vaisha ﾒ𝟶

𝐁races long gone, but still wearing your glasses—you’d grown into yourself. 

Senior year. Seventeen. Puberty had hit you like a truck in the best way possible, or that's what boys in the hallway whispered now. Boys who barely knew your name before suddenly remembered it—boys who only bothered to acknowledge you after that summer when you came back in crop tops and lip gloss.

But underneath it all, you were still the same girl you’d been on that first day of drama club. The same girl who dreamed about being an actress, who stayed up watching old musicals and reading books under the covers, imagining her name lit up on a poster. The same girl who threw herself into every school play that followed those years like it was Broadway, who loved the stage more than anything else.

Well, not more than anything.

Because, for their bad luck, your heart had already been stolen—completely, irreversibly—by Ellie Williams.

What a blessing in disguise your nerdy best friend turned out to be. When you’re in love—especially in high school—it’s like the whole world gets handed to you through rose-colored glass.

Every smell feels richer, every color brighter, every rush of happiness impossibly intense. And Ellie… Ellie had a way of loving that was so painfully tender, it melted you like ice in July.

She’d grown, sure—but only in age. She never lost her nerdy habits, her childish sense of humor, or her kid-like taste in movies. Ellie grew in the way that was the most beautiful to witness: keeping all the best, purest parts of herself, but maturing them into something even more extraordinary.

And whatever it was—whatever this was—it was changing you. Since that day in the dressing room when she blurted out her feelings, nothing in your life had felt the same. That tingling, heart-in-your-throat rush of knowing you’re loved—it was the most gorgeous thing you’d ever experienced. The way a single glance from her could rearrange your entire day.

But those moments, we’ll remember them later. 

Because tonight… tonight was prom.

Prom day. The day every girl dreams of after seeing it in movies, the day everyone secretly builds up in their head, wrapped in glitter and slow songs.

You smoothed down your light pink dress, satin pooling like molten glass between your fingers, cinched tight at the waist so the skirt flared out in a soft, romantic shape. The fabric caught the light, glowing faintly under the small lamp on your desk.

You had spent an hour doing your hair just so, another thirty minutes doing your makeup, another thirty minutes pressing the hem of the dress, and another fifteen dabbing perfume at the base of your throat until it clung to your skin.

Down the hall, Caroline’s bedroom door was cracked just enough for her voice to carry.

“So you’re really going with her?”

It wasn’t curious, it was flat as a line. You’d heard versions of it before—her voice, your mom’s, sometimes even your own when you weren’t ready to answer. 

When you’d told them you were dating Ellie, the kitchen had gone so quiet you could hear the hum of the refrigerator. Your mom’s lips pressed into a thin line, Sarah exchanging that quick, sharp look with Caroline that said we knew it, like it was some secret they’d been keeping from you.

No yelling, no tears—just that awful brand of disapproval that sounded polite but actually was a locked door.

Your mom had only said you looked “pretty” earlier, in the noncommittal tone she used when she couldn’t decide if it was a compliment or a critique. She’d seen you at the mirror doing your makeup and hadn’t even asked to help with the clasp on your necklace or to fix the back where you couldn’t reach. 

Somewhere between you falling for a girl and refusing to drop either of the two things she didn’t approve of—acting and Ellie—she had quietly given up. Not with a fight, not with a scene. Just… silence. Like she’d crossed you off some invisible list in her head.

Your dad wasn’t here anymore—hadn’t been for a while—and in the hollow space he left, your mom’s opinions had only grown sharper, your sisters only a mirror to them. 

But tonight, you decided you weren’t making space for any of it.

From the kitchen now, your mom called, “You could still go with a group of friends. It’s safer… better.” That pause after better, the one that carried more weight than the word itself, was a language you knew by heart.

But you didn’t doubt, not this time. You adjusted the strap on your shoulder and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I don’t care what y'all think. I’m going with Ellie.”

The sound of a truck pulling into the driveway cut through the tension, and you’d know the uneven purr of that engine anywhere. You pushed away from your vanity, taking one last look in the mirror, then moved to the window just in time to see it—Joel’s truck, its headlights spilling across the lawn. But Joel wasn’t in the driver’s seat. Ellie was.

You caught yourself smiling before you even meant to, rushing to go downstairs.

A knock came at the door. Your mom got there first, opening it with a polite-but-not-too-warm smile. 

Ellie stood on the porch. “H-hi, Mrs. Y/L/N,” she said, hands shoved into her pockets, voice a little rough like she’d rehearsed it on the drive over and it still came out wrong.

“Ellie,” your mom replied flatly. “Come in.”

Ellie stepped inside in a black suit, jacket and white shirt both a little too big and wrinkled, tie loose and knotted like she’d watched a YouTube tutorial and lost patience halfway through. Those same battered black converse she always wore instead of polished shoes. Her hair was short now, the top half pulled back messily with a tie you knew she probably found on her nightstand. 

She looked… God, she looked like every slow-burning, heart-aching song you’d ever loved.

Her gaze flickered past Sarah leaning in the hallway—a glance, nothing more—before locking onto the staircase. Onto you.

You were only halfway down when you felt it, that invisible thread pulling taut between you. Her eyes caught you mid-step, and for a second, she forgot how to stand. Her shoulders eased, her mouth parted slightly, as though your very presence had undone every defense she’d ever learned to keep.

It hit her in the chest, a windless punch—as if the ghost of love had knocked the air right out of her lungs, but in a way that didn’t hurt. You were framed in the amber light from the hallway, the satin of your dress catching it just enough to make you look unreal, like something she’d been sketching in the margins of her notebooks for years and suddenly brought to life.

“...Wow,” she breathed, quiet and reverent, meant for you alone.

“Hi” You grinned when you finally stepped in front of her, heat blooming in your cheeks at her reaction. “You clean up nice.”

She glanced down at herself and smiled fairly, shy. “Yeah, well… you look like you just stepped out of one of those old movies. The kind where the guy never shuts up about the girl for the rest of his life.”

Your mom cleared her throat, but you didn’t look at her. 

“Good thing I’m not going with a guy,” you teased, stepping closer.

Ellie’s lips quirked. “Even better.”

You lingered there for a beat, half-expecting—half-hoping—for your mom, Caroline or Sarah to reach for a phone, to at least pretend to want a picture. That’s what family did, right? Stand you by the door, make you smile too wide, insist on “one more” until you’re late. But their hands were empty, no intention of documenting this night. Just stillness. Waiting for you to leave. Classic, why were you even surprised?

For a moment, the room was a strange balance, and then Ellie reached for your hand. Her palm was warm, steady, grounding you in the one thing you were sure of.

“You ready?” she asked softly, her thumb brushing against your knuckles, voice barely rising.

“Yeah,” you said.

From the doorway, your mom didn’t move. She just crossed her arms loosely over her chest and said, almost bored, “Have fun, girls.” Your sisters just waved lazily, eyes half on you. No smiles. No real goodbyes. 

Ellie opened the door of the truck for you, her hand grazing the small of your back as you slid into the passenger seat. The night air followed you in, cool against your flushed skin before the solid thunk of the door sealed you inside. She rounded the hood and dropped into the driver’s seat, shutting the world out with the rumble of Joel’s old Chevy—beaten-up, dependable, smelling faintly of pine air freshener and the mints she always chewed when she was nervous.

Her hands were locked around the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale. You could see the muscle ticking in her jaw, lips twitching at the corners like she was trying to wrestle them into something neutral, something not so transparent.

You reached over, fingers brushing against the warm give of her thigh through her suit pants. She flinched, just barely, even though you’d been closer than this. But something about tonight—seeing you in that shimmering pink dress, picking you up like she was the lucky one—made her hands sweat and her heart race like she was fourteen again, sitting in drama club beside you and trying not to stare too long.

“Baby,” she said, aiming for casual and missing completely, landing somewhere between breathless and whiny. “You look so pretty I think I might crash this truck.”

You laughed, hand sliding a little higher on her thigh, feeling the twitch of muscle beneath your palm. “Guess I’ll just have to trust your driving skills, then.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, shifting gears, “you might regret that. I’ve been distracted all night.” She flicked her eyes toward you, quick but burning, before snapping them back to the road.

You leaned closer, your perfume mixing with the scent of her mints, your lips brushing her cheek as you kissed her once, soft and quick. She turned pink instantly, the blush spilling down her neck and blooming high into her ears. She was so hopeless when it came to you, even after all this time.

“Eros,” you whispered, your voice lilting, teasing, sickeningly sweet, “you’re blushing.”

She groaned, dragging her free hand down her face like it might hide her. “You promised we weren’t doing the Sappho lover names thing in public.”

“Well,” you said, grinning, “we aren’t in public. This is our space.”

She shook her head, but you could see the smile fighting its way across her mouth. “Still… it’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” You arched a brow. “Or romantic?”

“Both,” she admitted, glancing at you again, eyes soft in a way that made your chest ache. “Mostly romantic. Just… dangerous for my ego.”

You tilted your head, biting back a smirk. “We promised, remember?”

Her grin broke free like she couldn’t help it. “Yeah, of course we did.” She tightened her grip on the wheel, then loosened it again, voice quieter now. “Atthis.” 

She said it like the name was a charm only she got to keep. And, she was completely right about that.

When you pulled up to the school gym, the night was already alive—music pounding through the walls, fairy lights strung across the courtyard, couples and clusters of friends laughing, swaying, posing. Ellie helped you out of the truck like you were the most delicate thing she’d ever held, her hand lingering at your waist longer than it needed to. People stared—of course they did—but neither of you noticed. Or maybe you did, but you just didn’t care.

You danced. God, you danced.

She couldn’t keep her hands off you. You couldn’t stop laughing. Every song became your song. Every spin made your dress flare like something out of a movie, and Ellie, for all her nerdy, awkward coolness, spun you as if she'd practiced it a hundred times in her head.

“I’m having the best night of my life,” she whispered in your ear during a slow song, her hand splayed across your lower back.

“I know,” you whispered back, burying your face into the crook of her neck. “Me too.”

The announcement was a blur, muffled under the thump of the bass and the dizzy spin of colored lights. Neither of you even heard your names—too busy tangled together in the dark corner, the taste of fruit punch and mint gum between you making out like delinquents in love—until someone barreled into you from behind, breathless and laughing, shouting.

“Go! You won prom queens! GO!”

You barely had time to pull apart—let alone figure out what the hell was going on—before you were being herded through the crowd, Ellie’s hand locked in yours, her other still half clutching her loosened tie.

You twisted to look at her over your shoulder, half-laughing, half-breathless. “Ellie, what the actual fuck is happening? We didn’t even—”

She grinned at you, all faux innocence, green eyes dazzling under the lights. “The universe?” she offered, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

You snorted, shaking your head as you stumbled up the steps to the stage. It was insane. Two drama club dorks—you two—being crowned prom queens? It didn’t make sense at all. 

What you didn’t know then—and what you still don’t know to this day—is that Ellie had found a way to sneak into the Prom Committee’s little office weeks earlier and rig the entire vote.

Every. Single. One. Just so she could give you the best night possible.

She kept laughing under her breath as you were herded toward the stage, she still couldn’t believe her ridiculous plan had actually worked. Shaking her head, muttering half-formed curses under her breath, she looked like she was about to call bullshit at any second.

But when you reached the top of the stage and the roar of cheering hit all at once, you saw it happen—her shoulders dropped, the tension unspooling, faltering into shyness at the sudden weight of everyone’s eyes on her.

They placed the sashes over your chests and the shiny crowns on your heads—yours settling neatly into place, hers tilting crooked over her half-tied hair—and the gym roared again. For a moment, you just stood there under the bright heat of the stage lights, the strange weight of the crown pressing down, her warm hand wrapped around yours.

Then Ellie leaned in, her breath brushing your ear, voice meant for you and you alone. “You’re the love of my life.”

It was quick, rushed, but her voice was steady and certain in a way that made your chest ache, and when you turned to look at her with starry eyes, she was already smiling at you like she’d been waiting her whole life to say it.

Someone in the front shouted, “Smile!” and you barely had time to turn toward the flash before Ellie’s hands were on your face, pulling you in. She kissed you right there on stage, laughing against your mouth as if the rest of the world had fallen away, holding you tight against her chest.

The first Polaroid slid out a few seconds later—warm in your palm, the image bleeding into focus. Hazy around the edges, but center all you and her: your eyes closed, her hands on your face, crowns crooked, your arms looped around her neck, both of you smiling into the kiss like it was the only thing you’d ever needed. They called for another, and this time you both turned to face the camera, smiling ear to ear, sashes glossy, arms wrapped around each other.

You kept the first. Ellie claimed the second.

The night only got more impossible from there—two drama club kids, prom queens, dancing like they owned the floor in front of the entire school. The DJ kept throwing you winks between songs, your classmates cheering and laughing every time you spun each other around.

The gym lights caught the glitter on your dresses and jackets, making the whole room feel surreal, as if you’d stepped straight into some over-the-top teen movie ending. Every song bled into the next, your hands never letting go. Your cheeks ached from smiling so wide, but you didn’t care. In that moment, it felt impossible to imagine smiling for anyone else.

And when the party ended, you both had... plans. Unspoken, but obvious. The kind of plans that didn’t need words because they were already written all over the way you kept looking at each other.

In the backseat of the truck, parked under the lone flickering streetlight at the far edge of the school lot, you crawled into her lap, your paper crown sliding down over one eye. Her hands found your hips—sweaty, shaky—but still certain enough to memorize the exact weight of you settling into her thighs.

Ellie swallowed hard, her voice breaking a little. “Hi.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “Hi.”

Her mouth twitched like she wanted to be cocky but couldn’t quite land it. “You, uh… you’re really close right now.”

“That’s kind of the point, baby,” you teased.

“Right, yeah, I know.” She laughed nervously, fingers flexing. “I just… don’t want to mess this up.”

You tilted your head, studying her gorgeous freckled face in the uneven glow. All soft features and even softer intentions. “You’re not going to mess it up.”

“You sure? Because my heart is doing this really stupid fast thing, and I think my hands forgot how to work.”

You grinned, looping your arms loosely around her neck. “I’m sure. I’m ready."

That seemed to knock the air out of her, her breath catching as her shoulders dropped just a fraction. “Okay,” she murmured, almost to herself, and then she was smiling—shy and crooked, like she couldn’t believe what was always bound to happen.

You were both still dizzy from everything, but mostly from the slow-burn charge that had been simmering for years. You’d both thought about it—God, you’d thought about it—but you were too shy, even after two years together, to cross the line. Total losers, what can we say.

Nothing had gone further than that one time you took your shirt off and she nearly came in her Superman boxers, hands hovering uselessly in the air as she blabbered nonsense. Poor thing—first time seeing real-life tits. Joel had walked in with snacks thirty seconds later, and that was that.

You don’t talk about that incident.

But when you finally kissed her, it wasn’t like the messy, stolen moments in dark corners or the clumsy make-outs in your rooms. This was slower, deeper, the kind of kiss you could live inside. Her thumb traced lazy circles into the small of your back, but her grip on your hips turned firm, almost desperate.

You giggled into her mouth, the sound breaking when she shifted beneath you, her hands sliding lower to drag you closer. Her smile against your lips was steady, sure. She believed every unspoken thing passing between you.

Somewhere in the warmth of her lap, with her mouth brushing over your neck and your fingers tangling in her hair, the laughter faded into quiet, nervous gasps. Soft, breathless whispers of “Are you sure?” and “Can I?” threaded between kisses—the kind of questions you only ever ask once, the kind that belong to a single night in your life. Your hands shook a little, not from hesitation, but from the electricity of knowing that this was it. Your first time. Hers too.

Clothes shifted awkwardly, clumsy at first, the both of you fumbling and laughing under your breath before slowing down, becoming more careful. Skin found skin, and the air inside the truck thickened, each inhale heavy with heat and the faint rattle of the streetlight outside.

She looked at you more than she touched you at first, her gaze consuming, like she was afraid to forget a single detail of your face. Her hands were shaky but certain, sliding over you with the reverence of someone who finally gets to materialize a fantasy. When she finally lowered herself between your thighs, it was unhurried, her mouth moving against you with a mix of awe and clumsiness that made your breath hitch.

It wasn’t the how—it was the who. It was the fact that it was Ellie, flushed and grinning through her own nerves, that made you come undone.

In the cramped backseat, the two of you fumbled through angles and space, laughing nervously between gasps when knees knocked against the door. You shifted, she adjusted, until you fit together just right—your legs tangling, hips pressing, finding a rhythm that made the whole world dissolve into heat and movement. It wasn’t graceful, but it worked, and the closeness was almost unbearable—skin to skin, breath to breath, the kind of intimacy that felt like it could swallow you whole.

