Harper

Everything feels too loud. The way your skin prickles under your clothes. The memory of Ellie’s freckles. The fact that you googled “how to know if you’re a lesbian” at 3 a.m. last Tuesday and then immediately cleared your search history like the FBI was watching. You’re high as hell and suddenly the walls are closing in and the only person who knows the ugly crying version of you is Ellie Williams, weed dealer and apparent part-time gay crisis counselor.

You pull on a hoodie over your sleep shirt (some oversized thing Jake left here) and shove your feet into sneakers without socks. Your hair is a mess. You don’t care. You text her before you can chicken out.

you: hey it’s cass’s friend. the one who cried in your living room. you around?

The reply comes faster than you expect.

ellie: yeah. door’s open if you’re quick

You almost laugh. Almost.

The walk to her duplex feels longer this time. The air is colder, late October biting through your hoodie. Your hands shake in your pockets the whole way. When you get there the door is cracked open like she said, warm light spilling out onto the porch. You knock anyway, polite to a fault even when you’re disintegrating.

Ellie appears in the doorway wearing the same faded black t-shirt as last time, or maybe a different one. They all look the same. Her hair’s messier, like she’s been running her hands through it. She’s got a joint already burning between her fingers.

“You look fucked up,” she says, not unkindly.

“I am,” you admit.

She steps aside without another word.

Inside it’s the same purple LED glow, but the coffee table has more chaos now—empty energy drink cans, a sketchbook open to some half-finished drawing of a moth, a controller on the floor. The couch has a blanket thrown over it like she was napping there. It smells like weed and the faint piney soap she probably uses.

You hover in the middle of the room like an idiot.

Ellie drops back onto the couch and looks up at you, one eyebrow raised. “You here for more weed or another emotional breakdown? Because I charge double for therapy.”

“Both?” Your voice cracks. You laugh at how stupid you sound, but it comes out shaky.

She studies you for a second, that same assessing look from last time. Then she shrugs. “Whatever, man. Sit.”

You sit. Too close maybe. Your thigh almost touches hers. She doesn’t move away.

She passes you the joint without asking. You take it, fingers brushing hers, and this time you don’t cough as hard. The smoke curls in your lungs and spreads out like warm syrup. The high you already had doubles, triples. Your body sinks heavier into the cushions.

For a while it’s quiet. Just the low hum of whatever indie rock playlist she has going and the occasional car passing outside.

Then you start talking.

“I keep thinking about what you said,” you murmur, staring at the ceiling. “That I’m just gay. I can’t stop thinking about it. I tried to… I don’t know. Unthink it. But then Jake kissed me yesterday and I felt like I was cheating on someone I haven’t even met yet.”

Ellie exhales smoke through her nose. “Damn. A tale as old as time.”

“Yeah. Damn.” You take another hit. Your head is swimming. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. You’re basically a stranger. But you’re also the only… person like me that I know. And I’m so fucking high right now.”

She chuckles softly. “I can tell.”

You turn your head to look at her. She’s already watching you. The purple light catches in her eyes, makes the green look almost unreal. Her freckles stand out more up close. You count them without meaning to. One near the corner of her mouth. Another on her eyelid.

“You’re really pretty,” you blurt.

Ellie blinks. Then she laughs, surprised. “Okay, you’re really high.”

“I mean it.” Your face burns but you can’t stop. “I noticed last time but I was crying too much to say it. You have nice hands. And your arms look like you could… I don’t know. Carry stuff. Heavy stuff.”

She rubs a hand over her face, smirking. “Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry. I’m being so weird.”

“You’re not.” She pauses. “Well. You are. But it’s fine.”

The silence stretches again, but it’s different now. Thicker. Charged. Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure she can hear it. The high makes everything feel immediate, every nerve ending awake. You’re aware of the way your hoodie rides up on your stomach, the brush of your bare thigh against the couch, the way Ellie’s knee is only inches from yours.

“I’ve never kissed a girl,” you whisper.

Ellie goes still.

You keep going because the words won’t stop. “I’ve thought about it. A lot. Like… way too much. In class. In the library. When Jake’s asleep next to me. I feel disgusting about it but I can’t stop.”

