IM FEELING A LITTLE WOOZY HERE

loser!ellie x mean!fem!reader

TW: shameless smut with so little plot, explicit themes, bullying, slurring (i mean it, a LOT of slurs), rough sex, nudes, internalised homophobia/lesbophobia, ellie's nerd ass getting her revenge, kinda toxic if you squint, spanking, slapping, choking, strap-on sex (r! receiving), unresolved tension, bittersweet all the way through, comedy :D word count — 5.3k, not proofread! Everything was simple between you and Ellie from ninth to twelfth grade in high school. You never, God knows, never missed a chance to tease Ellie. The word "dyke" flew from your sweet lips at her more often than the word "thank you" at your own mother. Ellie adapted and learned to endure. Until one day she mistakenly sent you nudes. Until one day you told her to come over and show her how well she handled that belt she put on her boxers. Until she showed you where your fucking place is. You first noticed Ellie Williams in ninth grade biology, her oversized glasses slipping down her nose as she hunched over a dissection tray, murmuring "the brachial plexus of a frog is structurally similar to early tetrapods" to no one. Her backpack—a thrift-store relic plastered with peeling Savage Starlight decals—leaned against the lab table. Her glasses were stupidly out of place, she wore low-cut clothes, her nails… she didn't even have painted nails, and if she did, they were always black. She always reminded you of Janis from Mean Girls 2004. Janis always gave you that twisting feeling in your stomach that was so close to disgust. You decided instantly, viciously, that she was the kind of girl who deserved every syllable of the word dyke.

By mid-semester, the cafeteria became your theater. You’d corner her at the salad bar, drawling "Hey, Ellie—think Harley Queen’s into girls? Or is that just you?" as your friends snickered into their plates. She’d freeze, a cherry tomato pinched between her fingers, before muttering "A-actually, Harley’s canonically bisexual—" and retreating to the chess club table. You learned her tells: the way her neck flushed splotchy red when you called her space dyke during astronomy class presentations, how her hands trembled when you “accidentally” knocked her X-Men trade paperbacks into puddles. Tenth grade changed things. Ellie arrived on the first day with contacts that turned her eyes into sharp, clear pools of green—no more Coke-bottle lenses (they weren't like that, though) to hide behind. Academically, she suddenly began to break through to the top of the food chain. While you struggled with quadratic equations, she’d dissect them in the back row of Algebra, scribbling proofs so elegant Mr. Donovan would sigh, "Williams, save some genius for the rest of us." Her voice didn't lose its squeak, but it became a little more familiar to the way you whispered "dyke" in the chem lab. She’d just adjust her safety goggles and whisper, "Aniline dyes degrade under UV light, you know. Like your insults." It was provocative and she thought it sounded like a cool insult from someone whose voice constantly trails off and trembles in social situations unless it's about her obsessive fixations or academic matters. You simply told her to shut up and remained silent until you came up with the next brilliant idea to call her some offensive way. And you tried. God, you tried. When Jason Moore asked you out—lacrosse captain, biceps like knotted rope, breath that smelled perpetually of chips and constant misogyny—you said yes. For three weeks, you let him press you against his pickup truck after games, his hands pawing your hips as he slurred, "You’re not like those carpet-munchers, y’know?" You wanted to sink into the ground with shame. You imagined Ellie would pass by, notice, point, and laugh heartily. At this point, you hardly ever heard genuine joy from Ellie; she didn't give you that luxury. Not that you needed it. But the thoughts ate you up, and you constantly pulled away, trying to hide your dislike. "What’s your problem?" he’d grunted, some kind of grease glistening on his chin. You broke up via text that night: "ur breath smells like a dumpster fire. bye." In 11th grade, you did everything you could to convince everyone you loved boys, dicks, dirt, and everything else disgusting that represented a man in your mind. Your friends were suspicious, but you wore the shortest skirts allowed by dress code, let your nails chip from clutching at football jerseys in the bleachers, and perfected the bullshit of the—"No, I don’t like girls, but I can appreciate when someone’s pretty, you know?" lie—always delivered with a dismissive wave, like the concept of queerness was a mildly annoying fly you could shoo away. And they'd immediately return to their usual rut with you. You had no one to talk to about it, and you drowned out thoughts of Ellie by endlessly judging her interests, refusing to acknowledge how much she'd grown and how you hadn't grown at all. You'd talk about her liking disgusting gay shit, while rewatching "But I'm a Cheerleader," identifying with Megan so intensely it hurt. You watched a few lesbian movies, trying to be biased from the start, so that when you specifically tracked Ellie down in the library and said, "I watched Bottoms yesterday. You know what I think? Rare gay crap. I bet you disagree because you like rare gay crap."