When it was over, you stayed tangled together, your crowns discarded somewhere on the floor, your clothes wrinkled beyond repair laying there too. Her fingers traced slow, aimless patterns on your bare shoulder. She pressed a kiss into your temple like she couldn’t stop herself, her breath still uneven, and you let yourself believe that you’d spend the rest of your life right there in her arms.

After a stretch of quiet, her voice came shaky, almost unsure. In contrast of the meaning of her words, filled with certainty.

“What I said… up there on the stage—I really meant it. You’re the love of my life. I know you might think I’m crazy, or too young to mean it, or just caught up in the moment… but I’m not. I’m sure.”

You felt your eyes slightly water at the intensity of the moment, of her words, of everything that happened that night combined. You then cupped her face, cradled it as if it was the most fragile thing of the planet. Brushing your thumb over her freckled, balmy cheek, lips hovering against hers.

“God, and you’re mine,” you breathed, the words spilling like they’d been waiting an eternity. “You make me so, so happy. Like no one has ever before.”

You pressed your forehead to hers, voice steadier now. Sure.

“I’m gonna love you forever, Ellie.”

𝑰 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆. — 𝑺𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒉𝒐, 𝑭𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 2

𝐓wenty-six now, Los Angeles has a way of swallowing years without you noticing. 

The air here never feels like it belongs to one season—a sun-bleached haze that makes everything seem timeless, as though nothing bad can touch you if you’re wearing sunglasses and walking fast enough. Your apartment sits high above the city, all glass and white walls and the faint scent of expensive candles you forget to blow out. 

Every morning, you wake to the light spilling in through floor-to-ceiling windows, pooling gold over silk sheets, phone buzzing with messages from your agent, your publicist, your stylist, your day already mapped out before you’ve even taken your first sip of coffee. 

Your face stares back at you from billboards on Sunset Boulevard and magazine covers in checkout aisles, the same face that used to hide behind smudged glasses in high school hallways. The glasses are long gone, the soft edges of your girlhood traded for sharp cheekbones, precise eyeliner, and the kind of hair that only ever looks like this because a team of people are paid to keep it perfect. 

The first time the world noticed you was in blood-slick lighting—the hot final girl in a horror film that came out of nowhere and made you a household name. You screamed convincingly, you ran beautifully, and when you turned around to deliver the killing blow, audiences swore you were born for it.

Chanel calls you their new muse, your mouth painted crimson in campaigns that hang in duty-free airports all over the world. Dior perfume ads run between streaming shows, your smile frozen in perfect, cinematic laughter. 

They call you Hollywood’s new starlet, the girl who made it, the one with the wardrobe of couture gowns and diamond earrings, the one who seems untouchable.

And in some ways, you are—you’ve let go of everything that tied you to your past. You’ve shed the last scraps of the girl who used to linger in empty theater wings after rehearsal just to feel close to a dream. 

Now you live inside it, walking red carpets, sipping champagne at rooftop parties, watching the sun dip below the palm trees from a seat that was always meant for someone important. 

Your sisters still text you sometimes—links to gossip articles or pictures of their kids—but you let the messages sit unread for days, answering only when you kinda feel like it. Your mom calls on holidays, her voice softer now, though she still manages to slip in a line or two about how different you are.

“I’m glad you finally found a man you can settle with,” she said four years ago when you started publicly dating him, her tone half-approval, half-relief, like she’s been holding her breath for years and can finally exhale. “When are we gonna meet Chris?”

You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, a smile curving that you know she can’t see. “Soon, Mom,” you murmur, gaze drifting to the city skyline outside your window.

“He seems like a good one. Stable.”

“Yeah. He’s great.”

You keep your voice steady, polite, hanging on the surface of the conversation until it feels safe to say, Well, I should get going, and end the call before it can sink its teeth into you.

Family is something you keep at arm’s length, a place you visit but never stay in.

Los Angeles is your home now, and you’re finally shining exactly the way you always dreamed you would.

The only person you have that feels the closest to family is Rachel, who has been with you since the very start. She was there before the public learned how to say your name without stumbling, back when your career was nothing more than a gamble and a final-girl scream. 

She’d been assigned to you as a publicist on that movie. You were twenty-one, still figuring out your angles, running barefoot through fake blood while production lights made your skin feel like it was about to melt. Rachel was fresh out of an assistant job then, sharp-tongued and sharper-minded, with a perfectly arched brow that could cut through a man’s ego in under three seconds. 

Somewhere between surviving that press tour together—dodging creepy “method” questions from middle-aged interviewers, laughing until you cried in the back of Ubers after bad premieres, holding each other’s hair back at 3 a.m. after after-parties that got out of hand—she stopped being your publicist and became something else entirely.

Your manager, yes. But also the closest thing you had to a real friend in this city. 

In an industry where smiles were just sales pitches and friendships came with NDAs, Rachel was the only person you knew would never sell you out.

Now, she is draped over the corner of your enormous white couch, blazer resting on the coffee table, glass of red balanced lazily between her fingers. Her heels are kicked off by the door, and the faint city glow bleeds in through the balcony windows, highlighting her brunette curtain bangs.

“Ya' know,” she says, tipping her wine toward you, New York accent slipping through, “I think this is gonna be the one.”

You raise a brow from your spot across from her, tucked into the couch with your knees pulled up. “The one what?”

“The one that makes you stick,” she says, grinning. “You’ve been killing it, babe, but this romcom—this is career cement. You and Chris? Bantering on rooftops in the golden hour? That shot in the faux snow where you look like you’ve just been kissed for the first time? People eat that shit up.”

You groan, flopping back into the cushions. “Yeah, a shift straight into America’s Sweetheart Land.”

Rachel smirks. “Could be worse. You could be doing Hallmark Christmas movies with titles like A Latte Love.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you mutter, grinning despite yourself. “At least then I’d get to play a quirky bookstore owner instead of the hot girl who magically falls in love with her coworker after three scenes.”

Rachel swirls her wine, leaning forward. “Look, all I’m saying is: keep the act up until the contract ends. Your agency is obsessed with the idea of you as the next big thing. Young, hot, untouchable. They’ve already decided it works, don’t fuck it just yet.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “I don’t want to be the next "big thing". I want real roles. I want something complicated, something fucked up and brilliant. I want to play women with teeth.”

Rachel tilts her head. “Okay, Gerwig.”

“I’m serious!”

She softens then, really looking at you. “I know it sucks. But we play the game just long enough to win it, and then you can torch the board and make your own rules.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You make that sound way cooler than it probably will be.”

“It will be cool!” she says, clinking her glass against your water bottle. “And when you finally get your Oscar for some drama where you wear no makeup and cry for two hours straight, I’ll be in the front row, crying harder than you.”

You grin, feeling that familiar warmth—comfort, loyalty, love—settle into your chest. “You’re the best person alive, you know that?”

Rachel leans back, smug. “Tell me something I don’t know, babe.”

Saturday of that week, the cameras are merciless—white-hot bursts of light that felt like they could peel the skin off your face if you looked straight into them too long. 

A storm of heat and noise, the air vibrating with the rise-and-fall of your names being screamed from behind barricades. It was the kind of chaos you’d learned to walk through without blinking, without tripping, without letting a single flicker of what you actually felt show up in the photos that would be dissected online before you’d even gotten home.

You and Chris glide through it like the publicist-trained, media-friendly, movie-poster couple you were—his hand at the small of your back, your arm hooked loosely through his, every step in sync like a dance you’d both learned before you were even conscious of learning it. 

He smells faintly of Tom Ford Oud Wood. You can feel the rumble of his low, manly laugh against your arm every time one of the reporters shouts something absurd like “When’s the wedding?!”

Chris looked the part—immaculate in a black velvet jacket and a crisp white shirt, tie knotted loose enough to say I’m approachable but not so loose it would ruin the aesthetic. 

America’s favorite new leading man. Tall. Blue eyes. Jawline so sharp it could cut glass. Teeth so white they could star their own Colgate ad.  

Stupidly blonde, stupidly handsome. 

And stupidly gay. 

Not the casual, maybe-he’s-bi kind of gay. Chris was full Broadway-musical-references, ten-step-skin-routine, cries-at-the-finale-of-Drag Race gay. No man that looked so clean could possibly be straight, but Chris had perfected the art of pretending. 

He was so good at it—so good at slipping into that rugged, easygoing leading man routine whenever a camera found him—that sometimes you wondered if he’d missed his true calling as a con artist. The jaw set just right, the laugh pitched low, the kind of gaze that middle-aged women called “dreamy” on Facebook.

Off-camera, he was all sarcastic wit and exaggerated dramatics, making you wonder how on earth anyone ever bought him as the romantic lead in straight romcoms, but in the spotlight? He could sell the illusion so well you almost believed it yourself, and then think, oh… right. That’s why he’s an actor.

You were in silver silk tonight, bias cut so it clung and fell exactly right with every step, the train shining over the carpet like a constellation, cleavage deep enough to be sexy but not vulgar.

Together you look like a studio’s wet dream—marketable, bankable, and photogenic enough to sell every last ticket to the movie you were here to premiere: When We Fell.

You stop in front of a particularly aggressive cluster of photographers shouting your names in unison. Chris tilts his head slightly toward you, keeping his smile camera-ready but murmuring under his breath, 

“So… what are we calling this? I’m going for raging lesbo and premium faggot.”

Your lips curve wider for the cameras, but your voice stays dry. “Bitch, don’t call it that.”

His eyes sparkle, “What? You don’t think it’ll trend?”

“I think it already has,” you whisper, turning your head just enough to give the photographers your good side.

The irony was that somewhere in the chaos of press tours, red carpets, and whispered PR memos, you and Chris had actually become really close over the years—bonded over the constant performance of pretending to be straight for your careers, and now for the promo of the movie. “We’re literally Barbie and Ken. Lavender soulmates.” he’d declared once over overpriced hotel martinis, and you’d almost spat yours out. The industry could kill you tomorrow and you’d still be grateful for having him in the trenches.

Another volley of flashes went off. Somewhere to your left, a reporter yells “How did you two meet?” Chris leaned in so his mouth hovered just at your ear, his voice pitched in that silky, conspiratorial way that never failed to make the gossip mags foam.

“Think they’d buy Tinder again?”

“I can hear your Grindr notifs from here, fag.” you bit back a laugh, teeth barely parting.

“You’re right,” he whispers with mock gravity. “Tell them you swiped right for my jawline.”

“Tell them you begged for my number,”

“Tell them it was love at first sight.” He smiles like he'd just said the most romantic thing in the world to you, and in reality you just want to elbow him in the ribs.

You move forward again, the wall of screaming fans getting closer, the sound like an incoming tide. And then—casually, as if it had just floated into his head, or maybe like fate had been sitting in the corner all night, waiting for its cue to ruin it—Chris says,

“Hoe, have you seen that new series—the one starring Ellie Williams?”

The name lands like a sucker punch—low, precise, merciless—sliding under your ribs and detonating in your chest with the kind of force that made you momentarily forget how to breathe.

The world doesn't tilt exactly, but it presses in, the carpet beneath your heels suddenly too steady, the lights too bright. And still, you don't let your face betray you.

So you just blink once and lie, “…Uhm. Nope.”

Chris, oblivious to the scar tissue he’d just grazed, keeps moving, hand still light at the small of your back. 

“Giiiiirl, it’s unreal. Like, actually unreal. You have to watch it, it's called Backstage. HBO dumped a ridiculous amount of money into it, and she serves SO much cunt in it it's insane. Plays an addict, dropped a ton of weight for the role. The little dyke can ACT.”

And you—God, you knew. 

You didn’t need him to tell you how good she was. 

“I'll... take a look when i can.” you whisper more than say, words careful, as if you were stepping barefoot over broken glass.

And Chris—smart, perceptive Chris—notices. He sees the way your spine goes rigid, how the light in your face shifts by degrees cameras can't catch. But he doesn't comment, tease, or ask. Instead, he smiles for the world, presses his palm a little more firmly at the small of your back, and steers you toward the next round of flashing lights.

After the premiere, the night stretched in gold and neon, the way only Los Angeles can when the whole city seems to be watching. 

The afterparty was at some glass-and-chrome rooftop bar downtown, the kind of place where the walls were made of windows and the drinks cost more than your shared rent used to.

Chris was in his element—laughing that broad, camera-trained laugh, shaking hands with the people who could make his career stretch another decade if they wanted. You’d gotten good at that too, at the air-kisses and easy banter, at smiling like you’d been born in heels, like champagne didn’t burn your throat on the way down.

The music was loud enough to blur thought, the bass vibrating in your sternum, the lights splintering into hundreds of tiny gold stars on the glass walls. You move through conversations like you're floating, the hem of your gown gathered in your fingers, your cheeks warm from liquor and attention. 

People keep telling you the film was magical, that you and Chris have real chemistry that translated on screen, that this was the start of something huge. You smile, you nod, you thank them.

You dance with Chris—just a little, swaying with a martini in hand, your hair falling in a way you knew would make the next day’s party coverage.

And when the photographers had all been escorted out, you dance with him for real, clumsy and grinning, the two of you laughing about which gossip blogs would call you “engaged” tomorrow.

But somewhere between your third champagne flute, your second martini, and the endless parade of compliments, you feel it. 

That hollow that has a name and a face, the way the bottom of you goes soft, goes thin. You quickly duck into the bathroom, excusing yourself away from the noise, away from Chris and the industry and the weight of your own smile.

The moment the door latches behind you, it hits.

Ellie.

Ellie. Ellie. Ellie.

Her name loops in your head like a broken radio you can’t turn off, like a song you forgot the meaning of, but your body still remembers the rhythm.

What a name. What a fucking person.

You see her like you always did—half-memory, half-fantasy. The way she used to smile at you across the room like you were her favorite thing in the world. The way her hand felt at the back of your neck when she pulled you into a kiss like the world could end before morning.

You think you’re over it, over her, until it happens again—someone saying her name, her face in a poster, her voice in a late night interview. And then your chest pulls tight in the same painful way, like grief or déjà vu or both.

You lean against the sink, marble cold against your palms, and let yourself break for a minute. Tears start forming, hot and uninvited. 

You hate how easily they come, how quickly the thought of her can undo the careful scaffolding you’d built around yourself. You blink them away, but they slide down anyway, cutting balmy paths over your cheeks.

You hadn’t seen Ellie in six years. Not in the flesh, not in the ways that counted. You’d only seen her in posters, splashed across bus stops and billboards, in Twitter clips that autoplayed when you were trying to scroll past without watching, in the curated chaos of social media feeds where her name trended for days at a time. 

You’d seen her on red carpets at premieres—roles you’d once dreamed of taking yourself, roles you’d auditioned for and lost. 

And every single time, the universe reminded you: Ellie got them instead.

She had every role you’d ever wanted to star in. The gritty dramas, the character studies critics wrote essays about. She was magnetic and disciplined and devastatingly good in ways you’d always known she would be if the world ever got the chance to see her.

She had the career you’d scribbled into your diary at fifteen—except it wasn’t yours, it was hers. And she had the kind of public adoration that could crush you if you thought about it too long.

And she wasn’t alone. No, Ellie Williams—same Ellie Williams who once told you you were the love of her life—was in a relationship now. 

With a model. Dina, if you remember right.

Who the fuck are you even kidding—you remember her name perfectly.

You’d seen the pictures. Paparazzi candids of them holding hands in Central Park, red carpet appearances, fingers laced, Dina in something couture and lethal. They were beautiful together, sickeningly beautiful. 

And the worst part? They looked real. Real in a way that made your stomach pitch like you’d swallowed something spoiled. You wanted to vomit right there and then on the sink just at the thought of it.

Because she could be as lesbian as she wanted. As dramatic as she wanted. As adored as she wanted. She could kiss her girlfriend in public and be praised for it. She could walk into interviews and talk about her roles and her partner without a single care for who was listening. 

And you—well, you’re the one who can’t even say she kissed a girl once.

You resent that. 

Just a little. 

A little bit a lot.

You saw her face everywhere, and it wasn’t fair—wasn’t fucking fair—that it was still as beautiful as the first time you saw it. Only now her features were a touch sharper, her expressions refined to camera-perfect precision, her freckles a shade darker, her gaze sharpened into something deadly.

But you could still spot it, buried there. The glow in her eyes, that spark she couldn’t quite scrub out with all the fame and control and discipline in the world. 

You saw the girl you’d known, the girl you’d loved.

The train of your gown feels heavy, like you're dragging all of it with you—the years, the resentment, the wound that never seems to fully close. You carry it the way you carry her, the way you’d been carrying her for over half a decade: tucked somewhere deep and hidden, pulsing every time her name is said out loud.

You gently scrub the tears away with the heel of your hand, careful not to ruin the makeup you’d paid someone far too much to perfect. You smooth your hair, press your palms to your cheeks until they feel cool again, and straighten. 

The mirror reflects exactly what you want it to—glamour, control, the kind of woman no one could imagine breaking down in a bathroom over someone she hasn’t actually seen in years.