She turns toward you fully now. Her expression is unreadable, that casual “whatever man” mask cracking just a little. “You’re playing with fire coming here like this, you know that?”

“I know.” Your voice is barely audible. “I just… I needed to tell someone. And you’re here. And you’re… you.”

Ellie stares at you for a long moment. Then she mutters, “Fuck it,” under her breath.

She leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t.

The first touch of her lips is soft. Tentative. Nothing like Jake’s confident, practiced kisses. Ellie’s mouth is warm and a little chapped and tastes like weed and the cherry chapstick she must use. Your brain short-circuits. You make a small, embarrassing sound in the back of your throat.

She pulls back an inch. “Still okay?”

You answer by kissing her again, clumsier this time, more eager. Your noses bump. She laughs quietly against your mouth and tilts her head, guiding you. One of her hands comes up to rest lightly on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. The other stays on the couch between you like she’s trying to keep some control.

It’s silly. You’re both a little too high, a little too awkward. Your teeth click once. You don’t know where to put your hands so you settle for gripping the front of her t-shirt like it’s a lifeline. She tastes new. Different. Better. The realization hits you like a truck: this is what it’s supposed to feel like. This spark, this melting warmth low in your stomach, the way your skin feels electric where she touches you.

Ellie makes a low sound when you press closer, half sigh, half something else. She deepens the kiss, tongue brushing yours shyly at first, then bolder. You melt into it. Your brain is full of static and stars and the smell of her, smoke and soap and something uniquely Ellie.

When you finally break apart you’re both breathing hard. Your lips feel swollen. Her eyes are darker, pupils blown wide from the high and something else.

“Shit,” she mutters, resting her forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” you agree, voice shaky. A giggle bubbles up out of nowhere. “That was… I just kissed a girl.”

Ellie grins, crooked and real. “You did. How was it?”

“Terrifying.” You laugh again, the sound giddy and loose. “Really good. Can we do it again?”

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “You’re being greedy.”

You kiss her again before she can say anything else. This time it’s slower, more exploratory. You map the shape of her mouth, the little scar on her bottom lip you hadn’t noticed before. Her hand slides into your hair, fingers tangling gently. When she tugs just right you shiver so hard she notices.

“Easy,” she murmurs against your lips. “We’re not doing anything crazy tonight. You’re still figuring shit out.”

“I know.” You kiss the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then the freckles on her nose because you can. “I just… I needed this. Needed to know what it felt like.”

Ellie lets you. She even tilts her head so you can reach more of her face. You end up half in her lap somehow, hoodie unzipped, her hands resting respectfully on your waist over your shirt. You kiss until your lips are numb and your jaw aches and the high starts to level out into something softer, warmer. Every so often one of you pulls back and you just look at each other, breathing the same air.

At some point you end up lying down, your head on her chest, her arm around your shoulders. The couch is too small for both of you but neither of you moves. Her heartbeat is steady under your ear.

“You’re gonna have to deal with your boyfriend situation,” she says quietly after a while, fingers tracing slow circles on your arm.

“I know.” The words feel heavy but not as terrifying as before. “Not tonight though.”

“Not tonight,” she agrees.

You tilt your head up to look at her. “Can I come back? Even if it’s just to… talk. Or this. Whatever this is.”

Ellie looks down at you, her expression uncharacteristically soft. “Yeah. You can come back.”

You smile and hide your face in her shirt. She smells like home in a way nothing else ever has. Nothing is solved. But for the first time, curled against Ellie Williams on her worn-out couch with the taste of her still on your lips, the future doesn’t feel like a trap.

Ellie’s fingers had been restless all day, brushing the small of your back while you reloaded rifles in the armory, sliding up your thigh under the mess hall table when no one was looking, tugging the collar of your coat to pull you in for a quick, teeth-nipping kiss behind the stables. Now those same calloused fingers were under your sweater, tracing slow circles around the underside of your breast, thumb flicking lazily over your nipple until it ached. Her other hand was between your legs, palm pressed firm against the seam of your jeans, rocking just enough to make you squirm but not enough to give you what you really wanted.

