Zythe

This was your first interview outside your cute little set your fans came to know and love. You still felt like a newbie, despite your well-earned spot among the holy grail of celebrity interviewers alongside Emma Chamberlain, Amelia Dimoldenberg, Brittany Broski, and that bald guy from Hot Ones.

Ellie lounged against the ropes inside the ring, all broad shoulders and muscles in a WWE hoodie with the sleeves cut off. Her cheeks were flushed and her bangs stuck to her forehead, fresh from training. You’ve interviewed Charlize Theron, Billie Eillish, and practically every other queer girl’s wet dream without so much as a stutter despite your brain overheating. This though? This’ll be hard. The cameraman counted down to rolling, but Ellie didn’t spare it a glance. She stared you down.

“Three, two…” The cameraman silently pointed at you to signal rolling. At that moment Ellie licked her lips, not taking her eyes off you, and you giggled. Mortifyingly. With the camera already rolling. Knowing your editors, it’s making the final cut.

You cleared your throat, facing the camera. “Hi y’all!” Finally, Ellie gave you a break– a single, sorry second acknowledgement of the camera. Then she was back on you like magnets. “You are lookin’ at the number one fighter in North America, and Ellie Williams ay-kay-ay Jackson Savage is here too.”

Ellie smiled, canine teeth revealing themselves slowly. “I didn’t know you were funny.”

You cleared your mind to lock in but Ellie’s voice was so fucking attractive. Raspy, almost boyish. This show was too important to you to deliver an unfunny episode because your interviewee was too fine. You blinked at her. “Are you Amish?”

She paused to think. “It calls me sometimes.”

“You’re called to the Amish life?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Did you know the Amish find buttons too sexy, so they keep their clothes in place with safety pins?”

Ellie tilted her head, considering, then she so obviously checked out your tits it might as well have made a noise. It wasn’t the first time someone checked you out on the show, but they did it comedically, before and after giggling for the joke’s sake. You knew your blush was reading too well on camera, especially with your director laughing behind her hands. “Why are buttons too sexy?” She asked with a mockingly professional tone.

And she wouldn’t stop looking at your tits. Holy shit, you had to keep it together. “To the Amish?” Ellie nodded affirmingly, and seemingly gathered enough damn data to look you in the eye again. “Buttons are too easy to remove, so it’s more like, the potentiality of easily achieved nakedness is too much to bear.”

“Mmm. I see.” She smirked. A beat passed. “You got a lot of buttons on that little top.” You choked on your spit mid-swallow.

“Most tops do.”

Ellie shrugged. “I like your buttons better.”

“Uh– mhm!” You tried, but it sounded more like a squeak. She simpered wolfishly -- ironically. You gave the camera a helpless look, then narrowed your eyes at Ellie. Challenging. Time to switch gears. “Answer my questions and we can go on and on about my buttons, yeah?”

Ellie’s eyes widened a morsel. Her posture straightened as she left her rest against the ropes to step just a little closer. “Yeah.”

You broke into a smile. This is definitely unlike anything you’ve done in the show, but the viewers are definitely gonna love it.

“You were once a baby. Your first word was 'there.”

Ellie, brow furrowed in amusement at the deep cut. “This is correct.”

“What was over there?” You questioned, entirely genuine.

She twisted her lips, like she was trying not to laugh. “Oh wow. Probably, uh, north.”

You nodded in full seriousness, the corner of your mouth threatened to tug. “I really love south, actually. I love south and left.”

“Left is so underrated.” Ellie confirmed, smiling wholly now.

Next question. “We all love your Jackson Savage persona–”

“You love it?” Ellie interrupted, voice buttery smooth all of a sudden. “What do you love about it?”

You blinked, then nodded. “Very capable. Formidable.”

“Big word, baby.”

You swallowed, taking it as purpose to go without flinching. “I passed the SAT’s.”

Ellie ignored that, leaning her side against the ropes, bringing her closer to you. “Does it mean you think I’m scary?”

Nope. Nope! No ma’am, get it together. You straightened yourself out, like you were in a Navy Seal lineup. “No one scares me.”

“I think I could scare you.” She murmured casually. Like she just told her her favorite color.

Ignoring her entirely– "Wrestling's been famously compared to drag, the way the persona is truly her own entity separate from who the performer is, separate from who Ellie is.” Ellie nodded along. “How well would Jackson Savage do on Drag Race?”

Ellie snickered. “Hah, I like that. I don’t think she’d win, I think she’d be her season’s lipsync assassin. Maybe get far along her Allstar’s season. She would absolutely kill at reading challenges.”

“Does Jackson Savage know how to read?”

That made Ellie laugh. A real girly laugh. You beamed, proud. “You know what? I think she’s just memorized a lot of words.”

You both giggled. Your director made a wrap up gesture to signal moving on to the next question. “Before your WWE debut you were a children’s riding instructor for three years–” You trailed off, because Ellie started running her knuckle up and down your sleeved arm, the pastel cardigan you had on. You got very warm. Very fast.

