered her name like it was both a prayer and a curse.

She pulled back just enough to say, “One more. Give me one more.” looking up at you like she’d just painted a masterpiece.

And you did.

Everything after that was a blur, your boneless body in her arms, the scent of sex and her gasped name still echoing in the air. You don’t remember falling asleep. Just her breath against your shoulder, the gentle press of her lips on yours.

Morning crept in like it knew what had happened. Soft and gold and sticky-warm, filtering through the lace curtains of Ellie’s little apartment, painting your bare skin in light. Your dress lay discarded somewhere on the floor, tangled in the cigarette-scented sheets. Your pussy still slick. Your legs were sore. 

You were asleep, slack-jawed, cheek pressed to her shoulder, curled in close. Ellie watched you from her side of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, collar popped lazily, one arm tucked behind her head, and the other lazily combing through your hair.

She grinned like she couldn’t help it.

“Girl like you,” she murmured, voice scratchy with sleep, “should come with a goddamn warning.”

A sleepy noise slipped from your throat. “Mm—Ellie?”

“I’m here, sweetheart.” She kissed your temple, a slow press of lips against sweat-damp skin, “You passed out,” she whispered, dragging her palm back up your thigh like she couldn’t stop touching you, even in the quiet of morning.

Your hips shifted toward her, face half-hidden in the pillow, body curling naturally into hers like you belonged there.

Ellie stretched, one hand behind her neck, eyes trailing the soft curves of your back with something close to wonder. That cocky glint in her eyes had faded into something that didn’t look like lust anymore. Hushed words wrapped you in a sweetness that felt almost too much to bear. The kind of tenderness that made your cheeks ache from grinning widely.

“You ever think about leavin’?” she suddenly asked.

Your lashes fluttered, and you blinked at her, not fully understanding. “Leavin’ what?”

She shrugged, “This town. Your dead-end barn. The church ladies and their ugly little stares. I dunno. I think about it all the time. Movin’ west, maybe. Somewhere, nobody knows your name.”

The question settled in your chest like a stone, something you’d only ever dreamed about. You didn’t answer right away. Your lip caught between your teeth as you watched the morning light dance on the walls, casting shadows like a dream you couldn’t quite grasp. “I ain’t never been nowhere,” the words almost feeling like a secret you were ashamed to share. “Not really. Just the market and church and... town.”

“Yeah.” Her fingers skimmed your ribs now, light as petals. “There’s more out there,” she added. “I could show you.”

She didn’t know why she said it. It sounded insane out loud—asking a girl she’d only just met to run off into the unknown—but something about you had sunk into her bones, sticky and sweet and impossible to shake. Maybe it was the way you’d looked up at her last night. Or the way you tasted, like something she could get used to. Maybe it was something simpler, though. The way you’d fallen asleep wrapped around her, like you were made to.

“I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?” Her voice grew firmer, just slightly. “Ain’t nothin’ here but a dead field and a name that don’t even fit right.”

You shook your head, but the motion was slow. Weak. “My parents... they wouldn’t let me.”

Ellie smiled, sunlight painting her freckles gold, and the green of her eyes shimmered like moss after rain. She looked too beautiful for this world, a vision untouched by cinema or poetry verses. A beauty that language could only betray, leaving words to falter and fall silent for anyone who dared to try to capture it. “But you’re a big girl now, ain’t you? Ain’t gotta ask nobody’s permission.”

Your skin prickled, but you didn’t look away. “I’ll think about it.”

But deep down, you already knew you were going.

She pampered you like royalty, bringing you coffee strong enough to burn away the last of sleep, a plate of eggs and toast kissed with butter and honey. By the time you stood to go, the sun was already high, painting the room in harsh gold that made you blink, still dazed. Gentle fingers closed the buttons of your dress, wrapping around to linger a moment too long at your chest, like she was doing it on purpose. When you turned to dust off the wrinkles in the fabric, she tucked your panties into her pocket, flashing you a grin.

“Lost somethin’, I think.”

“Ellie…” you fought to hold back an eyeroll, but the smile tugging at the corner of your lips betrayed you.