When you step back into the party, it's quieter. People had begun to drift out, their laughter trailing toward the elevators. Chris was still at the bar, laughing with a director you vaguely knew, but you didn’t feel like weaving your way back to him.

You wanted out. You slip into the corner of the terrace and call her, the wind snatching at the hem of your dress. 

She picks up on the first ring, tone amused. “Miss me already?”

“Come get me,” you say, softer than you mean to.

Twenty minutes later, the sleek black Lamborghini slid up to the curb outside, its windows tinted dark enough to make it look like a shadow on wheels. She was in the driver’s seat, hair pulled back, black bomber jacket over a white tee. 

Even in the low glow of the streetlamps, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a sports magazine—because she probably had, hours before.

Abby Anderson. Hockey player of the season. An entire country’s sports press wrapped around her little finger, her face plastered across billboards and ESPN covers, her name on every commentator’s lips. It was a golden year for her.

When you spotted her through the tinted glass, parked at the curb like she’d been waiting all her life for you to walk toward her, the corner of your mouth tipped up.

Before you even reached the car, your head tilted subtly, scanning the sidewalk, the building, the alley across the street. She knew that look. You were checking for other people, for paparazzi. When you don't spot any long lenses or suspicious phones, your shoulders drop slightly.

The engine stays running. She taps the lock once, and the door pops open for you.

“Hey, babe,” she says the second you open the door, voice warm and easy “Missed you.”

“Missed you more,” you murmur, sliding into the seat and shutting the door.

She turned to look at you, smiling. “How was the premiere?”

You let out a sigh, sinking into the leather seat. “Exhausting. All I wanted to do was get through it so I could see you.” You pause, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. “Chris kept making me laugh, though.”

Her eyes flicker toward you for half a second before glancing down. “Chris… right.” There was a weight in her tone you didn’t push at.

Her gaze drifts over you again—your gown, your hair, your shiny eyes, the faint flush still warm on your cheeks. It lingers, slow enough to make your stomach tighten.

“…Wow,” she said, low, almost to herself. “You look… gorgeous.”

You feel heat creep up your neck, smiling. You slowly lean across the console, your hand cupping her jaw, and kiss her.

It was different with Abby. Not easier, not harder—just different. She tasted like spearmint gum and faintly like whiskey, and her hands were steady even when yours weren’t.

You’d started seeing each other almost a year ago, after she slid into your dm's. Classic. Slow at first, stolen moments between press tours and training schedules, furtive and stealthy, the kind of thing you could hide under headlines about other people. No interviews, no photos, no speculation. Just her hotel rooms and your late-night calls, the text threads that grew into entire conversations about nothing and everything.

At first it was just sex. The kind of messy, can’t-catch-your-breath, skin-on-skin collision you’d only read about. She fucked you like you were a match she needed to win, and you fucked her back like she was the air you needed to breathe. You both worked perfectly.

But somewhere along the way, maybe after that weekend in Chicago, maybe the night she stayed on the phone with you until you fell asleep, it stopped being just that.

She got you in a way few people ever had. You got her too—the quiet after her games, the way she lit up when talking about her interests, the soft edge in her voice when she told you about her dad's cooking. 

She was kind to you, sweet even when you didn’t feel like you deserved it. And little by little, you’d started to feel it again—that warm, terrifying thing you hadn't felt since you were fifteen. 

The edge of falling in love.

She was helping you heal in ways you didn’t know you needed. And you could feel it, in the way she looked at you—like she'd always been in love with you, and was just waiting for you to catch up.

The gown whispered against the leather seats as you climbed over the console and into her lap, your lips not detaching from hers, silk pooling like liquid silver. The slit of the dress slid higher and higher until cool air touched the inside of your thigh, until Abby’s hands—big, strong, certain—were there to span the bare skin, thumbs pressing just enough to let you know she could hold you still if she wanted to. 

She was hard beneath you, the familiar, illicit shape of the strap tucked low under her jeans. It pressed into you perfectly as you rolled your hips once, slow, and you felt her jaw clench beneath your palm.

You kiss her hard, you’d been waiting all night—all week—for this exact moment. Her mouth was hot and open against yours, her tongue dragging slow until the breath hitched in your throat. 

The air inside the car was warm from the vents and the heat of her body, but you shiver anyway, something winding tight in your belly as she drags you closer, tighter.

“You know,” Abby murmurs against your lips, the words low enough to vibrate right through your chest, “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

It was the kind of line that should’ve made you roll your eyes, that would’ve sounded corny from anyone else—but from her, it landed with a softness that rattled you. 

You almost laugh, almost make a joke to keep yourself from falling too deep, but instead you breathe her in, kiss her again, and let yourself say, “You’re not too bad yourself, Anderson.”

Her grin is small, crooked, like she knew exactly what you meant and what you didn’t.

And then—like a tide you didn’t see coming—it hit. A flicker in the back of your mind, uninvited, unshakable. 

A different night. A smaller lap. A softer jaw. 

The distinct, indelible weight of Ellie.

It was nothing and everything at once, barely a flash and yet it caught in your chest like a shard of glass you couldn’t cough up. You felt it in your ribs, in the pulse at your throat.

She only came unprovoked in nights like this—when the moonlight cut across the city in hard silver lines, when the air carried that same kind of ache and she felt close enough to touch. Close enough that if you turned too quickly, you might catch her standing there.

But why now? Why with Abby? You hated it. Hated her for haunting you. Hated yourself for letting her. And most of all, you hated the thought that maybe this wasn’t just memory, that maybe it was a curse, stitched into your skin.

So you kiss Abby even harder. Let your teeth scrape her lower lip. Roll your hips sharper, faster against the strap pressing into you, chasing the heat, chasing now. She groans into your mouth, her grip on your waist tightening until you were sure there’d be marks in the morning, and that made something dark and sweet curl in your stomach.

“When’s your contract ending?” she suddenly asks between kisses, voice rough with something more than lust. “When’s this whole stupid thing with Chris over?”

You stilled—not entirely, just enough for her to feel it. The question cracks something in the air between you, letting in a sliver of cold.

“Because…” she went on, voice steady even as her chest rose and fell beneath you, “I want to date you for real. I want to take you out and show you off and not give a fuck about what they think. I’m tired of watching you pretend with him. This whole thing they’ve got you doing for the press—it’s bullshit. It's been four years. You deserve better than that.”

The words hang there, heavier than the night itself. Outside, traffic passes in a steady hush, the sound of the city softened by tinted glass. Inside, all you could hear was your own pulse and the low thrum of the engine.

Her eyes didn’t waver. They never did. That was the thing about Abby: she said what she meant, and she meant it. She didn’t care how messy it was, how complicated, how badly it could end. 

She wanted you. Not the press-release version, not the red carpet smile. Just you.

“I... I know… can we not talk about that right now, please?" you finally mutter, voice careful like you were stepping across thin ice. Your gaze slides away from hers, fixing on the blur of city lights outside the tinted window.

“It’s ending soon,” you add after a beat, lying through your teeth, “I promise.”

Her mouth curves at that. Not quite a smile, but close enough to break you a little. She leans forward and kisses you slow, her hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs when she pulls away. “I’ll wait for you.”

And then there was no more talking. 

Just, well. Dirty talking.

Her hands slid lower, over the curve of your ass, pulling you down until the strap was flush against you, the pressure perfect. The world outside blurred to nothing while you focused on the slow, deliberate drag of silk against denim, the friction pooling heat low in your stomach. Abby’s head tipped back against the seat, her eyes half-lidded, fixed on you like she couldn’t decide whether to watch your face or your body.

“You really came prepped for me, huh?” you murmur, breath catching on a laugh that wasn’t entirely steady. “So eager.”

Her mouth curls at the corner, in that lazy knowing smirk that never fails to make your pulse stutter. “When it comes to you?” she say in that way that goes straight to your spine. “Always.”

You hook your fingers under the thin band of your lacy panties, dragging them aside, the damp fabric catching for a moment before you free yourself from it. Your other hand moves to her toned abdomen, fingers curling into the edge of her jeans. You kiss her sloppily while you pop the button, the faint metallic click loud in the quiet, then drag the zipper down in one smooth pull.

She shifts under you, hips lifting to help, breath hitching when you slip your hand inside. Your fingertips brush over the cool leather of the harness, tracing the straps until you find the base of it pressed snug against her. You tug her jeans down just enough for her to spread her legs wider.

The cool air of the car licks over your bare center for only a second before Abby’s hands tightened at your hips, angling you so the head of the strap slid right where you were aching for it. The first nudge against your entrance stole your breath, your fingers curling into her shoulders for balance.

Her gaze dropped immediately, her pupils blown wide until her eyes looked almost black. You lower inch by inch, slow enough to feel everything. The harness sat firm against her hips, unmoving beneath you, and your thighs tremble as you settle all the way down, the sensation so heavy and so right its dizzying.

“...Fuck,” Abby mutters, the curse slipping out like she hadn’t meant to say it. Her knuckles flexe. Her jaw clenchs. And when she looks up at you, her eyes are wide, almost shy beneath the blown pupils.

“Jesus,” she breaths. “You—God, you look so good, babe.” Her voice cracks just a little on babe, her usual bravado fraying at the edges. Abby Anderson—hockey star, record-breaking athlete—was literally trembling under you.

You roll your hips again, slow and deep, and her head drops back against the seat with a low, guttural moan.

“God, Abs,” you pant, nails digging into her shoulders. Your teeth found your lower lip, but the sound still escaped—a high, broken whimper. “You’re so fucking deep…”

“I’m sorry—shit—I’m trying not to come,” Abby admits in a low, wrecked whisper, the words rushing out like a confession. “You’re just—fuck, you drive me crazy.”

You can feel her pulse hammering through every inch of contact. You lean forward, brushing your lips against the shell of her ear.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whisper, voice thick with heat and affection.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” she groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You giggle, even as your hips keep rolling, rhythm growing in speed as you start to bounce, and she chokes out a laugh that dissolves straight into a moan. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down your thighs—and then one of them slips up, under the fabric of your dress, over your stomach, and settles right at your ribs.

Her thumb brushes over it—just barely, just enough—and you flinch. The tiniest subconscious pullback, instinctive and sharp.

You kiss her quickly, your fingers weaving into her hair, distracting her, guiding her hand gently down to your ass, and she grips the fat of it like she hadn’t noticed the shift at all.

And then you began to ride her in earnest, the leather seat creaking beneath the rhythm, your soft moans and her heavy breathing thickening the scarce air. Your hands brace against her shoulders as you work yourself on her, chasing every drag, every deep push, every perfect meeting of hips.

You don't think about Ellie again that night.

Not until later.

𝐍ew York had a way of sharpening a person, and Ellie had let it cut her down to the bone. 

The city was noisy, unforgiving, and full of people who didn’t give a damn about her unless she was standing under the right lights. But somehow, in this chaos, she’d found her footing. The nights were long and heavy, the air in the winter biting enough to keep you awake, the summer sticky enough to make you curse. 

It suited who she was now—the grit, the stubborn pace, the way the streets were never empty even at four a.m. This wasn’t a place for soft edges. It was a place for work. For ambition. 

And Ellie had both in spades.

Her breakout had been a gamble. An A24 indie with a shoestring budget and an obsession with atmosphere, a slow-burn suspense that crept under your skin and stayed there. 

It became the kind of movie that got compared to Silence of the Lambs, but stranger, more claustrophobic, leaning harder into psychological horror than procedural thrills. She’d played the lead—a magnetic, intelligent woman whose charm was only a mask for something monstrous underneath. The film was shot in dim rooms and shadowed streets, all damp concrete and flickering lights. It wasn’t a role meant to make you like her, it was meant to make you watch her. And critics had.

That was the role that got her a name—not just in the credits, but whispered in casting rooms, scribbled on the shortlists of directors who claimed to hate young actors. 

She could feel it when she walked into a room now: the weight of expectation, the shift in tone when people realized who she was. Ellie Williams. Twenty-two, sharp as glass, able to carry a film on her back without a line being delivered. 

She’d stripped away the quirks and soft edges the world once knew her for, sanding herself down into the kind of person who could command a room with a glance. The awkward hand gestures, the rambling tangents about movies no one had seen, the endless facts about dinosaurs—gone, replaced with a sharp, deliberate cool she’d built piece by piece, exactly how she wanted people to see her. 

It gave her power, made her untouchable. But behind closed doors, when the makeup was off and the city had gone a little more quiet, she still found herself curled up in bed with a stack of dog-eared comics, the panels lit by her bedside lamp, the inked heroes and villains as much a part of her as the name that now carried weight.

And it was after that A24 film that she met Erin. Her agent at the time had insisted she needed “a bigger team,” someone who could “handle the next level.” 

Erin had walked into their first meeting wearing a perfectly tailored blazer and a smile so thin it might as well been a blade. She talked fast, asked pointed questions, and didn’t waste her breath on compliments. 

Ellie had respected that, but the respect hadn’t lasted. Erin was good—damn good—at what she did, but she had a way of treating people like currency, like everything was a transaction, including her. And Ellie, no matter how far she’d come, couldn’t stand being managed like a brand instead of a person.

Their working relationship became… functional. Erin got her into the kinds of rooms most actors her age only dreamed of, and Ellie delivered the performances that kept her there. They weren’t friends. Ellie didn’t trust her entirely and Erin didn’t care to change that. 

Still, Ellie couldn’t deny what the last few years had given her. She’d built a career that wasn’t reliant on anyone else’s shadow. No handouts, no coattails, just her and the work. Directors described her as “fearless” in interviews, critics called her “electric,” and audiences… well, they didn’t know what the hell to do with her half the time, but they couldn’t look away.

She lived in an apartment in Brooklyn now, the kind with exposed brick and uneven floors, more expensive than it should’ve been but worth it for the view. 

At night, she’d sit on the fire escape with a cigarette and watch the city flicker beneath her, the hum of traffic and neon signs making it hard to tell where the noise stopped and she began.

She had convinced herself she could live with the ache and loneliness, could tuck it into the background while she worked and thrived and built a name for herself. She didn’t date much, not really—nothing ever stuck. Just one night-stands and ghosting more girls than she was proud to admit. No one could pull her attention from work.

But, two years ago, in a charity art auction in Manhattan, something changed. She’d gone because Erin told her to, because the right people would be there, because her name was finally big enough to make an appearance matter. The room was all champagne flutes and low, expensive laughter, and Ellie was halfway through pretending to study a painting when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Ellie Williams?”

She turned, expecting another producer, another social climber. But instead, she saw her—Dina.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie said, polite but flat. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” Dina replied with a smile that was more flirtatious than amused. “I’m Dina Woodward. I model for—well, a bunch of people who don’t matter here.”

Ellie smirked despite herself. “Confident. I like that.”

“Please, I’m just here for the free wine.” Dina took a sip, tilting her head at the painting. “Do you actually like this, or are you also pretending?”

Ellie glanced back at the piece—some abstract mess she couldn’t understand—and shrugged. “Pretending.”

“Good. I was worried I’d have to lie to make conversation.”

She’d thought Dina would be shallow, that the conversation would circle around shoots and campaigns and fabrics Ellie didn’t care about. But Dina was sharp. She was funny in a way that felt uncalculated, leaning in to tell her small, ridiculous observations about the room, poking fun at the socialites in the corner without a drop of malice.

By the end of the night, they’d traded numbers. 

What followed wasn’t sudden, just dinners that turned into late nights, late nights that turned into mornings. And somewhere in the blur of weeks, Ellie found herself letting Dina in.

When her latest project began—the HBO series Backstage, where she played a drug-addicted musician spiraling out of control—Dina was the one there in her apartment while she prepared.

Ellie didn’t touch actual drugs, but she buried herself in the role. She studied addicts, shadowed rehab programs, starved herself of sleep and food to understand the fraying edges of someone whose life was all noise and collapse. She lived inside the skin of that character for six months, letting it eat at her until she came out the other side hollow and raw.

She did love Dina, or at least she was trying to. She liked the way Dina made her laugh, the way she seemed to understand that her silences weren’t personal. Dina was warmth in a life that had become colder than she’d intended. 

But no matter how hard she tried, Ellie could feel the edges of something else lingering like the faintest bruise.

And her true friend became someone unexpected.

They’d met on the set of Backstage, back when Ellie was still raw from months of prep and Jesse was the new guy on set with a knack for diffusing tension. He played a supporting character—the drummer of her guitarist's band—and their scenes together had been some of the rare light moments in an otherwise very heavy shoot. 

Off-camera, they’d fallen into an easy camaraderie, trading sarcastic comments between takes, leaning on each other through twelve-hour days. By the end of the shoot, coffee runs had become their thing. It stuck even after production wrapped.

They met at the same café most times, a cramped little place on the Lower East Side that smelled like cinnamon and espresso, where the baristas barely looked up when they came in. Ellie liked that no one there seemed to care who she was. She was already at a corner table when Jesse walked in, his scarf looped haphazardly around his neck, holding two cups.