Ellie blinked, adjusted her glasses, because, to your delight, she realized that the lenses were simply uncomfortable for her. And—after a solid four seconds of silence—said: "You know, if you hate gay movies so much, why do you keep watching them? That’s like... really gay." Then she went back to her book. You stood there, fuming, because fuck, she was right. They hate when you serve a hyperfeminine gay girly, you thought, leaving her right after 'cause the way she made you speechless was embarrassing. Ellie was still bad at this. She hesitated before comebacks, her voice sometimes shook, and she never quite nailed the delivery. But she was right. Every stupid, awkward, nerdy-ass insult she threw at you stuck like glue because you knew. You knew what you were doing. You knew what you were avoiding. And she knew you knew.

That was the most unforgivable thing of all.

In 12th grade, you finally admitted to yourself that you are a lesbian. But you don't have to admit it to anyone, do you? Not when your school circle consists of straight, conforming girls and their performative boyfriends, whose friends have long since labeled you as "hard to get." You've already missed your chance to find real friends, not friends who embody the ideal patriarchal modern American dream. Ellie's name was now a constant buzz in your head, as if your neighbor was building a house 24/7, but the difference was that her name was now conscious, not subconscious. You forbade yourself from even thinking about regretting those strange years of bullying Ellie, simply because that would prove you were only hurting yourself by trying to insult Ellie with the word "dyke" when the only dyke there was you. So you just waited. You waited for Ellie to stumble, for her to do something stupid, so that you would forget for a second about the panic, the pounding heart, and the shattered pride. And she did.

It was a Saturday night, spending lonely time in your room with a finished bottle of apple cider. You were bored, you didn't want to study, you wanted to distract yourself from the feeling that your life was worthless and miserable and pretend you weren't doing even more bullshit every day by scrolling through Ellie's already inactive Instagram. You wondered how someone could be such a Spider-Man fan and still be smart, gorgeous, and even, in some weird way, charming. The very concept boggled your mind. Do girls like it when other girls love Marvel characters like middle school kids? It was a tough question for you to answer.

And then Ellie texted you. "hey" For a second, you thought you were imagining things. You stared at it for a full minute, your thumb hovering over the keyboard like a bomb disposal expert. Before you could type “who dis”, another text popped up.

A photo loaded.

It was Ellie. Her bedroom in the background—Star Wars posters, a messy desk covered in robot parts, her dinosaur collection lined up on a shelf like jurors. She’d lifted her gray T-shirt to just under her chest. Her stomach was toned, lightly freckled, with a faint trail of dark hair leading from her navel down into her Calvin Klein boxers. And there, strapped over the boxers, was a black harness. The strap-on was visible at the edge of the frame, sleek but hella thick.

You typed "wrong number?" and deleted it. You typed "what the fuck" and deleted it. You typed "you’re disgusting" and deleted it.

Finally, you settled on: "lol. u drunk, dyke ass?" You hit send before you could chicken out, your heart hammering against your ribs. 

"a little? its not for you anyway…" "sry just forget it."

"that was enough for me to call u out on sending dick pics to random ppl. desperate much?" you answered almost defensively. What did she mean "not for you anyway"? Why? How? You hadn't even really communicated, Ellie couldn't have made such a mistake. She wasn't that stupid. She was actually very smart when she wanted to be, and you always hoped you didn't actually notice such details about her.

Ellie didn't respond, even though she read it right away. You were nervous. And when you're nervous, all sorts of crap comes out of your mouth. So you frantically continue writing: "u really thought sending a pic of ur weird strap was gonna do what? scare me?"

"did it?" she answered immediately.

You couldn't let her win. Not like this. The cider and the loneliness and four years of pent-up, confused fury boiled over. You had to push her. You had to make her admit this was for you.  "scare me? please. it looks like a toy from a fucking vending machine. u probably don't even know how to use it. u probably just wear it to feel cool while u build ur legos."

The bubbles stayed up for a long time. You could almost picture her on the other end, flustered, adjusting her glasses, trying to think of a comeback. If only.