“I like this, baby.” She was still petting you like she had a right to, tugging at the cardigan a little. Your mind wiped blank. “Soft.” You slowly turned to the camera– no, you looked to Freddie the cameraman for help because you felt under attack here! “So, what about horseback riding?” She asked, testing you with a gleaming, evil look.

You huffed. Bottom lip finding itself between your teeth. “You were a riding instructor for three years.” Ellie finally released you from her touch, humming. You needed to get her back. “How much would I have to pay for a riding lesson?”

Ellie choked, mid-inhale. A beat. Then she smiled. She smiled like she didn’t have you unprofessionally pressing your legs together. “Two billion dollars.”

Your jaw dropped. “Two billion dollars?”

“One-point-five.”

“What if I saved a horse?”

Ellie blinked. You softly sang the chorus to that one Big & Rich song, hardly enunciating the words.

“Lalala… ride a cowboy.” Finally, it seemed like you stumped her. “How much then?”

“One drink.” She said, face suspiciously blank.

“One drink?” You murmured in that voice you know girls love, taking the time to check her out yourself.

Ellie, bluntly. “I’ll pay.”

You giggled. Ellie rubbed her mouth, maybe hiding a smile. “So, what calls to you about the Amish, Ellie?”

“I like it when you say my name.”

You rolled your eyes. “The Amish don’t accept flirts.”

“I’m not a flirt.” Ellie said, shrugging.

You gawked. “You have been sexually scrutinizing me–” Ellie chortled. “This whole time!”

Ellie shrugged as her laughter slowed. “I have not been doing… whatever-that-was to you.”

“Gaslighting.” You quipped.

“...Nuh uh. You’re just pretty. Maybe I’m in the mood. You don’t like it?” You sighed, avoiding her and the camera’s eyes– because you couldn't say no. As you looked away, you missed how Ellie shamelessly checked you out from head to toe, something the viewers, and maybe even the editor (you wouldn’t put it past Spencer to zoom in), will take no time in pointing out. “Hate it?” You wordlessly shrugged. She dipped into your space a little closer, not unlike the way she taunts her opposers during a fight. “Need it?”

That got you glaring. “Your right to the conversation about my buttons has been revoked.” She pouted. “Now I’m gonna ask you a boring question.”

“Fine.”

“What’s your favorite way to take someone down in the ring? Not like, most technically polished or the most advanced move you know. What do you have the most fun doing to take a match?”

She clicked her teeth, rhythmically tapping the rope beside her in thought. “How ‘bout I show you?”

Cut to you and Ellie at the center of the ring, facing one another, approved with a nervous thumbs up from your director and a quick call with your producer.

“Square your stance for me.” Ellie brought her hands to your shoulders, thumbing the blades to straighten your posture.

You sucked in a breath. “Are these my last moments of having a straight spine?” Ellie faux-gasped.

“How dare you underestimate me.”

“Considering you’re a fighter, I’d say being certain of your ability to destroy me is a massive compliment.”

Ellie tsked. “Alright. But just know there’s only one way I’d destroy you, babe.” And she punctuated with a wink and an obnoxious click of her teeth. But she fumbled her delivery, sounding a little too grave, a little too much like Robert Pattinson in the last Twilight.

Ironically the least sensual and flirtatious Ellie’s been the entire interview.

A moment passed with you exchanging stares. In perfect sync, you extended your looks of regret to the camera. Laughter burst. The kind that leaves your forehead red and your abs hurting.

“Holy shit,” Ellie groaned, finally flustered with pinkened cheeks. “Joel, if you see this, I’m so sorry.”

You, sniffling your giggles away. “Guess you aren’t a flirt.”

“I told you.”

“You were good at it for a second.” You admitted.

Ellie’s eyebrows quirked. “Really?”

A lighthearted scoff left your lips. “Like you didn’t know! You and your… ‘baby’-ing!” You blundered.

Ellie gave the camera another look. Mostly reminding herself it’s still there. “If I don’t break your spine… Can I get you that drink after this?”

Your chest fluttered. “I accept.” She grinned, freckles rearranging with the squint of her smiling eyes. “But if you do, I will boo at your match tomorrow. And wear The Wolf’s merch.” You were haughty about it, teasing her.

Ellie’s smile twirled dangerously. “Cheat on me with Anderson?”

You sighed playfully. “It took you thirty minutes to commit, so…”

“Tuck your chin down to your neck.” She suddenly ordered.

You quickly complied, confused. “Wha–”

You were taken in Ellie’s arms, hoisted up and spun, before you felt the pull of the floor. Ellie’s forearm, resting against your head on the platform floor, took the fall. Leaving you completely unharmed. Suddenly, both your hands were pulled into one of hers, held together and pinned above your head, as her free hand maneuvered your hip so that both legs would be resting over on the left side, one on top of the other, and that hand took your ankles captive too. Her groin rested respectfully on the flesh of your hip. But there nonetheless.

The number of thoughts running through your head was slim to none. One of those few, though, was loud and clear – this can’t not be a sex position.