“Black for you,” he says, setting hers down before sliding into the chair opposite her.

“You remembered,”

“Only because you get unreasonably mad when someone tries to put sugar in your coffee.”

“Because it’s a crime,” Ellie replies flatly, then takes a sip. “And I’m not visiting you in prison if you commit it.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the street noise filtering in from outside.

“You know,” Ellie starts, resting her forearms on the table, “sometimes I think this whole industry’s like Spider-Man.”

Jesse pauses mid-sip. “What?”

“Like, great power, great responsibility—except instead of, like, saving people, you’re just stuck choosing between selling your soul or starving. And even if you choose right, sometimes you still get eaten alive by some guy in a green suit throwing bombs.”

“Green suit?” Jesse frowns, brows knitting. "...Ellie, are you on drugs?"

Ellie tilts her head at him. “You don't know… the Green Goblin?”

“The… what?”

“…You’ve never seen Spider-Man?!”

“Nope.” He says it without a hint of shame, leaning back in his chair.

Ellie sits back, incredulous. “Not even one of them? Not Tobey Maguire, not Andrew Garfield, not Tom Holland?!”

“Nope, nope, and nope.”

Her jaw drops. “That’s… actually upsetting, man. Like, I don’t even know how to talk to you right now. I don't even know if we can be friends anymore.”

“Come on,” Jesse says, grinning. “I grew up on Star Wars, not superheroes. My pop culture education is just… different.”

“Different as in lacking the emotional weight of Uncle Ben’s death? Yeah, I’d say so.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re acting like this is a moral failing.”

“It is.” she says, dead serious. “You can’t just walk around in life without knowing the responsibility speech. That’s, like, a cornerstone of human existence.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m an actor,” she shoots back, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “And you’re deeply misinformed.”

But even as the words left her, smooth and light, something sour twisted in her chest.

She took a slow sip of coffee, eyes drifting down to her own forearm. The bold, intricate tattoo of moths and ferns curled there like an armor—covering something smaller beneath it. Something older she once swore she’d never hide.

It was stupid, but the ache came anyway.

Someone she loved would’ve gotten the reference immediately. Would’ve grinned and thrown it back at her in a god-awful Willem Dafoe voice, dragging the lines into a cartoon-villain snarl until she was wheezing with laughter.

That someone used to be you.

Even after the move to New York, even after the awards, the black-tie events, the interviews where she played at mystery—Ellie had still been in love with you. It wasn’t the loud kind. It lived in quiet corners of her day, tucked into the lyric of a song, a scent caught in passing, a stranger’s laugh across a subway platform. Love that didn’t announce itself, but never really leaves.

Now, it was constant.

You were everywhere. On subway ads, in commercials, on the sides of buses and splashed three stories tall across Times Square. The face she first traced with trembling fingers at fifteen had become something glossy and untouchable—lit just right, framed by diamonds and marketing teams.

And always, he was beside you.

Chris. The safe bet. The blue-eyed, charming, all-American poster boy. You smiled next to him in every interview, every press appearance, every viral red carpet moment.

You’d changed. She could see it in your laugh, more practiced now, stripped of the little squeak it used to have and she used to dream about. In the way your voice wrapped itself around soundbites instead of truths. But sometimes, just sometimes, she swore the girl she loved still flickered behind your eyes, trying to breathe through the image.

The truth—the ugly, quiet truth—was that so much of who Ellie had become had been shaped by losing you. By the silence after. The reinvention, the polish, the icy precision—it was all armor. And it still wasn’t enough.

Because every time she saw your face, whether in a romcom montage or trending online, her chest pulled tight. Not for the girl you were now, but for the one who used to swear you’d never leave her. The one who used to say she was your future.

And now? You smiled through photo ops and held hands with the man of your dreams, like you hadn’t once promised forever in the backseat of her truck.

She hated you for that—for becoming a ghost she could never shake, for turning the fiercest love of her life into something half-imagined.

For forcing her to deny you, because you were the first one to do it.

Jesse’s phone buzzes against the table, rattling the quiet, and Ellie blinked—snapped from the spiral like waking from a dream. He glanced at it, the easy humor in his face shifting to something softer. His thumb brushed over the screen, and the corners of his mouth lifted in this unconscious, private smile. He typed quickly, backspacing once, then sending whatever it was.

“Hey,” he says, sliding the phone into his pocket, “I’m gonna have to cut this short.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow. “Work thing?”

“Something like that,” he mutters, trying to keep his tone casual.

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m not lying,” he protests, smiling like he knew he’d been caught anyway.

Ellie lets it drop, though curiosity lingers in the way she watches him gather his coat. When he stands, the screen of his phone lights up again in his hand. She catches it in a quick, unthinking glance—just a flash of the message before he locks it.

can’t wait to see you tonight

“See you next week?” Jesse asks.

“Yeah,” she says, a faint smirk on her face. “And seriously, watch Spider-Man before then. I’m not talking to you about anything else until you do.”

He laughs as he heads for the door, leaving her alone with a cooling coffee.

Weeks later, the Emmys are a blur of light and movement, the kind of night that hums with electricity from the moment Ellie stepped onto the red carpet. 

Cameras flashed in rapid bursts, reporters call her name, and the weight of the evening settles into her shoulders with every step she took beside Dina. They’d gone public months ago—premiere night for Backstage—and since then, they’d been photographed enough together to feed gossip columns for years. 

Dina was radiant in a black satin gown, the fabric catching the light with every step, her curls framing her face in perfect, glossy spirals. Every tilt of her chin, every shift of her hip was deliberate—practiced poses honed from years in front of lenses. 

Her arm was looped through Ellie’s, who wore a perfectly tailored suit, the cut sharp enough to look effortless, not a wrinkle in sight. The gleam of polished dress shoes caught beneath the hems, and together their smiles fell into sync—easy, seamless, the kind of chemistry that photographed well. 

Inside the theater, Ellie could feel the air shift as the categories moved closer to hers. She tried not to fidget, tried not to think about the clip that would play in front of millions, the sound of her own voice echoing off the walls. 

Dina’s hand rested lightly on her knee, grounding but not quite touching the storm brewing under her skin. On her other side, Jesse leaned in every few minutes to whisper some dumb comment—half about the teleprompter, half about the people in the front row—that made her bite down on a grin she was trying to keep under control. 

She could already see the moment in her head, already hear the presenter’s voice calling her name, and the thought alone was enough to make her pulse hammer.

When the envelope tore open and she heard it for real—“Ellie Williams, Backstage!”—the rush hit her all at once, sharp and dizzying. Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series. She stood so fast she almost tripped, her breath catching in her throat. Dina rose with her, slipping her arms around her neck and pulling her in close.

“Oh my god, baby!” Dina murmured in her ear, her voice warm and steady over the roar of applause. “I knew you’d do it!”

Ellie gave a small, breathless laugh, the kind that barely made it past her lips. “Guess you were right, love,” she said, almost swallowed by the noise. 

The crowd’s applause swelled, deafening. She hugged Dina back, holding onto her for a heartbeat longer than necessary—long enough to feel the curve of her smile against her cheek—but she didn’t kiss her. For some reason, she just… didn’t.

As she turned to head for the stage, she stuck out her hand toward Jesse, and he grinned wide, dapping her up before giving her a quick squeeze on the shoulder—a silent go kill it—before letting her go.

Walking to the stage felt like moving underwater. Her shoes sank into the thick carpet of the stairs, the lights overhead making her squint. She took the golden statue into her hands, its weight heavier than she’d imagined, and stepped up to the microphone. 

The crowd shimmered in front of her—faces she knew, faces she didn’t—an indistinct blur under the stage lights. Her gaze found Dina in the audience, her black satin gown catching the light, her smile perfectly in place, but sincere.

And then, without warning, her mind slips.

You, sitting there instead, eyes starry and locked on her like the rest of the room didn’t exist. You, watching her in this moment you’d both once talked about like it was a far-off fantasy, whispered under the dim lights of a high school auditorium when you were just kids who loved the stage. She could hear your voice from that night as clear as if you’d just said it—“You could win an Emmy someday, Ells. I mean it!” You’d laughed then, half-teasing, half-dead serious, but you’d looked at her like it was already true.

The image hit so sharply her throat tightened. She didn’t know why it happened, why her brain would pull you into this moment, now, when it should’ve been about everything she’d built since you. But there you were, in her mind, where you didn’t belong anymore.

She swallows, lets the silence stretch for a beat too long, and begins.

“Holy sh—Wow… I’ve wanted this since I was fifteen years old. Since drama club after school, running lines in hallways with… friends who believed in me before I believed in myself. Since freshman year, when I stepped on stage for the first time and felt… like I’d found the one place in the world where I made sense.” 

“This... This is for every kid sitting in the back of the classroom right now, writing monologues in their notebooks instead of taking notes. For every person who’s ever been told they’re too much or not enough. For the people chasing something impossible because it feels like the only thing worth catching."

Her eyes glistened, and she let the tears come, just enough to blur the edges of the crowd.

"And for anyone who’s ever been told that who you are—your identity, your sexuality—should limit what you can do or who you can be. Don’t let them write your story for you. You are not defined by the boxes they try to put you in, or by the labels they think should hold you back. It’s terrifying. It’s exhausting. But it’s worth it. And I promise—no matter where you come from—it’s possible. If you love it enough, if you work until your bones ache and your voice cracks… you can stand here too.”

She breathed in slowly, letting the words settle. 

“To the Backstage team—thank you for trusting me with a role that took everything I had to give,” she says, her voice steadier than she felt. “Thank you to my dad, Joel—who’s probably watching me right now and crying into a beer. I love you, old man. And I'm sure mom is watching too.” A small aww moved through the crowd, but when she reached the next part, her cadence slowed.

“To Dina…” She hesitates, just for a beat, the name almost catching in her mouth like it didn’t want to come out. “…thank you.”

The words are soft, almost perfunctory. They don't carry the swelling affection the cameras expected, no grand declaration of love for the woman seated in the front row. Just a polite nod, careful and contained, like she was checking a box rather than opening a window. Dina’s smile doesn't fade, but her eyebrows furrow slightly.

"And last, thank you so much to the Academy. I will never forget this.'"

The orchestra swells, golden light flooding the stage as Ellie tightens her grip on the Emmy, the smile on her face wide like it never was seen before. 

But inside, her pulse was still rattling from the moment before—from the way her mind had betrayed her with that sudden, blinding flicker of your face instead of Dina’s.

She would’ve liked to thank you. To look out at that sea of cameras and strangers and say that you were the reason she’d ever stepped onto a stage. That without you, none of this—none of the scripts, none of the auditions, none of the standing here with an Emmy in her hand—would have happened. Because it was simply the truth.

But she knew that was never possible. Not anymore, not in this life you’d both chosen, where the truth between you was something fragile and dangerous, better left unsaid.

She steps offstage into a crush of stagehands and publicists, the applause still ringing in her ears, and she barely has a second to breathe before the night sweeps her up again.

It comes in waves: the noise of the crowd settling and then rising again, the shuffle of cards in the hands of the next presenters, Jesse’s low murmur beside her asking if she was ready for “round two.” And then the words: Backstage—Best Drama Series.

She didn’t even realize she was moving until she felt Jesse’s arm sling around her shoulders, guiding her toward the steps. 

“Three for three, huh?” he says under his breath, his grin boyish and wide, and it grounds her in a way nothing else that night had. 

She lets herself laugh, the Emmy warm in her hand, as the entire cast and crew pours onto the stage. The lights hit hard again, blinding, turning everyone into silhouettes against the glare. Speeches happen—some careful, some stumbling—and she claps for each one, looking out into the audience, searching for nothing in particular and finding Dina every time.

The afterparty was a carousel she couldn’t get off: champagne flutes pressed into her hands, strangers congratulating her like they’d grown up on the same street, and photo after photo under soft gold lights.

Dina stayed close, her hand sometimes brushing Ellie’s arm, her smile practiced and perfect for the cameras. But the warmth behind it was gone. It was a polite smile, the kind you wear when you’re counting down the minutes. Ellie noticed it in flashes—when someone else was talking, when the cameras turned away—but she let it slide.  

By the time they slipped away, the city had thinned to its late-night hum. Ellie unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel, her award resting in the backseat. Dina sank into the passenger seat without a word, smoothing the satin of her gown over her knees. The silence between them was different now—dense, as if waiting.

Ellie pulls out her phone and, on impulse, taps Joel’s number. The line rings twice before his voice comes on, warm and hoarse. “Congratulations, I’m so proud of you, kiddo. Your mom would be so proud too.” he says, and she can hear the pride as if it was something he was holding in his hands.

She smiles faintly, eyes softening. “Thanks, dad. It means a lot.”

“You earned it. Every bit of it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” he says, and she could picture him exactly—seated at the kitchen table, wiping at his eyes.

“Yeah. I hear you,” she murmurs, and for a moment, the world outside the car fell away. She hangs up after some few minutes talking, tucks the phone into her pocket, and starts the engine.

The car rolled forward, the streetlights catching in the windshield. For a moment, she thought Dina was just tired—two years together meant knowing her tells, and usually silence meant exhaustion, not anger. But the tension in her jaw was sharp enough to see in the corner of Ellie’s eye.

“And to Dina, thank you. Really, Ellie?”

Dina’s voice cuts through the low hum of the engine, each word clipped and careful, like she’d been holding it in all night.

Ellie’s fingers tighten on the wheel. “...What did you expect me to say? I was running out of time up there.”

“No, you weren’t,” Dina snaps back, voice already climbing. “You had time, you just didn’t take it.”

Ellie shooks her head, forcing her eyes to the road. “Look, I don’t know what the damn issue is—”

“The damn issue,” Dina interrupts, the word sharp, “is that you didn’t even kiss me. Not once. Not even a quick kiss when you went up to get your award. And you went up there three times tonight!” Her voice keeps rising, the composure she’d kept all evening splintering. 

“I’ve been the one beside you for two years. I’m the one who held you when you came home shaking from that role, when you couldn’t sleep for weeks. And what do I get? Thank you. Two words. Flat. That’s all I get."

Ellie’s mouth opens—whether to defend herself or explain, Dina doesn’t know—but she cuts her off before the sound can form.

“And you were also looking at me in this really weird way, like you were seeing a ghost or something. What the actual fuck was that?”

Ellie stays silent for a beat too long, her hands tightening on the wheel. “...I don’t know what you mean,” she says finally, the words thin, evasive.

“I’m… sorry.” Her voice is low, her jaw working like the apology has to scrape its way out. She keeps her gaze pinned to the empty stretch of road ahead, but the word lingers in the air, fragile and incomplete—nowhere close to sincere.

In the back seat, the Emmy catches a passing streetlight and flashes gold, a kind of shine that only seemed to make the silence between them louder.

“You’re sorry, huh?” Dina says after a while, her tone flat, the bite in it sharper for how quiet it was. She turned her head to look out the window, the city lights sliding over her face. 

She shooks her head slowly, like she can't decide if she's more angry or disappointed, and the car feels smaller somehow—like the air had shifted and neither of them could take a full breath. 

"You’re unbelievable.”

𝐄rin sits at her kitchen counter, her manicured nails tapping a restless rhythm against the cool edge of the marble. The apartment is quiet in that way that makes every small sound feel too loud—the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of a pipe somewhere in the walls.

She has Ellie’s laptop open in front of her, the familiar login and desktop greeting her like an old habit.

She’s been given permission to use it countless times before; it’s part of the job, after all. Her job. She’s the one who drafts the press releases, coordinates the scheduling, files award submissions, and answers every email Ellie doesn’t have the time—or the patience—to touch. She’s good at it. Too good, maybe. 

But lately, every keystroke has felt heavier, her hands hover longer over the keys, weighted by the sour pit in her stomach that’s been quietly rotting there since the night Ellie and Dina went public.

It’s not that Erin hadn’t seen Ellie with women before. She had. Plenty. But this was different, Dina wasn’t a fling or a quiet arrangement. Dina was official, her image sewn into Ellie’s brand now, stitched neatly into every red carpet photo and interview clip. And Erin hated it—hated the way Dina looked so seamless next to her, the way the public had eaten up their “perfect couple” narrative. 

She tells herself it’s professional disapproval. That Dina isn’t good for Ellie’s image, that she’s a distraction, a liability Ellie can’t afford when her career is sitting at the height of its momentum. That this is about protecting the brand, the trajectory, the carefully curated persona Erin has spent years polishing.

But deep down—too deep for her to admit out loud—it’s not professional at all.

It’s personal.

Her cursor drifts over Ellie’s inbox, the familiar churn of unanswered messages ticking in the back of her mind, but then her eyes catch on something else—the small, innocuous cloud icon glowing in the corner of the screen.