"you talk a lot for someone whos never even seen one in person."

Her response hit you right in the ego. Of course she'd go there. Of course she'd pinpoint the exact, humiliating truth that you were all theory and zero practice. The audacity of her, sitting in her nerd-cave, calling you out on your virginity like it was a fucking debate topic.

"never seen one? bitch ive had more dick than uve had real dates with girls" you typed, the lie feeling flimsy even as you sent it. "congrats on jason moore ig. the guy who asked if the clitoris was a brand of car."

How the FUCK did she know that? You never told anyone about that awkward shit ever. Your fingers flew across the screen, desperation overriding common sense. "u stalkin me now too?? listen weirdo at least i dont have to BUY my dick. must be sad."

 "its weird that you're still trying to pretend you're not actually curious about all this yk." "youre just as much of a coward as youve always been."

Your pride was screaming BLOCK HER, you hated her fucking guts right now. She would never have dared to say something like that to you. And the anticipation was literally flaring up in the pit of your stomach, and it was tugging in such a damn strange way. "curious about what? ur little plastic dick? lol. prove it then. if ur so confident and im such a faker, come over. put ur money where ur mouth is. show me what a real loser dyke like u can do with it."

"address."

Your heart stopped. This was not part of the plan. The plan was to bicker until one of you got bored and blocked the other. Not this.

"scared?" she added, when you didn't respond for ten whole seconds.

What, have you played yourself out? Part of you didn't believe Ellie would come when you sent her the address. Part of you didn't believe that "be here in 20" was real. It couldn't happen because… what? What are you even going to do? Ellie was just trying to scare you, that's all. She grew balls after three years to make her first attempt, what a great fucking girl she is. For twenty agonizing minutes, you paced. The empty cider bottle clinked against the floor as you kicked it under your bed. You straightened your already-perfectly-made comforter. You checked your reflection in your phone’s black screen—your hair was a mess, your cheeks flushed. Pathetic. You were pathetic for even caring. This was Ellie. Ellie. The girl who used to flinch when you walked by. The girl whose science fair project on dinosaur extinction timelines you’d “accidentally” knocked over sophomore year. She wasn’t actually coming. This was an elaborate, weirdo-ellie psychological warfare tactic. She was probably sitting in her room, laughing with some of her friends you don't know about how she’d finally gotten under your skin. You were shaking when you heard the sound of a car stopping in front of the house. Your heart sank to your feet, you already hated this idea. You crept to your window, peeling back the curtain just enough to peer into the street. Ellie's car, clearly her father's one, was parked crookedly at the curb. The driver’s side door was open, the interior light casting a glow on her as she got out. She was wearing the same gray T-shirt from the photo, a black hoodie tied around her waist, and those stupid, faded jeans with her traditional glasses, a backpack. Her hands were shoved in her pockets, her shoulders hunched against the cool night air. She looked… small. Normal. Not like someone who was about to show you all the wonders of a strap or something.

The doorbell rang. Your parents were asleep down the hall. The sound felt obscenely loud. You stood frozen in the middle of your room, your bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. What the fuck are you doing? This was insanity. You could still pretend you were asleep. You could text her “jk go away lol” and block her number forever.

The doorbell rang again, longer this time. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you crept downstairs, each step a creaking betrayal. You paused at the front door, your hand hovering over the lock. Through the peephole, you could see her. She was looking down at her phone, her brow furrowed. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She looked… nervous. Good. She should be nervous.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open just a crack. The cool night air hit your face. “What,” you whispered, your voice raspy.

Ellie looked up from her phone. Her glasses were slightly fogged. She didn’t smile. Her eyes, sharp and clear behind the lenses, scanned you from your messy hair to your bare toes. “You invited me.”

“I dared you,” you corrected, leaning against the doorframe, trying to summon every ounce of your usual bravado. “Big difference. Thought you’d chicken out.”

“You thought wrong.” She didn’t move to come in. She just stood there, a challenge in her stance. “So? You gonna let me in, or are we doing this on your front lawn?”

Your face burned. You stepped back, opening the door wider. She walked past you into the dim foyer. You felt like your feet were about to drop you. The last time you'd felt this nervous was when you were trying to prove to your friends that you'd never watched lesbian homemade porn. You led her upstairs to your room in silence, hyper-aware of every sound. Your breathing sounded too loud. You closed your bedroom door behind you, the click of the latch final. You turned to face her, crossing your arms over your chest. “Well? Here I am. Impress me.”