“What?” She lit a cigarette, shrugged into her jacket—brown corduroy, loose over her button-up shirt, sleeves pushed up. “I’m keepin’ ‘em. S’only fair.”

She walked you home like she was staking her claim. Her hand was on your waist, steadying you like a man would, guiding you through the honey-dipped streets. Though she could have easily sidestepped the stares and the longer route by driving, she needed more time with you. People stared, their gazes sharp and curious, but you kept your eyes down, avoiding the weight of their judgment. Ellie didn’t flinch. She never did. You liked that about her.

You passed the grocer, the diner, Mr. Ray sweeping his front steps with that old, rhythmic motion, the sound of the broom bristles brushing against the concrete. Ellie only nodded at him, daring him to speak, daring anyone to say something.

The farmhouse loomed ahead, weathered and weary like it had lived a thousand lives longer than yours. You could feel the weight of its history in the worn wood and cracked windows. It was your home, yet it no longer felt like it. You could almost hear your childhood calling out from inside, the echo of innocence lost beneath the weight of time.

The door stood ahead, and for a moment, you hesitated. Ellie’s arm stayed firmly around your waist, the sound of her boots crunching on the gravel mixed with the soft jangle of keys in her pocket. 

Her hand slipped from your waist, fingers brushing against your back, a soft, questioning squeeze that made you feel seen. “Everything okay?” 

You nodded quickly, forcing the words past your lips. “Yeah… yeah, just my parents. They’re not real big on strangers, you know?” You forced a light laugh, but it came out more like a nervous breath than anything else. “They’re kinda… conservative. They don’t like anyone in the house who isn’t family.”

Ellie seemed to sense the unease in your tone, her expression softening just a little. She nodded slowly, her thumb running over the small of your back, comfortingly. “I get it,” She raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing at her lips, though it didn’t quite meet her eyes. The weight of something unsaid laced her following question: “Will I see you again?” 

Hers was just hope. Hope that you wouldn’t run, that you wouldn’t vanish like smoke the second her hand slipped from your waist. 

But even then, she knew that was a possibility.

She’d been running her whole life—dodging shame, suspicion, the suffocating judgment that came with loving women in a world that wanted her different. There were towns where she had to lie. Streets where she had to flinch. And homes, too many of them, where a girl like her was only ever a secret.

So if you did walk away—if you chose the safety of lying over the risk of being seen—she’d understand. She wouldn’t chase you. Wouldn’t blame you. Because being yourself out loud, in a world like this, took a kind of courage she hadn’t always had either.

On your part, you weren’t sure how to answer her question, because if there was one thing your heart screamed, it was yes. Yes, you wanted to see her again. Taste her again. Let her touch you like you were something divine, not something to be hidden. But her words echoed through your chest like church bells.

You ever think about leavin’?

You had. In the quiet moments between chores and dinner prayers. In the silence after slammed doors and bitten tongues. You had dreamed of it in pieces—dusty highways and gas station coffee, rooms with open windows and no one watching. But never like this. Never with someone. Never with her.

Because it was reckless, impulsive; you’d only met her a week ago. Just seven days, and already she felt like a doorway you’d been too scared to open your whole life. Like running with her might ruin everything, or maybe save it.

Your lips moved before your doubts could catch up. “‘Course you will,” your words steadier than you felt. And when she smiled, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the beginning of something that could work out for real. 

You grinned, a little unsure but determined, “I wouldn’t let you get away that easy.”

The woman’s smirk curved deeper, slow and easy. She leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing your ear. “Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, though.”

Your head tilted to the side, silencing her thoughts with the soft press of your lips—like a secret passed between mouths.

“I’ll see you soon.” 

This time, making the words sound more like a promise you intended to keep.

Ellie didn’t move at first. She just looked at you, breathtaking eyes sweeping over your face like she meant to memorize every inch. Then she let out a breath, all sweet resignation.

“Alright,” she nodded, tilting her head with a half-smile. “But don’t make me wait too long, peaches.”

Her hand slipped from your back, drifting softly down your arm in a touch so tender it left a chill. “I’ll be thinkin’ about you,” she breathed, almost to herself.

And then she turned. The sound of her boots crunching on gravel faded as she walked away, the edge of her jacket catching in the breeze. You stood there, still and quiet, watching her retreat until she was no more than a figure folding into the horizon.