She freezes. She shouldn’t. She knows she shouldn’t. But jealousy makes her reckless, sharpens her impulses into something she can’t quite pull back from. Before she can think about consequences, before she can stop herself, she clicks.

The iCloud opens, spilling folders across the screen. The organization is sloppy—some labeled by year, some by month, some thrown into catch-all categories like stuff. She scrolls without any real idea of what she’s looking for, chasing an ugly itch under her skin, following the pull of a hunch she can’t name but can’t shake either.

Her cursor hovers over Videos, then over an unnamed folder buried near the bottom. She double-clicks.

The moment it opens, the air seems to change. Clips spill into view, all stamped with dates from six years ago.

Erin frowns, leaning closer, scanning the file names and times. Her confusion builds scrolling through the thumbnails.

And then she stops.

You.

You, the Hollywood starlet. America’s new obsession. On every red carpet, in every magazine spread, the face of luxury brands and box office hits. But not this version of you. Not the glossy, curated you.

This you looks different—younger, softer features, hair a different color, skin bare of makeup, dressed down in a way Erin’s never seen in public. You’re still achingly beautiful, but there’s something else. Something she can’t name.

For a split second she doubts herself—this can’t possibly be. Maybe it’s just someone who looks like you, a girl with the same smile, the same bone structure, the same impossible eyes. Someone who could pass for your twin in the right light. 

Her cursor hovers, pulse picking up, telling herself she’s about to confirm it’s nothing.

But then she double-clicks again.

And she could have never imagined what she saw.

A sex tape.

And that’s when it hits her—every single file in that folder, all those thumbnails she scrolled past, they weren’t just random videos. They were all sex tapes.

Erin’s stomach flips so hard she feels a rush of heat in her cheeks, her grip tightening on the edge of the counter as if the laptop might slip away from her. She can’t look away, even though every instinct tells her she should.

She then scrolls through the metadata. The files are from years ago, but the last opened dates tell a much different story. 

All of them were opened months ago—not years, months. Some had been accessed eight months back. Others, five. A handful, three.

Erin’s stomach gave a slow, deliberate twist, her pulse ticking in her ears as the implication settled in. Whatever these were, they weren’t relics Ellie had forgotten about. They were still living somewhere in her head, still important enough to return to. Recently.

And one—just one—had been opened only two weeks ago.

Her curiosity spikes hard enough to drown out the faint warning in her brain. She clicks on the 2 minutes and 15 seconds long video.

The nineteen-year-old versions of you and Ellie lay tangled in bed, bare skin bathed in the soft, golden spill of early morning light. The recording is grainy, low quality, the kind of thing that wavers slightly when the camera shifts on its makeshift perch—but there’s no mistaking what it’s capturing. The walls are bare, the sheets mismatched, and the corners of the frame catch flashes of a cramped, cheap apartment.

Erin stared, breath shallow, as she saw Ellie moving on top of you in missionary, her strapped hips rocking in a rhythm that was almost reverent, your eyes locked so intensely it felt violent to witness.

A soft whine slipped from your throat, followed by Ellie’s low, unsteady breathing. One of her hands gripped your thigh, pulling your leg over her shoulder, the motion fluid, practiced. Your nails scratched along her back, desperate and tender all at once.

Then Ellie shifted the angle and your head snapped back, loud moan breaking through the quiet. Your mouth fell open, eyes fluttering shut, back arching like the pleasure had stunned you.

“Fuck, Ellie! Right there!”

Erin flinched, her stomach knotting as she heard your voice, completely different from any interview or commercial where she’d heard it.

“You’re the love of my life,” Ellie murmurs against your mouth, the audio muffled and tinny, but her voice so unmistakably hers that Erin’s breath snags in her throat. She then leans in, kissing you again with that same unshakable focus, and whispers, “Fuck, I love you. I love you so much.”

And you—without hesitation, without a flicker of doubt—say it back.

Erin watched, stunned, horrified, but entranced—because it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t rushed or messy. It’s unbearably intimate, like the camera didn’t even exist.

And the recording ended there, the image frozen mid-motion.

Erin’s hand flies to her mouth, eyes wide like she can’t even afford to blink, as if the image might disappear if she looks away for even a second. Her pulse roars in her ears, a hot, dizzy rush that makes it hard to think.

It’s fucking insane.

She can’t believe what she’s looking at. Couldn’t have imagined this, not even in her most twisted, jealous daydreams where she let her mind wander into the ugliest corners. It’s beyond anything she’s ever allowed herself to picture. She didn’t even know you and Ellie had ever crossed paths, much less that you’d ever been close. 

Much less that you fucked.

Much less that you fucked like this.

She can’t figure out the when or the how—what project, what city, what strange overlap in your worlds would’ve put you in the same orbit.

But there you are. And not just in the same room, not just laughing at some industry party or leaning in for a PR photo. You’re together. You were together. She can see it in the way your hands clutch at Ellie’s back, in the way she touches you like she’s memorizing the lines of your body, if that “You’re the love of my life” wasn't obvious enough.

It’s too much—the way the camera catched every unguarded angle, the way Ellie’s voice broke when she said she loved you. And what undoes Erin most wasn't the sex itself, but the tenderness threaded through every second.

The unshakable truth that whatever was between you wasn’t a fling, wasn’t casual—it was real. And it was big.

She can’t reconcile the fact that Ellie has been holding onto this, still watching it after all these years. After Dina. After building a life and a career and a relationship she’s supposed to be devoted to.

The knowledge curdles in Erin’s stomach, hot and poisonous. Because now she knows something Dina doesn’t. Something the world doesn’t. 

And that kind of thing—once you have it—you can’t put back.

Her fingers move before her mind can catch up. Her hands are steady. Too steady.

She exports.

Opens a brand new twitter account.

Attaches the file.

And hits post.

It takes less than thirty seconds.

By the time she leans back, Erin can't believe what she just done.

But somewhere in Los Angeles, the clock has already started ticking.

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ OH MY GOD. WHAT A CHAPTER HUH. 15k words and these two little lesbians didn’t even speak to each other 😭 lord have mercy we are in for some serious yearning. sorry i’m a certified yapper and had to explain their entire tragic little backstories LMAOOOO but don’t worry… the drama is coming next chapter. and i mean DRAMA. love you all endlessly—thank you so, so much for reading 💌

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓— @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @isabelckl @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @thinkingabtellie @ssijht @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @sewithinsouls @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @satellitespinner @yunaversalluv @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @marscardigan @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @les4elliewilliams @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater @doodl3b3ans @savagestarlight28 ࿐

IF U THINK IM PRETTY

⤷ m.list | a/n: hi she's so short soz. tumblr has been nerfing me for 3 days. cw for bloodplay and Hella drug talk. as always (a jadey staple) not betaed. no beta we die like vi in ch3

Ellie is a paradox. Something to be studied. She keeps you at arm’s length most of the time. Lets you try to pry and sink underneath her skin.

She's both real and not. A limbo, even.

Lets you get close enough and then shuts you out- hung and split open by the barbed wire ends of her soul.

It's like she's more of an idea rather than a person.

A 2D figure- lacking depth and feeling and emotion. A barely liminal figure with expensive tastes, perfectly tailored suits, and a horrifying skill with knives and guns and practically every weaponry underneath the sun.

Ellie’s limosine is quite spacious. Black expensive leather, dark interior of whatever vinyl she’s chosen to line the inside with.

Being on the backside of the partition with Ellie's favorite bodyguard makes it seem impossibly smaller.

Ellie's tasked you and Abby to attend a charity event on her behalf. A fancy gala. Probably going to be surrounded by stuffy corset taut dresses and three-piece suits worth more money than you've ever touched in your life.

You don't like attending them. Would rather claw your eyes out with a dull knife. Ellie makes them tolerable, though. But she's not with you.

She's tucked into her own private sanctuary behind ironclad walls and barbed wire trim. Probably controls the entire jail in the palm of her hand and executes every action and service she wants with a bored gaze or flick of the hand.

And instead? You're stuck with six feet of blonde, hairy muscle. Thick arms wrangled into a shirt, straining against the restraints of white fabric. She's manspreading, too. Knees parted enough to accommodate you between them. Parted enough for her to lazily glance down at you on your heels, just enough to make you feel small. To feel the difference. How she's so big and how you're nothing to her.

She's burly where your Ellie is lean and clean cut. Abby likes her work messy. Wet, unpredictable mess.

More often than not, Abby trudges into the manor covered in stark crimson and what you usually assume is guts and *maybe* brain matter.

It's hot.

She's cleaned up tonight, though. Pressed head to toe in a black suit, usual frizzy hair tugged and tamed into a neat french braid.

There's a bulge at her ankle- her gun, you guess- and a bulge heavy between her thighs.

It gets you going, to say the least.

Paired with unrelenting eye contact? With the subtle prod of her tongue into her cheek? You're a goner, damn near. But Ellie prods at the front of your mind. Nagging. Reoccurring.

**Don't think of her like that. Only me.**

The idea of both Abby and Ellie staring you down from across the seats? Gets your cunt to throb and clench down around nothing.

Makes you shift in your seat, crossing and uncrossing your legs. Makes your panties start to darken with wet, sticky arousal. Melds them to your skin until it clings like a second skin. Cotton fabric molded to the folds of your cunt.

Abby has to have a superhuman-wolf trait buried beneath her DNA because as discrete as you think you're being- she clocks every movement and micro expression.

"Not fucking you in Ellie's limousine, whore."

Her voice holds a certain tone that just screams 'I-am-going-to-force-you-into-submission' with little twinges of 'I-will-hurt-you-until-you-cry-for-my-own-pleasure'. Her voice has that tinge of sex-like, honey twang laced throughout it. She's got the voice of someone who knows how to effortlessly dominate.

It's mean to say the least. But it spurs you on more. Makes you crack a cheeky smile. Like you've accepted her challenge. To push back.

"So you'd do it outside of the car?"

That elicits a laugh out of her- a quick little breathy thing. You amuse her. Intrigue her, even. Reeled in by the pendulum of your instability and attachment to Ellie. Curious about the relativity of the topics- how at the absolute end of your wit's end and stability, she's all you need and she's all that can fix you, versus the calm, yet quick ascendancy into mania, the short lived moments of hyper-independence and blotches of your own personality. Of individualism and sight without your usual rose-tinted glasses.

Same coin, same pendulum, different person. Different perspective and energies. She's drawn to that.

"I shouldn't be fucking you. Period."

"I disagree. Ellie would want you to take care of me, no? Plus, I already know that you want to fuck me."

"Sure, I want to fuck you-- as I do with any relatively pretty girl with tits. Doesn't mean I'm going to, though."

You prod your tongue into your cheek. Abby Anderson is a woman of false morals that she has zero convictions for, who *also* wants to fuck you. She is just sticking to her fake motto and narrative to appease that little parasitic residence of Ellie bumbling around in her brain.

"Why not? You want to fuck me and vice versa. No restraints to hold you back, hm?"

Abby stares at you like she's analyzing you. Like she's peeling back as many of your surface layers as she can get through based on body language and her eyes alone. Her eyes go right through you. Like she knows exactly how far your pendulum of stability and sense has suspended into the air.

You can see her determine and conclude that you're far off into the deep end- or climbing that crescendo of mania disguised as stabilizing yourself.

You don't appreciate being snipped apart like that. Like she's gone down on your with a pair of dull, flat surgical scissors and fraying every nerve ending. Slowly decrypting the false front that you've gaslighted yourself into believing.

"You're desperate, I see. Pathetic, really."

She raps her scarred knuckles against the window separating the two of you from Ellie's assigned driver. Her eyes catch on yours before her attention is dragged off to the steadily releasing partition.

Abby sits back and cocks her head at you, curiously.

This is probably the most you've spoken to her. Words with Abby are usually lost under the charged sexual tension. The silent, unspoken gazes across the kitchen when you stumble out of your room in the morning, only clad in a t-shirt and panties. The held breaths when she barges into with promises of plans orchestrated by Ellie, only to see you bared to the world in your stark nakedness, three fingers plunged into your greedy cunt.

The tension has always lingered there. Simmered in the presence of others and broiled in the moments alone. Every interaction charged and sparked with every passing moment.

The air thins out between the two of you-- like you're trapped into a steadily shrinking cage with barely any room to breathe. It's reminiscent of Jaws, you think. Caged in, surrounded by nothing but *predator*. Abby's eyes are hungry. Like she's unraveling every bit of you with her eyes.

Her calloused hand flexes by her side. Experimental. Hesitant.

Her hand then meets your knee, first. Palm searing your skin through the satin-y black dress pulled tight over your skin. The scratchy callouses press into the fleshy meat of your thigh as her hand trails upwards.

Abby’s warm hand lands over your lower stomach.

Right above your womb, your brain supplies, rather unhelpfully.

She withdraws completely through. Like touching you was burning *her* skin. Pulling away like she doesn't want to fuck you within an inch of your life.

Sits back against the limousine seats, arms splayed behind the headrests.

She wants you to work for it.

Abby cocks her head to the side, eyes trailing from yours to her lap.

“Mmh. You know, I’ve played these types of games before. With Ellie, too.” She starts, sighing and shifting her hips. “Cat and mouse. That stupid silent tension bullshit. Where you think you have some kind of dislike for me, but you don't. I see how you look at me some days- that pure, unbridled rage. But when you're honest with yourself? Like now? You want me.”

–

Ellie is reckless.

Twenty-three years old and nothing short of a hot mess express.

Flaunts her gun at whoever gets uppy with her. Whoever she feels like she needs to instill the fear in.

She takes whatever drug she can get her hands on. The needles, the powder, the pills- anything. Searching for something to keep the high going. Mixing, lacing, cutting. Anything. Benzodiazepine cocktails.

That, unfortunately, is where Abby comes in.

Swoops into her life like she's some almighty God fearing savior for Ellie.

Her father hired her. To be a “handler”. Keep her under wraps. Under the guide of a firm hand.

Her father isn’t anything like her. No streaks of hard-headed rebellion that course all through her. Ellie and Joel Miller are not two sides of the same coin. Joel Miller is like a vintage, well polished coin. Something to be displayed and be proud of. A praise garnering achievement.

Ellie is not. Ellie is like a rusted, oxidizing coin you usually find in the pocket of tattered jeans or lying in the sidewalks, discarded and not of use. She’s not like Joel. She’ll never be like him. He doesn’t dabble in things that will kill him, solely for the thrill. He doesn’t lay in his bed with needles shoved into his forearms because he just *feels* like it. That’s not him. It never will be.

Joel sees Ellie as a mess to be contained. Something to be contained into a tiny little box of conformities. Conformities that feel like clothes too many sizes too small to fit her. Something that needs to be wrangled and controlled like she’s some wild animal.

Ellie doesn't need to be controlled. Doesn't need to be guided like she's some baby. She knows what she's doing. Knows what will kill her and what won't.

A calculated mess.

Counts up the dosages to coke herself up on. It's not safe, but it's practiced. A routine. Rinse and repeat. Thrives in her own routine. Wake up, drink, shoot up, maybe fall asleep.

But then, Abby meddles into it.

Worms herself into an equation that has no answer or space for her. Intertwines herself into Ellie’s life. Throws out half assed suggestions for rehab.

Like Ellie needs **fixing**.

Ellie doesn't need to be shoved into a room full of people who don't know how to take care of themselves. People who are reliant on their burnt spoons and rusted, tetanus infected needles.

She knows what she's doing. She can live without it. Quit anytime she wants. She doesn't need it. Why does everyone think she needs to be on her drugs to survive? She can do whatever the fuck she needs to without them. She can quit right now if she wants to. She just does it for fun. Nothing is wrong with her. Why doesn't anyone understand that? Why is everyone looking at her like she's a house of cards? She's not fragile. She doesn't need help. Why can't anyone see that?

Ellie is fine.

Fine down to the bone. Born fine. Will die fine.

Abby disagrees with that, though.

Sees Ellie as if she's a ballerina made of glass, just waiting to combust. Thinks Ellie is this blundering hurricane swooping through states and cities with the intent to destroy. Like she's so destructive and everything she does is wrong.

Ellie knows Abby isn't the saint that she wishes she was. Knows there's blood on her ridiculously big hands and that no matter how much she tries to enforce that stupid nonchalant facade, she knows Abby is probably the same.

They are the same, Ellie tells herself. That Abby is that same calculated mess that she is, just underneath her monotone voice and expressionless face.

Abby doesn't see the similarities in them that Ellie does. She ignores Ellie when she laves over how they really are the same person when she's six shots of whiskey down. Doesn't pay her any mind. Brushes it off when Ellie says that she knows deep down Abby wants that sticky high. Wants to string herself up until there’s nothing less for her to string up. And crash and burn just for the feeling. That human feeling of coming down.

Spoiler alert: Abby is not like that, as much as Ellie is convinced that she is.

As much as Ellie wants to disagree, Abby is only brute force and quiet slips of drug-addiction rehabilitation center pamphlets. Ellie hates those.