Ellie finally let her eyes wander around your room. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at her lips. “Cozy.”

“Shut up.” You felt exposed. “You got your audience. So what’s the big plan, Williams? Gonna give me a lecture on the feminist implications of strap-ons? Bore me to death with nerd facts?”

She was close enough now that you could see the faint freckles across her nose, the determined set of her jaw. The harness was a faint outline under her shirt. “The plan,” she said, her voice low and steady, “is to finally get you to shut your mouth for five seconds.”

Before you could form another pathetic comeback, her hand snapped out, not to hit you, but grab you firmly by the chin. "All that noise. All that dyke this and disgusting that. It's really fucking transparent."

"You've been begging for this since ninth grade. You just didn't have the vocabulary for it." Her other hand went to the hem of her own shirt, and with a practiced motion, she pulled it over her head, tossing it onto your desk. The black harness was stark against her skin, the straps cutting across her hips. The freckles on her stomach seemed to form constellations you were suddenly desperate to map. "So here's your lesson. The first one is free: this isn't plastic. It's silicone. Significant difference in tensile strength and heat conduction. It warms to body temperature. Unlike the shitty, cold excuses you've been making for years." Her hand left your chin and slid down to the collar of your shirt, fisting in the fabric. "Now. Are you going to keep pretending this is a hate-fuck, or are you finally going to admit you've been dreaming about the class nerd bending you over your pathetic little princess bed?"

Before you could spit another denial, she shoved you backward. You stumbled, landing hard on the edge of your mattress. She was on you in an instant, knees bracketing your hips, pinning you down. "You called me a dyke so many times you practically trademarked the word," she hissed, her face inches from yours. "So let's see if you can say it when it's not an insult. Say it. Say 'fuck me, you dyke'."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Go to hell, Williams." And it sounded pathetic. You didn't even want to admit to yourself what you might fantasize about with Ellie, but saying it out loud? It would have been worse if that same Jacob Moore had suddenly decided to lie to everyone that you were a complete slut for everyone who asks. You felt the sharp, stinging slap on your cheek before you even registered her hand moving. Your eyes flew open, tears of shock and pain welling instantly. "Wrong answer," she said calmly, like she was grading a quiz. "Try again. Or I walk out that door and you can go back to pretending you're straight for your loser friends." Her hand slid down your body, her fingers hooking in the waistband of your shorts.

"I'm not... I'm not saying that," you whispered, even though you didn't want Ellie to leave. It was so strange, the very concept of it happening, but you'd never experienced anything like it before, and you were torn between avoiding Ellie's gaze and the hand that was trying to pull your shorts down. You didn't do anything to resist. You hardly really wanted to. "That's a fucked up thing to say." Ellie’s grip on your shorts tightened, and she gave a short, sharp tug. The elastic bit into your hips. “What’s fucked up is you thinking you’re better than me because you’re a coward,” she said, leaning in, leaned in, “This is your one chance. Admit it. Or I’m gone.”

You took a shaky breath, the air catching in your chest. Your voice was barely audible, a broken whisper. “...fuck me, you dyke.”