A hollow kind of ache settled low in your ribs. “See you soon,” you whispered after her, knowing full well she couldn’t hear you.

You closed the door behind you with a gentle click, the kind that made the house feel full, lived in. Familiar. The silence inside pressed in close, like it had been waiting for you. You stood still for a moment, letting it settle around your shoulders like a shawl. Your back leaned against the wood. You breathed in deep, and Ellie was still there—on your skin, in your hair, between your thighs, in your head. The guilt swam low in your belly, but it didn’t matter. Ellie was real. And for once in your life, you felt real, too.

You walked dazed through the front hall, your steps light, your body still humming like it was tuned to her.

“Mama, I’m home!” you called, cheerful, almost giddy, kicking off your shoes with a thud. You padded down the hallway barefoot, grinning like a girl with a crush, soft and sugary, giggling under your breath. “You won’t believe the night I had.”

The kitchen opened around you like a dream. Pale morning light filtered through the curtains. Your mama was seated at the table, like always. Hair brushed, dress neatly pressed. You bounced on your toes, full of sunshine and static. “I’m so happy!” you squealed, and walked over to her, fingers brushing a curl away from her cheek.

You blinked, then laughed a little. “Oh, Mama. You’re always so quiet when I’m excited.”

You sat across from her, cross-legged in the chair, arms wrapped around your waist like you could no longer contain the excitement. “She said I taste like peaches,” you whispered, voice high and sugar-slick. “Can you believe that? Me. Peaches.” You twirled a little in the seat, too dizzy to sit still. 

You leaned forward then, conspiratorial, like a child telling a secret to a parent who might still forgive them.

“I let her touch me, Mama.” Your voice dropped. Soft. Sacred. “And I liked it. I let her touch all the places you said a man was supposed to touch first. I let her do it, and I—” Your voice caught on a giggle. “I loved it.”

Mama didn’t answer. Mama didn’t nod, or frown, or slap the sin from your lips like she might’ve.

Her eyes were wide. Too wide. Rolled back so far, they looked like pearls strung loose from their sockets. Her mouth hung slack, a line of congealed red dripping from the corner like jelly.

You smiled. “She told me she wanted to go away. With me. That maybe she and I could have a little place of our own. No men. No preachers.” You reached over and swatted a fly off your mama’s cheek, then another off her collarbone. They’d made a home there, buzzing and nesting in the soft hollow of her throat.

The buzzing was worse now. You barely noticed it. “You always said a girl like me would end up damned,” you sighed. “But Mama, it felt like heaven.”

You stood slowly, the chair scraping loudly across the blood-streaked tile. The soles of your feet were tacky with it, sticky and dark. You stepped around the dried smears on the floor, past the long drag mark where Daddy’s boots had caught on the linoleum.

He was slumped near the sink, folded wrong, the back of his skull a pulpy mess. The iron skillet lay nearby, its handle bent at a strange angle, slick with blood and something grey. Bone, probably. Bits of tooth were scattered like sugar over the countertop.

“Oops,” you murmured. “That must’ve been when he tried to grab my arm.”

Then you were laughing again. Breathless and bright.

“I wonder if Ellie likes pie,” you chirped, brushing past your father’s ruin of a body. You shoved him off the counter with a grunt, his head making a wet crack when it hit the floor. “She seems like an apple and cinnamon kind of girl, don’t she?” You giggled. “Sweet and spicy. Just like her.”

You opened the pantry. The sugar was still there. The cinnamon, too. A knife gleamed beside the butter dish.

“I’m gonna make her one. A good one. From scratch.” Your voice dropped into something soft and solemn, like a vow. “Then I’m gonna go to her. I’m gonna leave this house. This town. I have to.”

You paused, just long enough to glance back over your shoulder at the ruin of your family. The kitchen reeked of meat.

You smiled, so sweet it nearly cracked your face in half.

“It’s not wrong to want more, Daddy,” you added quietly, almost to yourself. “I was never gonna stay in a life that I didn’t deserve.”

loser!ellie

taking els strap for the first time

sex tape with els

sucking abby’s strap

being abby’s good pup 🐾