Just blankly stares at them- advertised paradises with included expensive amenities to be at someone’s disposal as they so-called “recover”.

Ellie does not need to “recover”. She is not sick. She is not broken. She isn’t anything like that. She sometimes just needs an outlet to exude all that frustration lingering inside.

She’s not sick like those people who need to be infantilized and have pills shoved down their gussets, just so they can function like people. She’s not like that.

Ellie is fine. She’s strong. Stubborn and nothing short of dominant. She refuses to be beat down by saccharine sweet nurses until she’s nothing but weak and submissive at their hands, relying on them for sanity. She refuses to be broken down like that.

Would much rather have an example made of her- gun pointed to her temples in front of all her father’s men. Would rather be made a mockery than receive help she knows she doesn’t need.

Abby doesn’t care about how she feels about not needing help. She ignores Ellie when she babbles about how she’s not broken and sick and that she is stable. Just nods to appease her and slips another pamphlet into her office.

Leaves them behind her orange medication bottles, tapes them to the cupboard where she keeps her whiskey. Slips them into her journals where she writes down shipment numbers. Replaces her bookmarks with them.

It infuriates Ellie. To see these narrative shaping pamphlets littered throughout her life to the point where she can’t escape them. She can’t fight them because as soon as she gets rid of one, five more take their place and there’s nothing else she can do about it.

Abby infuriates her. The way she stares at Ellie makes her upset. Looking down at her with this expression that Ellie doesn’t recognize. It bothers her to no end. Looking down the slope of her nose at Ellie like there’s something wrong with her. Like she needs to be pitied and fixed. She doesn’t need that.

Ellie is capable.

But even the capable crack once pushed hard enough.

Sitting at her desk, surrounded by these self-proclaimed safe havens for recovery, Ellie feels like every bit of that erratic mess they all paint her out to be. Her fingers are itching to wrap around a whiskey glass or a pill bottle to satiate the feeling starting to boil up in her veins.

Taking a shaky breath, Ellie yanks open the drawers at her desk. No pill bottles, no alcohol, nothing but paperwork filled drawers mocking her. Her heart rate starts to kick up. She digs through the drawers frantically, looking for **anything**. It has to be here. She just had them. She needs it. Just to knock her down a few pegs. Where are they?

Her neck is starting to itch and her lungs aren’t contracting the way they need to be. Her lungs are starting to expand too far out- like they need to absorb every molecule of air in the room. It almost feels like they’re trying to expand enough to shield over her heart and her ribcage and every organ in between.

Expanding too far and not contracting enough. Her fingers are tugging through her nest of hair. It’s soaked. She drenched to the bone with sweat and she feels more sticky than she ever has in her life. Her nose is stuffy and it feels like her hands aren’t hers. Everything is too bright and she just wants a drink.

A drink or something to snort. Something to shoot up with. Something to coat her tongue in to get rid of that sour taste climbing up her throat.

She’s resorted to yanking all the papers out of their respective drawers now. Faxed papers and invoices flurrying around her office. She’s livid. Ellie swipes her arm over the vast space of her desk, sending every bit and trinket flying and crashing into the wall.

She flips her desk and starts to yank the decorations from her walls. She can’t think. Everything is too bright and too hot and her clothes feel like they’re steadily restricting around her.

When she stumbles out of her trashed office, her sights are set on one person and one person only. Her gun is shaking at her side as she screams down the hallway of her penthouse searching for Abby.

Her eyes burn. She can barely see through the fit of rage she’s plowing through.

Ellie feels like a missile locked on a target. Beelining for Abby.

Ellie’s hands wrap around Abby’s throat as tight as she can. Abby is bigger, though. But Ellie squeezes with a force that she’s never wielded towards Abby since she’s been assigned as her handler.

Abby flips her onto her back, but Ellie’s fight doesn’t diminish. She sinks her nails into Abby’s cheeks, drawing blood. Hurting her enough to make up for all of the addiction brochures. For those snide remarks telling her that she needs to get help. For staying.

Ellie Miller does not need a babysitter and never will.

Her hands drop to her belt, trying to wrangle out one of her daggers. Ellie’s blade nicks her cheek, leaving behind an inch and a half long scar on her cheekbone. Blood bubbles at the surface of the cut.

Abby is trying to restrain her. Disarm her and unclip her tactical belt. Ellie is angry. Why would Abby do that? She wanted that alcohol. She needed it. She wanted the xanax and every other uniform pill organized into their respective taunt orange little bottle. She needed those like she needed air.

Her blade lodges itself into Abby’s shoulder. She has scratches and blood dipping down her face. There’s a scar with blood seeping from it, into the thick hair of her eyebrow, trickling into her lashes and into her eye. She can barely see.

Ellie smashes their mouths together. Their teeth clank against each other. The kiss isn’t actually a kiss. It’s two dominant animals fighting for one of them to cave in and give up. Accept defeat. Fight until there’s no more fight left. One of them has to give in. Ellie doesn’t want it to be her.

Abby’s shoulder is steadily dripping blood between them. Soaking through Ellie’s white button up and into her pale skin. It’s not gentle, what they’re doing. Abby is trying to pry Ellie open until she’s submissive and Ellie wants to beat Abby down until there’s nothing left of her.

In this moment, Ellie thinks and sees Abby for what she is. They are not alike. They are two souls with two different agendas. Abby is not touching her to break her down. Abby is touching her because she wants to unravel her. She wants to see who Ellie is underneath the mess. Underneath all of the drugs and alcohol.

Their chests are heaving in tandem. Pressing against each other with every shaking breath. They pull away, spit slick and swollen lips, hesitantly parting.

Abby is sitting on her heels, now. Grimacing as she yanks the dagger out of her shoulder. She lodges the blade into the floor of the kitchen, where Ellie had yanked Abby out of her chair and onto the ground.

Their eyes meet momentarily. The world stops spinning for a moment.

And then it picks back up. Abby undoes her belt, pulling it from the loops of her jeans, yanking it off and tossing it off to the side.

“I’m not letting you fuck me,”

Ellie is blunt. She doesn't beat around the bush with things. Cuts to the chase whether you like it or not.

And Ellie refuses to let her *handler* stick a silicone cock inside of her. Not in a million years would she ever stoop that low.

Abby tuts at her and sits back on her heels. Control is important to Ellie. She reinforces her authority at the smallest things. Just waiting to act on it- like now.

Sex is an exchange of power and authority, Abby thinks. Black and white. Dominant and submissive. Simple. Not complex at all. Sex only becomes complicated when you intertwine feelings and put emphasis on the power imbalances. She prefers clean cut, straight to the chase sex.

Ellie refuses to have that kind of exchange with anyone. Comfortable in the idea of always being dominant, she doesn't find the idea of submitting to someone who was literally hired to **subdue** her. It's like the fucking mental Olympics just being pinned underneath her.

Pinned by someone of a lower status. Someone not on her level.

As much as Ellie wants to front and argue, she can't deny the sticky feeling of her boxers clinging to her skin.

Abby rolls her eyes and goes back to it, grimacing slightly as she pulls Ellie closer by the thighs. Her shoulder is still bleeding and the wound is smarting with every movement. It's bearable, for the most part.

“Do you always wear your fucking strap on you? You're real cocky.”

Ellie is so painfully Bostonian.

Accent heavy and accusatory. She’s clean-cut and functional to her core. Doesn’t like useless complications.

Abby is a complication. She doesn’t fit into Ellie’s straightforward equations. She harps on this thought too often. How Abby throws her world off kilter and churns it into things that are not just Ellie. Not just Ellie, but Ellie intertwined into Abby. It’s a sour thought. The idea makes her want to diminish it with a shot or pill to cleanse her palate. To step on it and twist her boot until it's nothing but ashes of an afterthought.

Abby grabs a foot launched towards her stomach, dropping it beside her. Her hand is warm and heavy where it wraps around Ellie’s ankle. It’s grounding. Starts to clear up the smog muddling up all of Ellie’s coherent thoughts. Her brain feels fogged like it’s not hers, but she still tries to snap at Abby. The snide comment dies on her tongue, just as quick. Wilts before it’s even given a chance to blossom over Ellie’s tongue. To leave her mouth and worm itself into Abby. To hurt and to try and inflict any kind of pain she can. Just to protect herself. To fight that submission Abby is forcing off in waves. For her own sake and dignity.

Large hands make quick work of Ellie’s belt. She reluctantly lets it happen. Fights back the nasty urge to sink her fingers into the bloody mess of Abby’s shoulder. Ellie wants to make it hurt. Make her own submission come for a cost. It’s sadistic.

Ellie wants blood for blood. Eye for an eye.

It hurts Ellie to give in that way. To rescind all of her authority. To cave in for someone whom she does not respect in any way, shape, or form. Ellie is hard all around. Roughly edged in every single way. Her edges do not soften.

Ellie does not soften. She does not gentle herself for another’s enjoyment- she does not submit and give out. Ellie takes. Yanks until there is nothing else to give. She **wants**.

Abby has singlehandedly titled her world on its own axis. Ellie does not like that. It makes her livid to think about it. That Abby is bold enough to take from Ellie instead of give.

Ellie’s hands make a sharp tug at Abby’s t-shirt. Stifles a wide toothy smile when she sees Abby wince in pain at such a simple movement. She takes pride in the fact that she’s hurt her. Abby’s white sports bra is soaked in blood. Steadily dwindling from the wound into the firm, toned lines of her arms and into the divots of her pale-skin clad ribs.

Abby’s cargo pants come off next. Worn tactical belt pulled from the fraying loops of her bottoms. They’re tugged down her thick thighs- covered in scars and moles and light blonde hair. She doesn’t shave. The contact is dizzying. The warmth of her skin bleeds through Ellie’s own pair of cargos.

Ellie mimics the action, lifting her hips underneath Abby- hand wrapped around a concealed blade as she shoves them down her legs. They sit heavy around her ankles, resting on top of her heavy boots.

Abby’s hands find Ellie’s thighs, resting her heavy palms against the faint, barely noticeable hair on Ellie’s legs. Short and spikey, like it’s been freshly shaven recently.

Their eyes lock momentarily. At this moment? Ellie starts to come to terms with them being different.

Ellie’s dagger sinks itself into Abby’s thigh. It goes in easier than it comes out. Her blood is warm against Ellie’s skin.

Abby’s not a good kisser, Ellie thinks. Their teeth clash and clang against each other. It’s not gentle. Ellie doesn’t hold any positive feelings for Abby. She’s full of hate and every single negative adjective she knows.

Abby and Ellie are like oil and water. They do not mix. They smother and smother until there’s only one left standing. They butt heads and disagree. They are like two magnets of the same pole. They do not touch. Do not connect.

Abby’s teeth are sunk into the junction between Ellie’s neck and shoulder. She bites and claws until there’s blood beading at the surface. Ellie’s hands grab at Abby’s hips, grinding her own up against the baby blue fabric of the blonde’s boxers.

The harness to Abby’s strap is peeking out of the waistband of her boxers, rubbing uncomfortably against Ellie’s skin. Ellie’s skintight briefs are clinging to her sinfully, seemingly tighter than usual. They’re sweat slick and damp where her cunt is greedily pulsing against the wet cotton.

She’s getting off on it. Enthralled by the way Abby’s blood drips onto her and pools into the expanse of her stomach. Just resting- tiny rivulets forming puddles. Abby is rough when she yanks off Ellie briefs- tossing them aside and manhandling Ellie until her knees are propped up and spread to make room for herself.

Ellie has a thick lining of hair from underneath her navel down to her sticky, wet labia. Tufts of dark curls glisten underneath the sickeningly white lights of Ellie’s one of many residencies. The unruly hair curls around her throbbing clit and the sight makes Abby’s mouth water. She’s so unapologetically Ellie.

The movement makes Abby groan quietly- the shift from her knees to her stomach, arms wrapped around Ellie’s lower half- elbow pressed against her stomach to keep her still. To restrain her. Keep her pliant and toeing the line of submission just enough for Abby to get her mouth on her.

Abby’s mouth is hot. She has no technique when she drops her head down to latch onto Ellie. She licks heavy stripes from her arousal slick hole up to her throbbing clit. Ellie writhes underneath her- hips bucking to meet Abby’s tongue. It’s uncoordinated and messy. The blonde between her thighs is enthusiastic but not skilled. Ellie’s had better.

Desperate girls begging to return the favor- dropping to their knees with puppy-like enthusiasm. Wide, starry eyes between her legs, yearning for eye contact. Upping and slowing their paces, sucking and licking, everything. Working at everything they can for a smidge of Ellie’s approval- her praise.

Abby is nothing to phone home about, though. Until she is.

Until she uses her stupidly warm, calloused thumb to pull back the hood of her oversensitive clit. Until she drags her teeth along the bundle of nerves enough to make Ellie’s thighs close around her head. Until she hollows her cheeks and sucks like there’s no tomorrow- eyes boring into Ellie’s own, silently looking for that approval. For an inkling of a sign that she’s doing a good job.

Ellie’s thighs are slick with Abby’s saliva and the wetness of her own cunt.

“Has nobody ever told you off about being a messy eater, Abigail?”

Ellie’s voice is almost steady. A breathy whine clips the retort. She can feel Abby smirk against her. She’s still sucking and dragging her teeth along Ellie’s most sensitive bits.

A finger prods at Ellie’s hole and she lets out a soft sigh at the feeling- trying to relax enough for Abby to slip in, down to the last knuckle.

She tells herself that she’s not giving herself up entirely. Not falling submissive at a few minuscule kitten licks– and an outrageous sucking strength. Ellie is not submitting to Abby. She will not let it happen. Ellie will not give herself up

She mulls over the thought like a mantra. Tries to convince herself that it’s just power play. Tries to paint it in a different light as Abby slips down to the bottom knuckles of her pointer, middle, and ring finger. Attempts to make it seem like she’s not enjoying herself and that this is just a task and she’s not close at all. That she’s not teetering on the brink of leaking heady come over Abby’s face.

Ellie’s hands find Abby’s loosely mangled braid and she tugs. Shoves her face deeper into her cunt- nose jutted up against her clit and her tongue pumping alongside three of her bizarrely thick fingers.

She groans in response to her hair being tugged. The vibrations hit Ellie from the tips of her toes to the ends of her frayed nerves. Ellie decides that the choppy vibrations of Abby’s mouth is her new favorite feeling.

Ellie’s hand dips from Abby’s hair down to her cheek, cupping it gently as she pulls Abby up. Her face is slick with three different things and Ellie thinks this is probably the most tolerable Abby has ever been in her life.

Her ring clad fingers strike Abby square against the cheek. Her head whips to the side from the force and it spurs her to kneel in between Ellie’s legs again. Yanks her flush against her muscled thighs and wrangles her legs around her hips.

Abby shoves her steadily darkening blue boxers down her thighs, just enough for the flesh colored strap pulled into her harness smacks against her lower stomach. The straps sit against her hips.

Sweat beads at her hairline, slowly dripping down the bridge of her nose.

She tosses Ellie’s leg over her shoulder, palm pressed flat against her lower stomach as she lines herself up.

She’s not gentle when she pushes in. It’s wet and messy and one fluid thrust. Ellie chokes underneath her- still teetering on that ledge between release and edging- nails scrambling to grab at her arms. Ellie’s nails sink into her biceps, leaving behind angry, red crescent shaped marks that’ll scar if she sinks in any deeper.

Abby is rougher now. Like Ellie is only a hole to be conquered. To be used. Her hips snap up against Ellie’s backside and her hand presses heavily against her stomach.

Her hands wrap around Ellie’s throat and that’s their breaking point. It turns to true violence, then. Ellie yanks Abby down even further, wrapping her own hands around Abby’s neck.

Eye for an eye.

Her fingers press into her airways with just enough force to dwindle her air capacity to almost nothing. It’s easy. It’s easier to hurt Abby than to try and think about how Ellie is letting her take control of her like it’s nothing. Like it’s a simple off handed motion.

Abby’s very existence is something that severely troubles Ellie. Every single glass table christmas flurry of white powder isn’t enough to blanch out the thought and presence of Abby. Clean credit card lines of ivory wouldn’t dissipate the nagging brochures of recovery lingering around Ellie’s mansions and penthouses.

Pill cocktails wouldn’t fix it either. It’s like a rinse and repeat cycle that’s only gotten worse since Abby has appeared.

Abby watches her peak silently from the shadows. Watches her scrape together bits and pieces of drugs that don’t belong together just to feel- but most mostly? To coke herself out so far that she doesn’t have to wallow in her envy and unbridled hatred and disdain for Abigail Anderson.

Abby sees the worst of it. Lurking not far behind in secluded VIP club lounges, she sees when Ellie start to tumble down. When the drugs start to wear and she’s left frazzled. Sees her when she’s too far gone out of her mind and starts to project everything onto Abby. Witnesses when her hands are shaky and fumbling to grab a glass.