You, breathless. And, like, definitely horny. “Th-this is your favorite takedown move?”

Ellie, equally breathless, but not from exertion of effort. “Nope. Just thought of it now actually.” Her eyes, normally light green, were darkened, black saucers taking up all the color. She huffed, chuckling, a small smile tugging at her lips before she slammed her hand down on the platform “That’s pin, you lose.”

You were pulled up, standing with her now in a quick flash that had your low iron spinning. Ellie smiled at the camera, expecting the outro and reminding you that you were employed.

You cleared your throat. Trying to look less petrified and gay-panicked. “Catch the Jackson Savage versus The Wolf fight this Friday, Eight PM Eastern Time! If my word’s got worth, I’d tell The Wolf that Ellie’s a menace who’s set out to demolish innocent, well-meaning, women. Such as myself. So watch out.” You attempted a laugh, hoping to sound more put together. “I hope you had a good time, Ms. Savage. Is there something you wanna tell people?”

“I had a super time, Ms. Pretty, and something I wanna tell the people is-- I got a smoking hot date and you don’t. So, suck it.”

You grinned. “Suck it.”

the dining room is a shrine. a long table groaning under the weight of a meal your mother spent all afternoon making, sweat staining the apron she refused to remove until moments ago. bowls of mashed potatoes, roast chicken still steaming, slices of cornbread lined up like offerings. your father didn’t lift a finger to help — never has. he presides at the head of the table like a statue, hands resting on the wood as if he built it, as if he earned the right to occupy it.

every surface hums with judgment. a cross on the wall, a framed verse hanging slightly askew, amen stitched into cloth and laid across the mantel. it's a house that doesn't murmur or beckon, nor offers absolution — it proclaims.

you find yourself at the threshold, suppressing the sharp sensation rising in your throat. aware that this room was designed to remain oblivious to any word you speak tonight — and even if it does hear, it will not heed your voice.

because there he is.

austin.

older than you by nearly a decade, a boy your father picked the way he’d pick a calf for sacrifice. crisp shirt pressed, sharp as a blade, hair meticulously combed as if for a sunday sermon, and a smile that never truly reaches his eyes. a handshake that is excessively firm, lingering too long, like a claim being staked. you recall every reason why you can’t stand the way he looks at you, as if you were a deed awaiting signature, a piece of land he already aims to call his.

“evenin’, darlin’,” he says, rising halfway like it’s some display of courtesy. “you look…well.”

“thank you,” you barely mumble, voice tight.

your father motions towards the empty chair, and you settle into it as if you were a condemned thing.

meanwhile, the table hums with talk that doesn’t need your voice. 

your father takes a long sip from his glass. “we were just talkin’ about the wedding. might be a spring one, if austin here has his way.”

austin grins like a boy with a toy. “sooner the better, reverend. i reckon the lord likes a house that’s in order.”

“indeed.” your father’s voice softens, silk draped over a dagger. “ain’t no sense in lettin’ a good girl sit too long, might as well make her a wife. build a family.”

your mother chimes in, voice resembling the sound of a gentle, caged bird. “have y’all talked about a date? perhaps after easter services?”

austin rests a hand on the table, palm big and flat. “that’s about when i was thinking, it gives us enough time to settle things before summer.”

each word lands like a stone, both sharp and weighty, punching the air from your chest. you open your mouth, breath poised to voice a protest. “i—”

“perfect.” and your father doesn’t even glance your way. “that’ll give the church time to plan. we can have the ceremony right after morning service, so the lord can witness it all.”

“...have you talked about children?” your mother asks.

“of course,” your future husband replies smoothly, brushing an invisible crumb from the table. “reverend, i was raised to provide and lead. my father gave my mother five beautiful children, and might be the lord has a similar plan for us.”

the lie that statement holds is enough to make your stomach turn — you’ve never spoken of children, never spoken of anything beyond polite nods and practiced smiles. and that is truly the last straw.

you let your fork fall just hard enough for the sound to slice through the air, every eye snapping toward you.

“what about what i want?”

your words slice through the air in the room like a whip, sharp and stinging.

but your father remains unresponsive, unyielding, not even looking at you. he simply takes a long sip from his glass, his voice rising in volume when he finally chooses to speak.

“you don’t get a say. this ain’t about what you want, it’s about what’s right. a woman’s place is to obey, bear children, and walk the path a man sets for her — and the lord will save the rest.”

the words land like a hammer blow. you flinch, swallowing hard as a sting blooms behind your eyes. you drop your gaze to the ground, lashes quivering, trying desperately to blink the piercing sensation away before it can spill down your cheeks.

austin’s voice softens then, rehearsed and too-sweet. “honey, this is a blessing. we’re just making sure your future is secure. you’ll be taken care of. you’ll be…happy.”

happy.

the word itself tastes like ashes, resounds like deceivement. you sink back in your chair, struggling to force down the bitter bile rising in your throat.