You were already soaked. Had been since the second patrol when she’d pinned you against a pine tree for thirty stolen seconds, mouth hot on your neck, whispering “Missed this ass” like it was the most important tactical update of the day. Now you were needy in that desperate, bottom-drop way that only happened after weeks of careful, quiet touching—always aware of patrols, of the fact that the world outside Jackson’s gates still wanted to eat you both alive. Tonight, the gates were locked, the world was quiet, and you were done being patient.

“Ellie,” you breathed against her jaw, voice already wrecked. You rolled your hips into her hand, chasing friction. “You can be mean tonight. I want it. Talk dirty. Call me your needy little slut or whatever, whatever you want. Just… use me.”

She went still. Her green eyes, those sharp, forest-green eyes that had seen way too much death and still somehow looked at you like you were the only living thing left worth protecting, locked onto yours. The hand between your legs didn’t move away, but it stopped rocking. The thumb on your nipple paused mid-stroke. She just looked at you, really looked, like she was memorizing the flush on your cheeks and the way your lips were already parted and shiny.

Then she let out this soft, almost disbelieving huff of air through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching up in that crooked half-smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Jesus,” she muttered, voice low and rough like she’d been chewing on gravel. “You really think I could do that to you?”

She shifted, rolling you both so you were on your back on the couch and she was hovering over you, one knee slotted between your thighs. Her forearm braced beside your head, the other hand sliding up to cup your face, thumb brushing your lower lip like it was something fragile. Her calluses scraped gently over your skin.

“Baby,” she said, and the word came out quiet, almost reverent. Raw, honest, the same tone she used when she was patching up your split knuckles after a bad run or when she’d wake up from a nightmare and pull you closer without saying why.

“Look at you. All soft and shaking for me already. You think I could look at this face, this fucking face, and call you names like you’re nothing?” She shook her head, auburn strands falling into her eyes. “Nah. You’re not nothing. You’re… shit, you’re everything I got left that still feels good. Heaven-sent or whatever the fuck people used to say. I don’t even know how to explain it without sounding like a goddamn sap, but every time I touch you, it’s like the world quiets down. Like maybe I’m not just some broken mess who survived when everyone else didn’t.”

Her thumb pressed a little harder against your lip, parting it so she could feel the heat of your breath. Her eyes never left yours.

“I love you too much to be mean to you. Even when you’re begging so pretty like that. Makes me wanna be gentle instead. Makes me wanna take my time and make you feel so fucking good you forget your own name. That okay?”

You couldn’t answer right away. Because something in your chest had cracked open wide at her words. Simple, unpolished, so perfectly Ellie, and the ache between your legs flared hotter than any filthy promise ever could. Your clit throbbed against the cotton of your knickers. Slick had already soaked through them; you could feel it when you shifted. The way she looked at you, like you were rare and precious and hers, made you wetter than any dirty talk ever had. Wetter than the time she’d growled “gonna fuck you stupid” against your ear during a risky quickie in the barn. Wetter than anything.

You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s okay. More than okay.”

Ellie’s grin softened into something smaller, fonder. “Good girl,” she murmured, and even that sounded like worship instead of degradation. She kissed you then, slow at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours like she had all night and nothing outside these walls mattered. Her hand slipped back down, popping the button on your jeans with practiced ease, dragging the zipper down tooth by tooth. She didn’t shove them off. She peeled them down your hips like she was unwrapping something she wanted to savor, dragging your soaked undies with them until they caught at your knees.

“Fuck,” she breathed, sitting back on her heels just long enough to look. Her eyes dragged over your bare cunt, glistening, swollen, clit peeking out from its hood like it was begging. “Look at you. So fucking wet already. All because I told you I can’t be mean?” She let out a low, shaky laugh. “Goddamn, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”

She didn’t wait for you to answer. She hooked your knees over her shoulders, shoved your sweater up to your chin so she could mouth at your tits, tongue circling one nipple while her fingers finally, finally slid through your folds. Two thick fingers parted you, gathering slick, circling your clit with maddening slowness. You arched, a broken sound tearing out of your throat.