The moment the words left your lips, Ellie’s expression shifted. She let out a shaky breath, as if she was genuinely worried you wouldn't say anything, wouldn't give in, and then none of this would make sense. "It wasn't hard, was it? You study when you want." It felt like a sharp jab at your GPA, which clearly wasn't in the best shape. Without another word, she released your chin and yanked your shorts and underwear down in one rough motion. The cool air hit your skin, and you flinched, a gasp escaping you. She didn’t give you time to process the exposure. Her hands were on your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach with surprising strength. Your face pressed into your comforter. You felt her weight settle on the backs of your thighs, pinning you firmly to the bed. One of her hands pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you down. The other hand landed on your bare ass with another stinging slap. You cried out, the sound muffled by the blanket. “That’s for every time you called me a space dyke during astronomy class,” she said, her voice thick with a mix of anger and something else—arousal. Another slap, sharper this time. “And that’s for the ‘DYKEONASA’ you sharped on my locker.” You squirmed, but her hold was unyielding. The pain was bright and sharp, but it was followed by a warm, spreading heat that coiled deep in your stomach. You hated her. For some reason this was exciting. "Oh, so you were actually mad at me?" you stammered, trying to cling to something, though your voice was shaky and quiet. You needed to keep your head up to keep breathing, and Ellie could take that away from you at any moment. "I bet your dyke cunt is already wet from all the crap I put you through." "Mad?" Her voice was a low, gritty thing, stripped of any pretense of academic detachment. "I've been fucking furious. You think this is just about tonight?" Her hand, the one that wasn't pinning your shoulder blades to the mattress, slid from your stinging ass up the small of your back, a slow, deliberate path that made you shiver. "I've been cataloging every single insult, every sneer, every time you 'accidentally' bumped my lunch tray since we were fourteen. I have a goddamn spreadsheet in my head." She shifted her hips, and you felt the firm pressure of the silicone through her boxers against your thigh. "This is applied physics. Cause and effect. You spent years building up all this kinetic energy with your bullshit. Did you really think it would just dissipate? Energy has to go somewhere." She struck your ass again, making you squeal in sharp pain. You felt an involuntary heat where she had struck. "And yeah, maybe part of me liked it. Maybe part of me got off on being your favorite target. Because at least when you were calling me a dyke, you were looking at me. Really looking. Not like those male zombies you pretended to date."

"So don't you dare try to reduce this to you just being a bitch and me just being mad. You wanted a reaction? You built this. And my 'dyke cunt,' as you so eloquently put it, isn't wet from the crap you put me through. It's wet because after four years of your pathetic attempts to get a rise out of me, you finally fucking succeeded. You finally stopped pretending you were too good for this." You whimpered and whined at the same time. Ellie said it in a way that made your ears burn with shame and the sexual satisfaction of just hearing it happen. "L-let's just get this over with, Williams," you whispered, not expecting to sound so weak. You couldn't help but wonder where Ellie learned all this and how much you didn't really know about the man who had been the center of your school and other life for four years now. "Use your silicone toy or whatever."

She shifted her weight, the bedsprings groaning in protest, and her free hand slid between your legs from behind. Her fingers were startlingly cool against your overheated skin. "You're tense," she observed, her voice flat. "Shocker. All that performative aggression and you're wound tighter than the springs in this piece-of-shit bed." Her fingers stilled. "Where's the lube? And don't lie. A girl who wears a short skirt looks like she wants some loser dyke to pull it down definitely has lube." The accuracy of the assessment was its own special kind of humiliation. "You're probably tired of being a virgin at this point. Not that it's bad, but it's just like you." When you hesitated, biting your lip, she delivered another sharp, open-handed smack to your ass cheek. The sting was immediate and bright. "The lube. Now."

"...nightstand drawer," you finally mumbled into the comforter, "The purple bottle."

You heard the drawer slide open, the rattle of various bottles and... other things. She made a small, knowing sound in the back of her throat. "Impressive collection. The purple one's silicone-based. Good for harnesses. You did your homework." The cap clicked open, and soon the slick, cool sensation of lube was being smoothed over her fingers.

Then her fingers were back, one pressing against your entrance without ceremony. "Now," she said, her voice dropping back into that analytical tone as she began to push inside, slow and relentless. "While I'm ensuring this is physiologically feasible, since you're so keen on getting it 'over with,' let's talk data. How often? Once a week? Twice?" The stretch was unfamiliar, intense, making you gasp and dig your fingers into the sheets. "And how? Fingers? Or do you have another... tool in this drawer you like to pretend doesn't exist?" Her finger curled slightly, pressing against a spot that made your back arch. "Be specific. I want to know exactly what kind of liar I'm dealing with." "Every now and then," you answered evasively, your best lie. When you felt the fingers withdraw, you fidgeted. She withdrew her fingers completely, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. The loss was a physical ache. "Try again. With numbers. I don't do vagueness. It's bad data." You were fidgeting, your hips making tiny, involuntary movements against the mattress, seeking friction. "Okay! O-okay! Every other day. Sometimes… sometimes every day," you admitted, unable to keep it to yourself. You hadn't even told anyone that you actually masturbated to lesbians, and not to the disgusting straight porn everyone else might think was the object of the average straight girl's fantasy. "I… I don't have toys. I-I don't know what's best… what's worth buying. Just fingers."