they carry on as if you hadn’t spoken, as if you weren’t breathing, weren’t shaking, weren’t burning with the memory of a red bandana cinched tight at your wrists. of a low, smoky laugh brushing your ear. of hands that molded themselves to every scar you’ve ever tried to forget.

your mother doesn’t speak either. she just nods, a tiny, brittle tilt of the chin before looking down at her plate, like it’s all she knows how to do — like this was always her fate too. she’d walked this same path, sat at this same table, sat in this same silence when she was your age.

here, you’re a silhouette, an ornament polished and placed just so. holy words spill forth from holy mouths, binding you tighter than any rope ever could.

you glance down at your hands resting in your lap, faint red marks sitting across your skin.

and across the table, austin grins like a boy about to inherit the world.

but inside, deep down, you’re already gone. gone to a hayloft where holy means burning, gone to hands that pray a different kind of prayer. gone to a place where silence doesn’t mean obedience.

but still, you pick up your fork.

still, you force a smile.

“of course.”

the house goes quiet long after midnight. long after the low hum of conversation has dried to silence, after austin goes home, after the dishes are clear, after the holy portraits have gone dark and the lamp in your father’s study has winked out.

you’re in your nightgown — soft, lavender silk brushing your thighs — perched on the edge of your bed, listening to the slow drum of your own heart. your fingers brush the crisp, white coverlet that feels like a shroud.

through the window, the moon spills a long, silvery line across the floorboards. you watch it move, slow and languid, as if it carries no worries in the world. as if it chose to stay silent too.

it’s a room that doesn’t feel like yours, if it ever did. pale walls, too clean, too bright, lined with crosses and saints that judge you from every angle. a row of pressed dresses hanging in the closet, a golden rosary resting on the nightstand, a bible lying open on the desk, pages dog‑eared from hands that weren’t your own.

and you can't help but wonder how long you can bear this. how long until your voice fades completely, how long until austin transforms from a mere man to your... husband. wonder how will be like to feel a ring resting on your finger and him beside you in bed, a presence that still feels unbearable even from miles away. a man you will never truly love.

a man who will never be — not even half — of her.

and here, in the silence, in the pale glow of the room, your condemnation settles like a spectre.

hours feel like days when you can’t sleep. you can't think, can’t do anything except stare out the window, at the velvet black of the fields beyond. and somewhere deep, deep down — under godly walls and godly rules, under the sting of a night that won’t end — you whisper a prayer.

and just like if the sky itself answered, a faint tap at the glass snaps your spine straight. you rise, bare feet brushing the floorboards, and move to the window. when you slide it open, your breath catches.

ellie.

she's there, leaning against the house like a shadow. lopsided grin dancing on her lips, auburn hair tousled, flannel half-tucked. her freckles are barely visible in the glow of the moon, but those piercing green eyes flicker like a match in the endless night.

and you don’t hesitate— you never did. you lean down quickly, tugging her by the hand until she’s hauling herself through the window and into the room, brushing dust from her worn jeans like she hasn’t just risked falling ten feet for you.

you stare at her for a moment, shocked, voice shaking. “oh lord, you…you can’t be here. if my daddy finds out—”

“i know,” ellie mutters quietly, brushing hair from your cheek with a hand that still carries the sting of work. “i just… fuck, i just wanted to see you.”

you swallow hard, brushing your nose along the sharp curve of her jaw. “you’re gonna get yourself killed, ellie.”

she grins, low and soft, brushing her thumb across your lip.

“maybe,” she rasps, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “but i don’t give a damn if i get to be with you.”

you draw in a shaky breath, brushing your hand down the worn fabric of her shirt like you can’t bear to let go. “you’re crazy, you know that?”

and ellie just tips her head, brushing her nose to yours like she can quiet the sting in your chest with a single breath.

“then let me stay tonight, baby,” she breathes, voice gone soft. “even if it’s just for a minute.”

and when her mouth finds yours, when her hand cradles the back of your neck and draws you closer like a orison answered, you don’t ask questions anymore.

her hand presses the small of your back, hauling you closer like gravity itself can’t bear to have space between your bodies. her mouth finds yours, urgent and burning, a kiss that tastes like midnight air and belonging. it’s deep, hungry, desperate.

you whine quietly when her hand skims down, brushing the thin fabric of your nightgown, the press of calloused fingers making sparks race down your spine. you tug her closer, swallowing the sound of her low groan. the room shrinks down until it’s just the two of you — breaths and brushing hands, tangled threads that don’t request permission.

ellie’s hands bracket your waist as she guides you backward until your knees bump the bed. she eases you down onto the mattress carefully, like she knows your father’s shotgun could be at her throat in any moment, and decides you’re still worth the risk. every breath. every bullet.

you sink down, arching as her mouth finds your throat, brushing along the curve of your collarbone, the thin strap of your nightgown falling down your shoulder under the tug of her fingers. the sting of it brushing the marks she left makes you shiver, your voice breaking into a breathless gasp.