Pinned underneath her like a butterfly to be examined, Ellie feels like the roles are reversed. Like Abby was seeking out to hurt her instead of the other way around. Ellie told herself that this was nothing more than a display of power. Power play. All it is.

Ellie went into it looking to hurt her. Physically, mentally, any way she could. But, Ellie feels like it’s all blown up in her face. She feels like she’s been stripped to bone with nothing else to give. She feels sobered. The feeling of Abby’s eyes eyeing her down feels akin to the feeling of the fall before the crash. Sobering, fast, unwelcome.

It’s hard to focus on that when Abby’s thumbing at her clit with no care for how overstimulating she’s being and plowing into her cunt with force that Ellie didn’t know she could muster.

Ellie’s hand strikes her cheek again and it spurs Abby on to move quicker. Her heavy hands are holding Ellie’s hips, tilting up her pelvis enough to get deeper.

It’s wet, messy, and animalistic. Like Abby is giving into every carnal urge she’s ever had. Plowing and fucking like her mind is on a one track and can’t fathom to think about anything else.

Her thoughts right now are strictly Ellie.

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

And Ellie’s thoughts? She has never hated Abby more than she has in this moment now.

–

Abby sees it all.

Sees you at the peak of your mania and the throes of your lowest. Being around her is like a mental game of cat-and-mouse.

She watches you with the gaze of someone who knows far too much—someone who has learned not just your patterns, but your rhythms. The slight tremor in your hand when you haven’t slept. The edge in your voice when your thoughts are racing. The withdrawn silence when the world has become too loud. The vacant look in your eyes when the absence of Ellie gnaws at your soul. She sees it all.

But Abby doesn’t just observe—she calculates.

It’s not malicious, at least not overtly. That’s part of the confusion. Abby doesn’t intervene. She makes note of it, silently. What she does is far more insidious: she positions herself as the one who acts as that silent crutch, and then she exploits that position. Intentionally or not. Weaves herself in under the guise of Ellie’s stand-in, doing whatever she supposedly must to fill her position and do whatever Ellie tells her to.

When you’re manic, she enables you. Leans into your individualism, spurs you on. Charged looks and nasty innuendos laid into seemingly innocent sentences and phrases.

On one hand, she’s the only person who’s seen all of you besides Ellie—the spiraling highs, the bone-deep lows. On the other hand, she holds that knowledge like a weapon behind her back, ready to wield it when you step out of line. Uses it to keep you on your toes. Uses it to flirt and then place a wall to wedge space between you. Calls it “professionalism”.

And you do step out of line, often. That’s part of your pattern. Toe the line of what's allowed and what isn't.

The cost is subtle erosion. Of your confidence. Of your independence. Of your reality.

She pities you. She studies you. She molds herself around your wounds, not to heal them—but to keep them open.

Like Ellie, Abby enables you.

It's a hard road to tread.

Right now? You feel like you're stuck in limbo. Pulled taut in between Ellie and Abby. You're indebted to Ellie. Always. She did what nobody else would do for you.

Took you in, fed, bathed, clothed, employed. Loved.

But Abby?

You owed nothing to her. She enabled your singularity- that urge to be your own person. To carve yourself out of the picture that Ellie has painted you into. To break out of that Ellie-induced stupor that you’ve been stuck in all this time.

Ellie and Abby are two sides of the same spectrum. Low and high. Depression and mania. Hell and heaven.

They meet you in the middle there. Pulled taut in between them, you are like purgatory.

To Ellie, you are nothing but an extension.

And to Abby, you are you. Nothing of Ellie. Despite the disgusting parallels that she cannot quite see.

-

this silly little chapter is dedicated to my evil evil consciousness on my shoulder and nightmare in my brain. u kno who u are xx

you were always so excited to see ellie, even if the feeling wasn't mutual.

she had never really shown you otherwise? but whenever you guys were alone, it was a different story.

all the car rides, rolling up together, you'd think that she liked you? but when she pulled up beside you with a chic in the passenger seat, your heart sank.

its not like you could show you were upset, so you took one deep breath before opening your car door.

ellie got out of the car in her signature black hoodie and some sweatpants, smelling like some girls cheap perfume.

the smell almost choking you up.

the only thing you could do was scoff, she could do so much better its a shame.

"hey baby, i got your shit"

baby was the name she always called you, she knew what she was doing every time she said it, and she enjoyed it

you couldn't let the anger get the best of you, but every time you'd look through her window, she'd be staring back at you. you've never seen her before?

taking the little baggy of weed, you shot her one last look, jealousy prominent on your face.

"thanks els" you added before getting back in your car, blasting the radio to the point everyone could hear it.

a wave of sadness washed over you. its not like ellie was yours, but you sure as hell wanted her to be.

tonight you were just going to get faded and forget about it. she'll probably hit you up soon.

you hadn't been in contact with ellie since, but daily you thought about it.

usually she'd hit you up for a late night hangout, but things have been different.

your phone had been terribly dry, and you just so happened to have run out of your stash.

but today was going to be different, you were determined to get ellie hooked.

getting up off the couch, you ran to your closet, sifting through the millions of pairs of clothes on the floor.

you found a little red top and some jean shorts.

ellie always said she liked red on you, so this just so happened to have worked out.

forgetting to even text her, you sent out a quick one.

'hey i need some more, come pick me up too'

you had been worried she would've even texted back until you saw your phone buzz on the vanity

'ok baby. be there in 10'

10 minutes was a world record time for you but it wasn't impossible. you fixed your hair to look semi decent, put on very little makeup-mascara, blush, etc-and then put on the perfume you knew ellie liked.

she complimented you very often, and so you'd keep it in mind to do it again. she had you wrapped around her finger.

before you headed out, you made sure to touch up your lipgloss. ellie always got onto you because it would transfer onto yalls shared blunt, but you never cared.

you slipped on your sambas and rushed out the door, lowkey tripping over a step. you prayed ellie didn't see you.

you could see the car moving from the bass, and the windows were rolled up; she was probably hot boxing it.

opening the car door, you set your purse down on the floorboard and got it, mad riches-sonder playing in the back.

ellie already had a j rolled when you had got in, first thing she did was offer it to you.

taking a long drag, she pulled out of your drive way, diving with one hand on the steering wheel the other rested on the center console.

"why haven't you texted me?"

you said in a nonchalant tone. all ellie could do was laugh.

"ive been busy baby, you know this." she replied, taking a turn off your road.

right as you were going in to reply ellies phone rings, showing an unsaved number.

"im heading that way," she said low and uninterested.

after a few 'mhms' and 'okays' ellie hung up, sighing as she turned down a street.

"els, where are we going?"

you thought you'd be going to your regular spot, smoke some and just talk. but you were pretty sure ellie had other plans.

"i gotta do a deal, pretty girl." she replied, pulling into a driveway. you looked up to see a house party. "come with."

her tone was almost demanding, cold, so you didn't question it.

she got the baggy out of the cup holder and turned off the car, getting out and locking it.

you followed her into the crowd of people, trying not to fall as you stepped on empty cans and cups.

some guy pushes in front of you, making you lose sight of ellie for a sec. you go to catch up with her, but shes already gone.

none of these people look familiar. the air is filled with smoke and mixes of people's scents.

making it past the people dancing to a beat you can barely hear, you make it to the kitchen, various drinks lined up on the counter alongside some red solo cups.

you poured yourself a drink, mixing whatever vodka they had with whatever mixers. then you head on your way to find ellie.

you walked around the house, finally making it outside to the pool area. some people were swimming while most just watched or talked.

then you spotted ellie. she had that girl from before latched onto her arm.

rage crept up your spine. why was she here? was she the one on the phone? did ellie just ditch you for her?

all your thoughts raced through your head, without thinking, you chugged what was left in your cup.

if she was going to play that game, then so will you.

'2 seater-montell fish' played in the background as you danced with some new person. she had come up to you, eyeing you up and down.

normally you weren't the type of person to be posted up dancing with some random, let alone be at a party, but you just couldn't get that girl out of your head.

it had been a few more songs along with a few more drinks before ellie spotted you, on top of another girl.

the look on ellies face switched. you were used to seeing her calm, collected, but now she looked...mad?

as soon as your eyes met hers, she darted towards you, taking your hand in hers and pulling you from the other woman's grasp.

"get your hands off her," ellie growled, shooting her a defensive look.

"ellie- what are you doing?"

she led you all throughout the house and out the front door.

"were leaving."

you've never seen ellie mad, so when she got upset at the party, it flipped a switch in your brain. maybe she wanted you as well.

you guys were already on the road again when ellie pulled into a little secluded spot near a park.

all you could do was look at her; your thoughts were hazy, and the dim lighting made her look good. so fucking good.

ellie went to go get something out of the cup holder when you lifted your hand to her cheek, turning her face to look at yours.

your eyes were half lidded, dark and glossed over. lips parted and messy hair.

you had been going in for the kiss when ellie stopped you.

"are you sure, you're drunk y/n?"

if only she knew you've never been so sure about something in your life.

you shook your head vigorously, in need of any kind of touch right now.

"you don't know how long ive been waiting for this."

she gave you one last look before kissing you. the kiss was passionate, aggressive, needy.

the kiss was long and messy; you needed each other closer, more, so you deepened the kiss.

ellie broke it off, trying to catch her breath.

"move to the back," she ordered.

that tone only made you more needy, your panties getting more and more wet by the second.

you had crawled into the back, waiting for ellie to come around and join you.

the second she closed the door, she was back on you, one hand holding herself up on top of you, the other cupping your face as she deepened the kiss.

she started moving down your neck, leaving little bite marks and kisses as she went.

the little sounds you made only fueled her, one knee going between your thighs.

the pressure made you let out a slight moan.

but you needed more.

"e-ellie." you moaned out as you grinded your clit on ellies knee. the smirk on her face only grew wider.

"yeah pretty girl? you wanna make yourself feel good on me?"

those words made you go even crazier, grinding faster this time.

"ellie i need more. please"

your tone was almost whiney, breathy.

ellie understood loud and clear because she was quick to start unbuttoning your shorts, looking up for approval.

you shook your head yes, needing her to move faster.

she slipped your shorts and panties off in one movement and just sat there, taking in the sight of your slick cunt.

"you're so wet for me, aren't you baby?"

next thing you know her finger was going down your wet folds, so slow you couldn't take it.

she wanted to take her time with you, see how much she can ruin you.

one finger entered and you moaned, her mouth trailing down your chest.

you took your shirt off, revealing your breasts.

ellie looked mesmerized. "fuck. you're fantastic doll."

her fingers started off slow but got quicker and quicker, making you realize you were going to hit your climax faster than you thought.

"mph- ellie fu-!" you moaned, getting cut off by ellie adding another finger.

"el-els, s'too tight!"

she just kept going, the moans making her go faster.

"you got it baby, come undone on my fingers."

you started moving your hips with her fingers, feeling the pit collect in your stomach.

“Come on, baby,” she coaxes, hungry and desperate. "cum for me."

she helps you ride out your climax, your juices soaking her fingers and her backseat.

once she took her fingers out of you, she sucked them clean, humming with the taste of you.

she then went in to kiss you, mixing her tongue in your mouth so you could taste the juices on her tongue.

"that was perfect, baby. now let's get cleaned up."

ahhh second fic!! thank you guys for all the love on my first one this one is so much better trust

this lowk wasn't proofread so shhhh

anyways hopefully at some point i can make a taglist (hmu)

You'd been hyper aware of everything since you were young whether it was a glass about to fall, a gunshot seconds before it went off, or the exact spot the first raindrop in a storm would land.

No one ever knew why, but they knew you were special, so you were thrust into a dozen "gifted" programs when all you could really do was see a few seconds into the future. Not a big deal.

Okay—maybe it is a big deal, but you don't want it to be. You're trying to be normal. You're just the girl who works at the Barnes & Nobles on campus, helps her brother with homework, and visits her family on the weekends. Really.

Tonight, it's December first, 8 p.m. You're walking home from your night shift, the streets of Seattle dreary and empty. The only sounds are your footsteps echoing on the pavement and ocassional puddle—and someone else's.

"Hey! Wha—" you start, just before you're shoved to the ground and everything gets white and heavy and hurting. Whoever it is, they're on top of you, pinning you down and trying to drag you somewhere.

Your eyes flutter open long enough to see a blur of brown hair and red streak past.

"That's no way to treat a lady," someone jokes, and just like that, the weight lifts off of your chest. You scramble back until your spine hits the side of a van, your hands scraping the concrete as you do so. You're shaking, panting, watching.

Spiderman–yes, the real one, fighting for you.

Just as relief and excitement start to kick in, someone else grabs you and pulls you up by the arm.

"Spiderman!" You shout, thrashing. In what looks like a single motion, both men are webbed to the sidewalk along with the van tires, their limbs stuck and squirming.

"Damn," Spiderman mutters, a slight Texan tinge to their voice, before brushing hair out of their face. "Oh, hey. Sorry I didn't introduce myself. I'm Spiderman, y'know, if you couldn't tell by the suit." They say before dialing the police.

"Yeah, I can see that," you say, breathless.

"Oh, fuck off," they laugh, nudging your shoulder with theirs. "I was trynna be nice."

Oh.

Oh.

Your bodies touch—and suddenly, your head goes quiet for the first time in your entire life.

"Wait," you whisper, reaching out and gently hanging up the phone in their hand.

"Wha– hey! That's my phone, what the hell? Are you okay?" They ask, trying to grab it and failing.

"No–but I think I will be if you don't leave."

They laugh before snatching it back with a web. "Okay, no time for jokes, short stuff. I mean, I know I'm cool and all, but I can't be that cool and I really gotta drop these guys off. Uh, maybe I'll see you around?"

You try to speak—but before you can they're gone. The webs, the blur of red and brown, and the relaxed voice.

And just like that, the visions are back.

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The next week, you searched everywhere for her.

You put up flyers with your number. Scoured local Seattle forums. Talked to her biggest fans. You even read the newspapers–real, printed, crinkly ones still being made in 2025, and you still had no luck.

Your last hope was that road. Yeah, that road—the same place you'd almost gotten kidnapped. Let's just say you don't have a lot of survival instincts. The same stretch of pavement where the air had gone quiet in your head.

Maybe it was stupid or foolish or desperate, whatever it could be called.

But you had to find her. You needed to.

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It's Thursday when it happens.

You're walking that same road—coffee in one hand, other shoved deep in your hoodie pocket, hood up, head down. The winter air stings your cheeks, and you're honestly not expecting anything after three days of radio silence. Just walking, just thinking, and just trying not to think too loud.

And then someone nearly knocks into you, shoulder clipping yours so hard you stumble.

"Shit—sorry," she says.

You freeze.

That voice.

You know it. Sharp, sarcastic, always like whoever it belongs to is trying not to sound nervous.

You look up, and she's already turning like she's going to keep walking. A gray hoodie's clinging loosely to her body, her hair looks tussled, and there's a grocery bag in her left hand like she's any other college student.

But then she sees your face.

"…Oh. Fuck," she mumbles.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. You blink. Twice.

"You."

"Me," she says flatly, eyes darting around.

"Spiderman?"

"Spiderman."

You step forward. "It's you."

"I didn't think you'd—uh—hi," she says awkwardly, looking around. "Please don't scream."

You furrow your brows. "Why would I scream?"

"You did yell last time."

"You were saving me from being kidnapped."

"Fair," she pauses, "okay, but—why are you here again? Like, here specifically? Most people don't like almost being kidnapped."

You sighed, eyes not leaving her face. "I was looking for you."

A beat.

Her eyes widen. "Dude."

"What?"

"You—you're the girl. With the—oh my god," she runs a hand down her face. "I literally thought I hallucinated you."

"Yeah, no, I'm real, and you touched me, and the world stopped screaming in my head, and then you left, so now I'm kind of going crazy."

She winces. "That's… my bad."

"'Your bad?'" You laugh, mostly in disbelief.

"I didn't really know! I was saving you and you distracted me while I was trying to call the police, I wasn't trying to, like, break your brain or whatever."

"Well you didn't break it, you fixed it. Just for a few seconds."

That shuts her up. She looks at you, quiet, and something in her expression softens. Like she’s trying really hard not to let herself care and failing a little anyway.

"No," she pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head, "I can't talk to you. My mentor, uh Joel, fuck I'm saying too much, said to never get attached to civillians. But you're cool. But should I?"

"Too late, I already know what you look like, and oh, that's smart, your backpack has your name on it."

"Oh," she looked over her shoulder, "c'mon! That's totally not fair. You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Fine… not like I was really gonna stop talking anyway. You wanna... go somewhere?" She asks, wincing like it'll hurt if you say no. "Like, to get a coffee?"

"I already have a coffee."

She sighs. "Fine. I'll get a coffee and you can watch me drink it like a weirdo. Or get another one."