Ellie was silent for a moment, the only sound the faint squelch of her reapplying lube. "Every day," she repeated, her tone not mocking. Like she'd just confirmed a long-held hypothesis. "And just fingers. Of course." You felt the blunt, slick pressure of the strap's head against you, making you tense, "You were too scared to even buy a vibrator." She didn't push in yet. Instead, she leaned forward, her chest pressing against your back again, her mouth close to your ear. "You'd lie there in your pathetic princess bed, surrounded by all your straight-girl props, and use your own fingers to think about this. About me. About girls. And then you'd go to school and call me a disgusting dyke."

You shuddered as the head entered you. It was both painful and right. You deserved it, and you thought you wanted it too. There was no one else around besides Ellie to do this for you, and did you really want anyone else? It seemed so necessary now, as you whined painfully, relaxing, the strap-on feeling cold inside and making you squirm. Ellie had said it would warm up later. You hoped her nerdy ass wasn't lying to you. "I-it's hard, Ellie— fuck, oh, fuck—"

Ellie didn't respond with words, not at first. She answered with a slow, deliberate push that stole the air from your lungs. The initial stretch was a sharp, burning line of pressure that made you gasp, your fingers clawing at the comforter. "It's supposed to be hard. That's the whole point. You don't get a participation trophy for this."

She didn't stop, didn't give you a moment to adjust. She set a punishing, steady rhythm from the very start, each thrust a jarring impact that rocked your body forward. It quickly became pleasurable. It stimulated you so well, and oh my god, you'd never experienced anything like it. It was hard to hold back your sounds; you were inexperienced, and sighs and moans poured out of you as you buried your face in the blanket. The lewd, wet sounds of the strap and your cunt clenching around Ellie didn't bother you anymore.  "See?" she grunted, her hips meeting yours with a solid thud. "Basic thermodynamics. Friction generates heat. Your body is just a shitty conductor trying to catch up." Ellie’s hands clamped around your throat from behind. Not enough to stop air completely—yet—but enough to make your vision swim, your pulse thundering against her palms. “You’re gonna say it,” she growled, her thrusts never slowing, the strap hitting a spot so deep you felt it in your teeth. “Not ‘dyke’ like an insult. Say it like a fact. Say ‘I’m a lesbian.’ Say it while you come on my strap, or I swear to God I’ll leave you here dripping and walk out.”

The pressure on your windpipe sharpened, her thumbs digging into the sides of your neck. Your moans turned fractured, desperate, your hips bucking back against hers instinctively. “F-fuck—” you choked out, tears spilling down your cheeks as pleasure and panic coiled tighter.

"You’re not straight. You’re not confused. You’re a fucking lesbian who spent four years projecting her self-loathing onto me because you couldn’t handle the idea that someone like me—a Star Wars-loving, dinosaur-obsessed, unapologetic dyke—could be everything you wanted.” Her hips snapped forward, the force of it driving your face harder into the mattress. “Say. It.”

Your hips rocked back against hers involuntarily, the strap hitting a spot that made your toes curl. “I—I’m—”

“Say it,” she repeated, softer now, almost pleading. “Say it and I’ll let you come.”

The dam broke. “I’m a lesbian!” you choked out, the confession ripped from your lungs, “I’m a lesbian, I’m a lesbian, I’m—”

Ellie’s hand loosened instantly, her palm flattening against your throat in something almost like comfort as she fucked you through the cresting wave of your orgasm. “Good girl,” she murmured, the praise was genuine. Her hips stuttered, losing rhythm as she chased her own release against the harness. Ser body rigid for a moment before collapsing heavily onto your back, her sweat-slicked clothed chest heaving against your spine.

She was the first to move, sitting up to unclip the harness with mechanical precision. The sound of the straps releasing was absurdly loud. “You should hydrate,” she said flatly.

You stared at the ceiling, rolling over onto your back, your body still humming, your throat tender. “Shut up,” you croaked. She stood, pulling her boxers back on, her movements stiff. Ellie Williams after sex—awkward, efficient, painfully uncool.  You sat up, clutching the sheet to your chest like a cliché. “So… what now?”

She paused, her back to you, her shoulders tense under the hoodie. “Now?” She glanced over her shoulder, her glasses smudged, her hair a disaster. “Now I go home. You… exist. Same as always.”

“That’s it?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Ellie turned fully, her expression unreadable. “What did you expect? A promposal?” She adjusted her glasses, the lenses catching the dim light. “You called me a dyke for four years. I fucked you once. We’re not even.”