“ellie…”

“shh,” she whispers, brushing the sush across your skin like a kiss, your fingertips finding her hair. “i’ve got you.”

her hand slips down, brushing the bare skin of your thigh, the soft fabric rising with each languid stroke. she’s shaking too — brushing a hand across your jaw, cradling it like the precious thing it is.

and then she’s kissing you again like she means it, like she needs it — deep, commanding, but tender in all the ways the world has never been for either of you.

the room holds its breath. you can feel the weight of the crosses watching, the saints framed in gold leaf and dust, their painted eyes casting down in judgment from every wall. the moonlight spills across the floor, glinting off rosaries, off the edges of the little silver crucifix above your bed. the air hums with the kind of rigidity that makes your pulse stutter in your throat.

but everything ceases to matter when ellie’s hands are on you — slow, sure, shaking just enough that you know she’s been waiting for this as much as you. she ghosts her fingers over the hem of your nightgown, eyes locked on yours, asking. you respond with a single, sure nod.

she lowers the fabric inch by inch, slow enough to feel the cool air kiss your skin, slow enough to feel your breath catch in your chest. the garment pools at your feet, forgotten, and you lay bare in front of her in the pale glow, skin warm and trembling under her gaze.

ellie draws in a breath, reverent, as if she’s seeing you for the first time all over again. her hands find your ribs, tracing the soft lines of you with fingers roughened by rope. then she peels off her brown flannel, pulling it over her head in one swift motion, leaving her freckled chest bare to the night, to you.

your hands find her before your mind catches up — tracing the dip of her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, the faint scar that cuts across her side.

you caress her gently, like she’s the last spark of joy you’ll ever know, and maybe she really is. her skin is warm, solid beneath your palms, and she shivers under the weight of your strokes.

“fuck, baby,” she whispers, voice fraying at the edges. “you gotta stay quiet for me, yeah? can’t have anyone hearin’ us.”

you nod, swallowing hard, the heat of her words making your insides go weak.

you tilt your head back, breath caught as she kisses a path down your chest, her hand slipping up to part your thighs. her mouth finds the swell of your breast, taking your nipple between her lips, sucking deep, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak.

the heat of it shoots straight through you. you arch up into her, one hand fisting the sheets while the other buries in her hair. you have to bite down on a gasp, remembering her warning.

she moves to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. her free hand roams down your body, mapping every inch, every dip. her touch is greedy and kind all at once, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your hips as she kisses lower, leaving a trail of heat in her wake.

“so fuckin’ beautiful,” she mutters against your stomach, voice thick with want.

you can’t look away. the sight of her — wild and flushed in the pearly somber, freckles dark against her skin, her mouth trailing fire down your body — makes your head spin.

then she’s on you.

her tongue parts you slow, savoring every slick inch like she’s starving and you’re the first thing she’s been allowed to taste. she doesn’t rush — not at first. she drags the flat of her tongue through your folds, slow and purposeful, as if the shape of you is a language only she knows how to speak.

you whimper, low and broken, and she moans in response — the sound vibrating against your cunt, sending a jolt up your spine that makes your back arch, your thighs twitch. she presses you open with her palms, firm and unrelenting, pinning you down.

you bite your fist, hard, trying not to cry out. tears prick the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of it — the mess, the pressure, the way she devours you like she’s trying to undo every ounce of pain this house ever put in your body.

it’s wet, obscene. you can hear it — the slick, slow drag of her mouth, the desperate breaths through her nose, the low hum of approval she gives every time your hips stutter under her touch.

the saints above your bed don’t blink, the crucifix on the wall doesn’t move, but you swear you can feel the weight of their gazes.

and ellie? she doesn’t even pause. she buries her mouth in you like she’s trying to climb inside, like if she could live between your legs, she would — and maybe she already does.

your body starts to tremble, your thighs twitching under the strain of holding still, of remaining silent. your whole being narrows down to the wet heat of her mouth, the swirl of her tongue, the way her lips suck your clit just right — over and over and over until your stomach tightens, breath caught, vision gone white behind your lashes.

you come with a soft, strangled sound, clenching around nothing. your teeth sinks into your knuckles to keep you from screaming, a metallic taste following in your mouth from the force. it rips through you like fire, like grace, like a hymn too big for your chest.

and ellie moans like it’s happening to her. she holds you through it, lets you ride her mouth through every aftershock, every broken little sound you can’t quite bite back.

when you finally collapse against the bed, damp and panting, she pulls back slowly, chin slick, lips swollen, pupils blown wide with something close to worship. she leans up on her elbows, breath catching on her words.

"you're mine."

still catching your breath, you shift — thighs slick and trembling, the pulse behind your ribs pounding like a warning bell.

you reach for her jaw, grip firm, thumb pressing into the hinge. her breath catches — sharp, needy — and you draw her up by it, eyes locked the whole way. your mouth finds hers halfway, no grace, no patience, tasting yourself in her lips. it’s teeth and tongue and breathless heat, your kiss all demand, all hunger, all response to her words. i'm yours.

ellie groans into your mouth, her hands twitching at your waist. but she doesn’t take back control.