You grin. "Deal."

And she looks at you like she doesn't get why you're smiling, but part of her likes it anyway.

So the two of you walk together, side by side, shoes hitting pavement in rhythm. And for the first time in days, your head isn’t so loud because she’s right here.

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The shop is comforting in such an almost artificial way. Its overhead lights a little too warm, its name Aroom on the menu in big letters, its music a little too good. You snag the small booth in the corner while she orders, her hood still up, and there she is at the counter. Bouncing on her heels like it’s taking every ounce of strength not to turn invisible.

You watch her. You can't help it. There's something so strangely familiar about the way she moves. Something endearing and elusive at once. Like she's been carrying the weight of a city and still doesn't know how to hold a conversation, or thinks she loves the city but also thinks her job's like picking glass out of her teeth.

She slides into the booth across from you and sets down a coffee with a flourish.

"For your viewing pleasure," she says, sipping dramatically.

"Nice, I can't wait to watch you hydrate, Williams."

She chuckles. "So, what's your name again? I'm bad with 'em, sorry."

"You never asked me the first time."

"Well I'm asking now."

"Why? So you can forget it again?"

"Okay," she glares in mock-offense, the wolfish smile pulling at her lips contradicting her. "I was mid-fight. You can't expect perfect manners during an attempted kidnapping."

"I can expect some things after, though. Like your name."

She grins, rests her chin on her fist. "You already know that. It's Ellie. Ellie Williams."

You blink. "No, the real one."

She blinks. "What?"

"I don’t know, I figured maybe the name on your backpack was fake. You know, a coverup? No seriously, what's your real name? Stop let me guess."

"..."

"..."

"Sarah?"

"Sarah?" She repeats, wrinkling her nose. "God, no. I don't look like a 'Sarah.' That's my sister's name."

"Wow. Ellie. I like it but, I feel like your parents could've done better."

"Wow, you're rude, and confident or dumb enough to be rude to the Spiderman."

"Well you're avoidant, I would know after looking for you for, like, forever, and being Spiderman doesn't mean you're invincible," you say, smiling into your cup.

She leans back, laughing a little at you. "I haven't talked to someone like this in a long time. 'S kinda, nice? Being a superhero doesn't come with many friends."

"Yeah, me either. It is."

There's a silence that settles between you. Not awkward, not really. Just thick. A strange quiet that lingers beneath the surface of your chest. You take another sip. She picks at the sleeve of her hoodie.

"You really meant it, huh?" She finally says, voice a little lower. "The stuff about your head."

"Yeah. It's like constant flashes or trying to talk with ten TVs playing inside your brain. It's always there, even when I sleep, and then you touched me and it all just... went away."

Ellie's face falters for a second. Just a blink. Like your words hit something she didn't know was sore.

"Shit," she mutters. "That sounds—awful."

You shrug again. "It's just my normal."

"And I interrupted that normal," she says like it's her fault.

"You didn’t interrupt it. You gave me a break from it."

"…And then I bailed."

"You didn't know."

"I should've stayed."

You look at her, really look at her, and you can tell: she means that.

"It's okay," you say. "You're here now."

Ellie looks away, biting back a smile. "Damn, you're kinda nice when you're not being a smartass."

"And you're kinda charming when you’re not running off rooftops."

"I don't run. I swing."

"Right. My bad."

She chuckles, eyes crinkling. "This is weird."

You nod. "Yeah."

"I should go."

"Already?"

"If I hang out too long, someone's gonna figure it out. Me. Spider stuff."

You nod again, trying not to let the disappointment show. "Right, of course."

She stands, lingers awkwardly by the table, then slides a napkin across to you.

Her number. Scrawled messily, like she was nervous.

"Call me," she says. "If you wanna. Or if the TV thing gets loud."

You pick it up carefully. "Maybe you'll call me."

Ellie starts to walk off, then stops and turns around. She looks like she’s about to say something dramatic. Instead:

"Also, don't put up any more flyers. That was embarrassing."

You blink. "Wait—how did you—"

"Bye!" she grins, already halfway out the door.

And you just sit there, heart too loud, head finally quiet, staring down at the ink on the napkin like it might burn through your hand.

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⠀

You don't call her right away. You try, more than once, even. Thumb hovering over her number, pulse tapping in your throat. But what do you even say? "Hey, come turn off my brain again?"

But it doesn't matter because she beats you to it.

Three nights later, your bedroom window creaks open.

You jolt upright in bed, heart in your throat, grabbing for anything remotely weapon-shaped—only to freeze when a voice whispers "relax, psycho. It's me." She's crouched on the sill, hoodie up, mask shoved halfway in her jacket pocket, cheeks flushed from the cold. And she's smiling.

"What the hell," you said, "how do you know where I live?"

She shrugs. "Spider senses. And a little stalking."

You stare.

"I made sure you got home safe the other night," she explains, hands and eyebrows raised in mock surrender. "You went into the apartment building on 6th. I narrowed it down, then I followed your scent."

"You what—"

"I'm kidding,” she grins. "Mostly."

"You're insane."

"You didn't call," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I figured you might be dead."

"I'm in pajamas."

"Thankfully you're alive in pajamas."

You stare at her.

She smiles.

"I brought snacks?"

You sigh. "Get in."

She hangs around that night but doesn't say much. She sits on your floor cross-legged, absolutely destroying the snacks you give her. At one point, she reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist like she's trying to see if it'll work again.

And it does.

The silence crashes down like waves. Gentle. Warm. Soft.

You feel your body relax for the first time all day.

Ellie raises a brow. "Still happening?"

"Still gone," you say, voice soft.

She lets go—and the static comes back immediately, like a switch flicking on.

"Jesus," she mutters. "Okay, that's kind of freaky. And kind of cool."

"Tell me about it."

"Guess I'm your like, off switch or something."

You give her a look. "Don't flatter yourself."

Her mouth twitches. "Too late."

After that, it becomes a thing. She shows up more. Sometimes at your window. Sometimes in weird disguises around campus. "That hoodie does not make you less suspicious." "Shhh, I'm blending in." "If it's opposite day then I guess you're wrong. Get it? Wrong?" "Shut up."

You test it together—her walking away down the street, the buzzing returning. Her stepping close again, and everything going still.

It's a strange kind of trust. A closeness neither of you talk about but both of you feel.

And, slowly, without meaning to, you start to count on her being there.

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David was the kind of nice that got under your skin without you noticing.

You met him in your work-study program. He was friendly, soft-spoken, and the kind of guy that was always offering to carry extra boxes or cover someone's shift. There were signs, like when he'd stare too long at highschool girls just looking for books, but he was nice. enough. When you had your first dizzy spell in the library—visions slamming into your skull like a migraine from hell—he was the one who walked you home. Waited with you on your steps until your hands stopped shaking.

He never asked questions. Just smiled.

"Don't worry," he'd said, tone gentle. "I've got you."

And maybe you believed him.

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It's a week later when you see him again. You're just trying to get groceries before your shift. Rain drizzling, your head buzzing faintly in the background. Then—

"Hey," a voice calls, and you turn.

David. Smile crooked, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

"I found your favorite creamer," he says, holding up a bag. "Figured I'd drop it off."

Your shoulders loosened maybe for the first time all day.

"Thanks. You didn't have to," you say, almost shy.

"C’mon," he grins, stepping closer. “You look like you haven’t slept since freshman year. Let me walk you.”

You make it two blocks before everything goes wrong.

You're not sure what shifts first—your breath catching, the creeping nausea, or the dull ache turning sharp behind your eyes.

It hits you like a wave: too many futures. Too many paths. His hands on your arms, his voice splintering into echoes. But not in protection.

In force.

"Sorry," he murmurs as you start to panic. "I really didn't want to do this again, but you're not safe out here. Not with what you can do. It's okay, I'll be all you're seeing in a few days."

You stepped back instantly, hand on the knife Ellie , no, Spiderman gave you for safety.

"What—what are you talking about?"

He steps forward. You recognize the change in his expression now. Not kind. Not even cruel. Just clinical and focused.

"We were supposed to bring you in on the first," he says. "I didn’t know she'd show up. I didn't know Spiderman would be there."

Your stomach drops.

No. No no no. Not him. Not him.

"You helped set that up?" You whisper, eyes wide, backing into the wall behind you.

He sighs, almost apologetic. "You're not just a student. You're an anomaly. Everyone's looking for you. I thought... maybe I could keep you from being hurt."

You go to stab him, just deep enough so you can get away, but then your vision shatters.

Literally. Images split and spiral in your mind, versions of him hitting you, drugging you, dragging you into a van, chaining you down. Every second fracturing. You can’t think. You can't breathe.

Then—

"Hey!"

A red blur drops from above like fire, slamming into him and sending him crashing across the rooftop by the clocktower you somehow didn't realize you'd ended up on. Concrete cracks. Debris flies.

Ellie.

It felt good to see her, but not in the situation you were in. She's panting, crouched low, hair wind-tossed and wild beneath her half-up mask. She doesn’t even look at you yet. Her eyes are locked on him.

"I've been looking for you for weeks," she yelled out. "I didn't realize you were with the assholes who tried to get her."

David staggers up, pulling a gun from his jacket.

Ellie doesn't hesitate.

The fight is brutal. Fast. Loud is what you register the most, really. Her movements aren't elegant—just rough and raw. You can barely track them through the splits in your vision and static in your head. While you're clutching your head and biting your lip to try and deal with the pain, he grabs you, using you as a shield with a knife to your throat.

Ellie has his gun.

David has her girl.

Then David screams as a bullet tears through his shoulder.

He falls–

and lets go of you as he does.

You scream and there’s a moment, barely a second, where you see gears and metal and how far you are from the roof and think, this is it. This is how I die.

And then you're so close to the ground, you're close and close and close and–

close, but not close enough.

A web meets your stomach, arms wrap around you, and the wind howls in your ears as you're yanked toward something or someone in a blur of motion. It's a body, you can tell now, and it wraps around yours as you both swing down and back up—

and fall hard, but with your lives.

Ellie's breathing is ragged, her lungs shaky and arms still around you.

"Gotcha," she breathes, voice shaking. "I got you."

Your eyes are still squeezed shut and your head is ringing so hard you can't hear, but for the first time in what feels like hours, the visions stop.

"Hey, hey."

Ellie says frantically, letting go of you and hovering atop you. "Please? Hey, hey," she says, and it's the first time you've ever heard her really, genuinely scared. She's running her callused hands all over you as if her touch could bring you right back from wherever you'd gone, and then,

"Ellie."

"Oh my god."

And before you know it she's squeezing you so, so hard, like if she doesn't you still might hit the ground, like she still might not catch you.

But she did.

You stare at her after she pulls away, laughing a little. "Wow," you say shakily, swallowing thickly, "I don't, I don't know what to say. Thank you–I'd be dead without you."

Ellie just looks at you.

"Me too," she says quietly.

And then she kisses you.

Not some soft, withheld kiss.

Bruising in the way you've wanted for ages and Ellie and feeling the way you always thought it did.

And you're stuck in the feeling, but you kiss her back.

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"So, fast food tonight?"

"Shut up," she laughs, gravelly and rough from the tears threatening to fall from her eyes, "of course."

The first morning at villa was peaceful. Waking up in a bed by yourself was disheartening, but that would change soon enough. You adjusted your mic and re-clipped the pack to your pajamas shorts. As everyone slowly woke up and went to the makeup room, the producers called you back for your first confessional.

They led you to the infamous beach backdrop. Instructing you to talk about your first night on the island, and what you thought of everyone. You nodded, be like able, be smart. The public not liking you would be your worst enemy in this competition. They decided your fate.

The crew called for rolling, you smiled at the camera. “Oh my god. I’m having so much fun so far! I talked to Dina last night and told her I was definitely interested in Ellie, she didn’t seem to mind sooo…” You grinned, looking off to the side as the camera stopped.

“Great job, thanks.” The crew deadpanned walking you out of the room. You hurried back upstairs taking a seat at your vanity. Dina was beside you, leaning over she peeked inside your makeup bag. Looking over the products throughly occasionally making a few comments. You smiled and made small talk. Dina handed you a small eye depuffer, skincare was important here, having a massive pimple on national television would not be fun.

—

Downstairs at the kitchen the few girls who opted for no makeup were making breakfast. Ellie was determined to make you the perfect breakfast, atleast with what they had at the villa. She cracked eggs into a pan, quickly whisking them, to create a perfect scramble. As she popped a bagel into the toaster— Abby sauntered into the kitchen.

“Making Nora breakfast?” Ellie quipped. Abby shook her head, a slight blush grazed her cheeks. “Mhm… and pretty up there.” She stirred pancake batter quickly, this had to be delicious.

“Bro- no you’re not! I already started making her breakfast!” Ellie whined, flailing her arms around. Abby giggled, “Then it can be from both of us, stupid.” Ellie scoffed, she didn’t want to share, she wanted you all to herself, it was her idea after all.

Abby plated her dishes three in total, she suggested that Ellie take the plate to you. The two girls had both made an element of your breakfast, and Abby was absolutely adamant that she explain what was from each of them.

Ellie shuffled upstairs two plates in hand, one overloaded for you, the other simple for Dina. “Hellooo ladies!” Ellie grinned pushing through the door, all the girls greeted her, eyeing the food she brought along. She set Dina’s plate down first. You smiled at her, her eyes immediately found yours.

She set the other plate in front of you. Her nose scrunched as she tried to find her words. “Okay so, the pancakes and coffee are from Abby, and the eggs and fruit, are me!” You nodded as she spoke watching her mumble softly.

“Tell Abby I said thank you!” Ellie nodded, backing away, sneaking a soft touch at your waist.

—

Dina frowned next to you, “You’d think she’d make me the same thing…” she sighed picking at her eggs.

“It’s okay babe, this part is from Abby!” You said quickly rubbing Dina’s arm, gesturing to your pancakes and coffee. Dina leaned into your shoulder, munching on a sliced strawberry. Being a bombshell was going to be tough.

—

The villa was even prettier in the day time. You had arrived at night, and didn’t get to see the full fiji morning. And so far your day was easy, and consisted of: doing your confessional, getting ready, watching sexy women work out (mostly Abby), and gossiping with all the girls. Dina had informed you that Nora appeared to be hard and jealous, but really didn’t care about her connection with Abby. She was just here for the game.

You sat at the bar with Mel watching everyone and who they were with. The two of you discussed connections, and what your lives looked like before the villa. Watching the islanders showed you something, well something about someone.

Ellie was so awkward it was adorable. You watched as she fumbled over words, and twiddled with her thumbs. A regular conversation had her a stuttering mess. You couldn’t help but wonder if she was talking about you? Curiosity always killed you, so you pulled her for a chat.

—

Ellie’s eyes widened as she saw you walking towards her, hoping she had predicted her own future last night.

“Hey Els, you wanna go chat?” You said softly pointing over to the swings. Ellie nodded, agreeing, as she followed you. She needed to stay calm and collected, none of her usual stuff, that might scare you away. The two of you chatted as you walked towards the white suspended swing.

“So how’s your connection with Dina going?” You say smiling as you sat. She sat next to you, legs folded underneath her. “It’s fine. I’m definitely open to exploring more connections though, sometimes it feels like we just don’t mesh.” You nodded, you understood, but also she was open!

“Okay, perfect!” You giggled, smiling bright; as you watched Ellie’s eyes drop from yours down to your lips. Raising an eyebrow slightly you teased her, she grinned at you shaking her head.

You twisted the ends of you hair. There was a silence but it was comfortable, like the two of you were talking with just your eyes.

“What do you think motivates you?” Ellie said suddenly, you didn’t expect it. This was a big flip from eye-fucking. It was a good shift though, it showed she was comfortable.

“Mostly my family and myself.” That answer was deep, open, but not too open. You hoped Ellie would have something similar.

“I’m the same. My dad really pushes me to be my best.” Ellie did understand, you could tell. There was something there but you didn’t want to press. Instead you nodded, “Aw, so we’re twins!” you nervously rubbed your thigh. Ellie laughed you could both tell there was something special happening between you two.

—

Ellie had talked for a while, and she suggested going to the docks to see the water. The two of you walked down— her arm holding onto your back. Behind you Ellie smiled and winked at Abby. God, she was cute.

Ellie sat down first and patting her lap ‘joking’ you giggling and sat next to her. “Damn why’d you swerve me baby?” Ellie frowned, fake pouting, you poked her lips “Don’t pout Ellie.” She instantly straightened up and smiled. Soon enough the docks were your spot, and you promised Ellie that wouldn’t change.

a/n: hii guys!! i hope you like, and pls lemme know what you think! i have some characterization up my sleeve idk if you can tell already!! i also love the relationship Dina and reader are developing, we’ll have a whole chapter or blurb dedicated to them. lmk if i should continue… cuz i feel like this rough… my dialogue is so bad. anyways! pls excuse any mistakes!!!