The dismissal stung more than the slap. You scowled. Actually, it was painful. “Whatever. Get out, then.”

She reached into her backpack and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Tossed it onto the bed. “Read it. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

You waited until the front door slammed before unfolding it.

Dear bully,

Bruce, letting himself be shoved: You know where to find me when you need me chum.

Dick: I don’t need you. I’ll never need you.

Bruce: And I’ll still be here anyway.

Dick, slams the door in his face.

[not even thirty seconds later]

Like, uncontrollable sobs and he can’t stop himself

Bruce is stuttering out apologies and trying his best to stop but he just can’t and Jason plus anyone else in the room is staring silently in horror, not know what to fucking do

Then Alfred comes and he leads Bruce away while staring back at Jason with the scariest glare he’s ever given in his entire life

And the rest of the kids are like “That was weird, wonder what’s up with Bruce?” Or “Shit, did Bruce get drugged and we didn’t notice?” And they’re all unnerved

While Jason is all “Oh my gosh I made my Dad cry.” And is having a crisis

Barbara: Night night

Dick: Don't let the bed bugs bite

Damian: Sleep tight

Stephanie: Tonight

Damian: Imma fight

Cassandra: Till we see the sunlight

Jason: Tick tock

Dick: On the clock

Tim: But the party won't stop—

Dick, looking through old photo books: aw, it's such a shame Talia didn't tell B about you until recently Dami, I'd have loved to see photos of you as a baby

Damian: ? I can get baby photos if that is required in this family

Dick: what, how? Talia doesn't seem like the baby-book kind of woman, no offense.

Damian: She was not, however after my brother was brought out of the Lazarus pit he was given a few old cameras in an attempt to make his mind focus on something not harmful to himself and settle down. He took a lot of photos of our family during his training.

Dick:

Bruce:

Both, simultaneously: your what now?

-later-

Damian, walking into the room with an old box: Alright so I broke into his current safe house while he was working and took one of the boxes. I believe these should suffice for your 'baby books'

Bruce: hold on you broke into his- your brother lives in Gotham??? there's a trained league assassin working in this city and you didn't tell me? Damian we need to talk about your habit of withholding important infor-

Dick: Bruce.....

Bruce: -mation. what?

Dick: look at the.... photo...

Bruce, leaning over to see a photo of Jason Todd holding baby Damian up at the head of a meeting table like in the lion king, red smear on his forehead, while Ra's Al Ghul stares at them both from his seat looking Tired Of Jason's Shit™:

Damian, peering at the photo: yes, Todd got quite good with the timers on those cameras, he took many a photo holding me like that. I believe it was a special campaign designed to get on grandfather's nerves enough that he'd agree to watch the movie with us.

Bruce:

Dick:

*screaming*

bonus:

Tim: you know some of these photos are actually really good, like the angles and tones you used

Jason: you steal Robin, I steal photography.

( Season 7&8 ) Carl Grimes icons

Right after the ceremony, Carl brought Sophia away from hearing distance of anybody living. Carl took her tiny hands in his and asked her, as shy as a skittish fawn, if he would marry her like Maggie married Glenn. He wouldn't dare to look into her eyes, for if he did, he would regret it. He stared down at his feet, his ridiculously large hat saving him from humiliation. Carl felt his courage slipping away the longer Sophia held her silence (even if it was only for a few seconds). He was about to take his words back right before Sophia answered. "I'd like to be your wife," she grinned. He looked up, and couldn't help but smile back.

They held their little ceremony in Carol and Sophia's empty cell, when everyone was away, busy doing their own thing. Carl said he didn't want anyone to watch them. Sophia agreed, as long as her doll could be the only witness. They had no officiant, only vows. Promises to stay together till the end. To love each other, no matter what was thrown their way. "Can I kiss you now?" asked Carl with curious, wide eyes. Sophia nodded, already closing her eyes and pouting her lips in preparation for a kiss. Carl stared at her nervously before leaning in, his eyes squeezed tight and his lips in the same exaggerated pout as her's. Their baby pink lips met and pulled away just as quickly.

Sophia giggled at Carl, totally giddy over her new "husband". She hugged him, and he returned the gesture. The sun that came in through the large windows and shadows of the cell bars created from the light blessed their new marriage.

𓂃ෆ˚

AN: I have not written fanfic in like 3 years so 😓 I hope it's okay lol