“get up here,” you whisper, voice cracked and gritty against her lips.

and she listens.

her knees slide through the sheets, jeans half-off, boxers already damp and bunched around her thighs. you take care of it — quick, eager fingers working her out of them, dragging denim and cotton down to her ankles, stripping her bare.

she's slick and flushed, her cunt glistening in the silver glint, the soft auburn bush above it dark with want. the sight makes your stomach twist tight, breath catching hard in your chest.

you stare. you let yourself.

“ellie...” you murmur, voice dark. “you’re soaked.”

ellie’s face burns. “can’t help it,” she mutters, breath short. “you—fuck—you do that to me.”

you hum, hand dragging slow up the inside of her thigh. “then come here, baby.”

she starts to shift forward — but you don’t let her. your hands catch her hips, steady and sure, guiding her back down, easing her until her spine hits the mattress with a soft thud.

she gasps, sharp and breathless, her eyes wide as her hands catch your waist, like she wasn’t expecting to give up the ground so easily.

you crawl over her slow, the weight of your body pressing her into the sheets as you settle on top — your thigh sliding between hers, your mouth already hunting the soft line of her jaw.

“my turn,” you whisper, voice low and full of heat. “you just lay back.”

“fuck,” she whispers, hips jerking. “i—need you. need all of you.”

you shift again, slotting your thigh beneath hers, angling your hips so your cunt presses right up against hers, heat meeting heat, slick on slick. the friction is immediate, maddening. you both gasp, shoulders curling in.

ellie’s eyes flutter shut, jaw slack. “holy shit—.”

you roll your hips once — a slow, grinding drag that sends a full-body tremble through both of you. your clits catch, nerves lighting up like wildfire, and ellie buries her face in your neck, breath hitching hard.

“stay quiet,” you whisper. “or we’re both dead.”

“then kill me,” she breathes, hips grinding down. “don’t care. fuck—feels so good—”

you take the rhythm, force it slow and brutal, hand gripping her hip so tight you’ll leave bruises. she follows, your slicks smearing together in sticky, messy bursts of pressure, each stroke hotter than the last, each one dragging another broken moan from her throat.

you drag your teeth down her shoulder, your hand slipping between her body to press against the space where you meet — hot, swollen, pulsing.

“feel that?” you whisper.

“fuck—yes—yours, all yours—”

your hips snap forward, and she shudders violently, clinging to your body, mouth parted in a silent scream. you’re dripping now, slick pouring down your thighs, soaking into the sheets, the friction loud and obscene in the stillness of the room.

“harder,” ellie whispers, voice ragged. “baby—fuck—don’t stop—please—”

and you give it to her, you give it all. every scrap of rage, every drop of want, every buried ache they taught you to swallow. every ounce of your fury, your desire, your powerlessness, your love.

you grind down harder, deeper, fucking her into the mattress with nothing but your cunt and your will, chasing something raw and wordless between her thighs. your bodies tangle, slick and trembling, no space left between you, no light — just the wild rhythm of it, until you don’t know where she ends and you begin, until it feels less like fucking and more like melding into her. and if you could, you surely would.

her hands clutch at your back, head tipping back, whole body arching. and when she comes, it’s a wreck — twitching, gasping, wet, a mess of breath and heat and muscle. she’s soaking you, her slick coating your thighs

you’re right behind her.

your body locks, hips stuttering against hers, a moan slipping past your lips that you barely muffle in the crook of her neck. it rips through you — bright, electric, endless — your cunt clenching and spasming against hers as wave after wave crashes down.

you stay there, buried in the chaos, trembling and shaking as the adrenaline courses through your veins, sweat pouring down your face and body. the scent of sin hangs heavily in the air, an aroma you have grown to love more than anything else in this world.

a sensation that seems more heavenly than heaven could ever be.

and when ellie finally speaks, her whisper is wrecked.

“i think my soul just left my body.”

you grin against her throat, breath shaky. “and went straight to hell.”

she shifts just enough to look at you, her face flushed and glowing. “worth it.”

you brush her sweaty hair back from her face, hand trembling. “you’re insane.”

“for you?” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss you again — slow this time, filthy-sweet. “always.”

the air has gone thick and slow again.

your skin is still slick with sweat and salt, your thighs sticky where they pressed against hers. ellie’s chest rises slow and steady against your back, her breath warm at the nape of your neck, one arm draped heavy over your waist, fingers threading through your hair in lazy, reverent strokes— as if she’s trying to memorize the shape of you, the feel of you, the weight of you in her arms before the sun comes and the world steals you back, before she has to slip into the dark again.

she hums something quiet under her breath — no melody, no words. just sound, just presence. her lips press against your shoulder once, then again, softer the second time. she buries her face in the curve of your neck, and for a moment, it feels safe here.

“still with me?” she mumbles, voice gone hoarse.

you nod, barely.

her hand drifts down your back. her fingers follow the ridge of your spine, lingering at the dip of it. another kiss, placed gently between your shoulder blades.

and that’s when your chest cracks.

it’s quiet, at first. just a hitch in your breath, a tremor you try to swallow. your lips part, but no sound comes. only tears — sudden, hot — slipping from the corner of your eye and landing on her forearm, where her skin is still warm from where it pressed into yours.

you try to stay still, try to breathe through it, but it rises anyway — thick and unbearable. and suddenly, it’s not just the night catching up to you. it’s everything.

the dinner table. the weight of your father’s voice naming your future without asking for your permission. austin’s hand reaching for yours like it already belonged to him. your mother’s silence. your own reflection in the mirror — pretty dress, quiet mouth, no way out.

and now here you are, wrapped in the arms of the only soul who has truly gifted you the feeling of freedom. the only person who ever let you be more than decoration, than duty, than daughter, than property.

and it hits you all at once —this is the last time.

the last time you feel her hands on your skin, the last time her breath curls against your neck, the last time you get to feel her heartbeat pressed into your back.

because you’ll be someone else’s. you’ll walk down an aisle you didn’t choose, toward a man you can’t stand, and you’ll spend your life pretending that the night in this bed — her mouth, her voice, her love — was just a dream you were lucky enough to wake up from.

you feel the future closing in.

a door slamming, a lock turning.

and that’s when your breath breaks.

you don’t mean to make a sound — but you do, just the tiniest whimper.

and ellie hears it. of course she does.

she lifts her head fast, already alert. “hey,” she whispers. “hey, baby—what’s wrong?”

you turn to bury your face in her shoulder, shaking your head, but the tears keep coming, unstoppable now. she reaches for you — palm at your jaw, thumb swiping at your wet cheeks, her own breath starting to fray.

“darlin’,” she says, accent drawn low. “what is it? what happened?”

your voice breaks on the first try, then again. and then, finally, it comes out.

“they want me to marry him.”

you feel her whole being go still.

a few seconds pass, but you have to keep going. your weak voice wobbles through the air.

“he came over tonight. austin. sat right at our table, talkin’ to my father ‘bout rings and church dates and kids, like i wasn’t even there.”

ellie blinks, slow. “...kids?”

“yeah.” your throat closes again. “five of ‘em, if he gets his way. that’s what he said. sat right there, talkin’ ‘bout fillin’ up a house, makin’ me a wife.”

you let out a breathless laugh that sounds nothing like laughter.

“he said i’d be happy, said the lord made me for it, and i just sat there... because i can’t say no. i ain’t got no money, no way out. i’m stuck, ellie. i’m so—” your voice cracks, helpless. “i’m so fuckin’ scared.”

you expect silence. you expect her to gather her clothes without a word, slip out the window like a secret, leave nothing behind but the ghost of her hands on your skin. you expect her to look at you different now — not with longing, but with loss. with hurt. you expect her to let you go, to decide you’re not worth the trouble. that loving you isn’t worth staying.

instead, ellie pulls you into her.

her hands cradle your face, holding you steady as her eyes search yours in the dark. and when she speaks, her voice is deadly steady.

“run away with me.”

you blink, breath caught.

“what?”

“run,” she mutters again, this time firmer. “come with me. tonight. right now. fuck this house, fuck their prayers, fuck austin and your daddy and every last person who thinks they get a say in what you do with your life.”

your heart kicks like a drum against your ribs.

“ellie—”

“i’m serious.” her hands are on your cheeks now, fingers trembling. “i’ll take you far from here. i’ll carry you if i have to. i swear to god, baby, no one’s gonna put a ring on you unless it’s the one you choose.”

your lip quivers.

“i got nothin’, ellie.”

she shakes her head, fierce and wild and unwavering.

“you got me.”

“and where would we go?”

“don’t know, and i don’t give a shit. i’ll find us somethin’. i got people, i'll find work, we’ll sleep in the truck. we’ll make it.”

you press your forehead to her, your hands fisting the sheets. you can feel the weight of the saints above your bed, the moonlight splitting the cross on your wall. every breath you take now feels like rebellion.

“they’ll hunt us.”

“then let ‘em.” her voice is steel. “they ain’t ever gonna touch you again, not while i’m still breathin’.”

you close your eyes.

and you believe in her.

you feel the promise of her in every inch of your skin, in every kiss she left there. in the ache between your legs, in the sting of your throat, in the beat of your heart that only ever felt right when it was beating next to hers.

“i can’t lose you.”

“you won’t.”

you lie there for a long time, breath tangled. her thumb brushes your cheek again. you press your lips to her shoulder, aching. she whispers something bitter under her breath.

“should’ve taken you sooner,” she mutters. “should’ve known they’d try to take you from me.”

“you didn’t know.”

“still, i should’ve. you ain’t built for their world, sweetheart. you’re too—” she pauses, searching. “too alive. too much.”

“and you are?”

she huffs a breath, her nose brushing yours. “hell no. but i’m mean enough to fight it.”

you laugh, cracked but less broken than before.

“and what happens if i say yes?”

she pulls back just enough to see you — all of you — eyes shining with something reckless.

“then i kiss you again, i help you pack, and we don’t look back.”

you stare at her. then you take a breath, long and deep.

“okay,” you whisper. "let's run"

you say it, and something shifts.

not in the room — it stays still, judging, stubborn — but inside you. deep in your chest, under your ribs. a weight lifts, a door creaks open.

and for the first time in your life, the world feels wide open. you can finally breathe.

ellie watches you like she’s waiting for you to take it back, but you don’t. you just nod, slow and sure, and whisper it again, steady this time.

“let’s run.”

what happens next, happens quiet.

the floorboards know your feet by now, and you know theirs — which ones creak, which ones threaten to give you away. your wear a simple black dress pulled from the back of the drawer. it doesn’t rustle, it doesn’t snag.

she’s waiting by the window now. one boot braced on the roof, one hand curled around the sill. the moon paints her collarbone silver, and she turns to you with eyes sharpe— the same look she wore the night she kissed you behind the grain silo. the night she first pulled her name out of your mouth.

you hold the letter tight in your fist. the paper’s torn from the back of your bible — the page where the genealogy used to be, listing who belonged to who.

you wrote over it.

don’t come after me. this life isn't mine. i’m not sorry, and i won’t be.

— your daughter

you fold it once. then again. lay it on your pillow.

and then you give the room one last good look. crosses nailed on the wall, saints with dust in their eyes, bed you were meant to make children in. a bed that only ever held pressure and silence—until her.

you breathe it all in, then you go.

you climb through the window and fall straight into ellie’s arms. your breath hitches, caught somewhere between fear and freedom. but you don’t fall. she's there to catch you.

“got you,” she murmurs against your hair. “always.”

and then you run through the grass, wind slicing through your hair, breath ragged in your chest. you don’t look back. not at the house, not at the porch light, not at the second-story window where your life was folded into someone else’s idea of salvation.

you only look at her.

the truck waits at the edge of the field, tucked under the trees. the night holds its breath around you. ellie yanks the passenger side open for you and circles the front, her boots hitting gravel. she slides in, hands on the wheel, mouth tight.

“you ready?” she asks.

you glance at her, freckled, flushed. glowing from the fire you lit in her.

“i been ready.”

she nods once, turns the key, and the truck rumbles awake. the tires crackle, gravel spinning under the wheels.

and just like that — you’re gone.

you end up in a town with no name. somewhere south of where they’d think to look, two states from home and a lifetime away. you rent a trailer that leans to one side when it rains, with a screen door that sticks and a front step that creaks under your weight. wildflowers grow in the ditch just past the yard. sometimes, you pick them and leave them on the windowsill.

you work mornings at the diner. ellie picks up whatever she can — oil changes, hay bales, fence posts, odd jobs that leave her knuckles bruised and her shirts stained. no one asks for more than your first names, no one cares who you were before.

you don’t have much — a bed, a radio, a coffee pot that sputters before it pours — but you’ve got quiet. you’ve got a place to touch her without hiding. you’ve got a truck that takes you down dirt roads with the windows down and her hand resting easy on your thigh.

on good days, you both wake before the sun. sit on the porch with bare legs, her head resting against your shoulder, the sky bleeding soft colors above the trees.

on bad days, she holds you close in the dark, rocks you slow, tells you over and over: “you’re safe. you’re safe. you’re safe now.”

some nights, when the air’s too thick to sleep, you strip down and pull her on top of you. let the fans blow hot air across your damp skin while she fucks you slow, both of you too gone to pretend it isn’t perfect. you don’t hide your sounds. you don’t cover your mouth.

after, she lies heavy on your chest, the sheets kicked to the floor. her fingers draw shapes on your belly, and her mouth finds that spot under your collarbone where you keep your leftover fear.

“can’t get enough of you,” she says one night, voice thick, lips brushing warm against your skin. “not now, not ever.”

you card your fingers through her hair, gentle.

“you won’t have to,” you whisper. “i’m yours ‘til the end."

and that way, months pass, seasons shift, nothing spectacular happens — not in the way the world expects. but still, things bloom. inside your body, and inside hers.

you learn to grow things, she learns to fix things. you stop jumping when the phone rings, she starts singing while she washes dishes.

but one night, it happens.

you’re sitting at the table. it’s small, uneven, a little wobbly on one leg. dinner’s done, her hands are still greasy from fixing the truck. the fan hums in the corner, blowing auburn locks into her eyes. she looks at you, quiet for a second.

then she reaches across the table and takes your hand.

“i wanna marry you, proper or not. don’t need a preacher. just need you to say yes.”

your heart falters. you remain silent for a moment, just smiling, warm and full of every mile you’ve traveled to get here.

and then, like a whispered prayer, you say it.

“yes.”

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ WOW OKAY I DID NOT EXPECT TO WRITE THAT MUCH 😭 but god, i genuinely loved every second of this concept — i’ve always wanted to write something like this and it shows. mia said “write riding country!ellie” and my brain immediately went “religious trauma and running away from an arranged marriage.” maybe my favorite drabble i’ve written to date. hope you all enjoyed it, lovesss <333