“Easy,” she whispered against your skin, breath hot. “I got you. Gonna make you come so many times you can’t even remember what day it is.”

She slid those two fingers inside you without warning. Deep, curling immediately against that spot that made your vision white out. Your walls clenched around her so tight she groaned, forehead dropping to your sternum. “Jesus Christ, you’re gripping me like you never want me to leave. So warm. So fucking soft.”

She started thrusting, slow drags that had your hips chasing her hand. Her thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with every push. Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and loud over the crackle of the fire. Your slick coated her fingers, dripping down to soak the couch cushion beneath you. Ellie’s free hand pinned your hip down when you started bucking too hard, holding you exactly where she wanted you.

“That’s it,” she murmured, voice wrecked. “Take it. Let me feel every little twitch. God, you’re so pretty when you’re like this, spread open for me, dripping down my wrist. Could do this for hours. Just watch you fall apart over and over.”

You were already close, embarrassingly close. Your thighs trembled against her shoulders. She felt it, felt the way your cunt started fluttering, and she doubled down, fingers fucking you harder, thumb pressing firmer, mouth latching onto your other nipple and sucking hard.

“Come on, baby,” she growled against your breast. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you come on my fingers first. Wanna feel you soak my hand.”

You broke with a cry that echoed off the rafters, sharp, desperate, body locking up as pleasure slammed through you in heavy waves. Ellie didn’t stop. She kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and trying to twist away. Only then did she ease her fingers out, bringing them to her mouth and licking them clean with a low, satisfied hum that made your spent cunt clench again.

But she wasn’t done. Not even close.

She stripped the rest of your clothes off with careful hands, your sweater, your bra, jeans and underwear kicked somewhere toward the floor. Then she stood, peeling off her own flannel and the threadbare tee underneath, revealing the lean muscle of her arms, the constellation of freckles across her shoulders, the jagged scar along her ribs that you’d kissed a hundred times. Her jeans followed, belt clinking, until she was naked too, pussy already shiny with her own arousal, nipples tight from the chill and from wanting you.

She grabbed the quilt from the back of the couch and spread it on the floor in front of the stove, then scooped you up like you weighed nothing. Her strong arms, rough hands, the same arms that could draw a bow with deadly precision, now cradling you like you were made of glass. She laid you down on the quilt, the fire warming your skin, and crawled over you.

“Gonna fuck you proper now,” she said, voice low. “Gonna get inside you and stay there until you’re crying for me again.”

She reached over to the little side table, always prepared, your Ellie, and grabbed the strap she kept there. The harness was simple black leather; the dildo was thick, veined, the shade of deep purple. She buckled it on with quick, practiced movements, the silicone cock bobbing heavy between her thighs. Then she was back between your legs, spreading you wide with both hands.

She dragged the blunt head through your folds, once, twice, coating it in your slick until it glistened. Your hips jerked every time it nudged your clit.

“Ready?” she asked, eyes locked on yours. Not teasing. Just checking.

You nodded, hands fisting in the quilt. “Please.”

She pushed in slow, inch by inch, stretching you open until the thickest part popped past your entrance, and you moaned loud enough that she had to kiss you to swallow the sound. Full. So fucking full. The harness pressed against her own clit with every thrust; you could feel her hips stutter when it rubbed just right.

Ellie started moving. Deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The firelight painted gold across her skin, across the sweat already beading on her collarbones. Her hands gripped your thighs, pushing them back toward your chest so she could watch the way your cunt swallowed her cock over and over, lips stretched tight, slick coating the shaft, dripping down to soak the harness and her own pussy.

“Fuck, look at that,” she groaned, voice hoarse. “Taking me so deep. So fucking good for me. Every inch. God, you’re creaming around it already, see?” She pulled out almost all the way so you could both watch the glossy sheen, then slammed back in hard enough to punch a cry out of you.

She fucked you like that for long minutes, steady, relentless, hips snapping with the same controlled power she used when she was clearing infected. Every thrust ground the base of the strap against her clit; her breathing got shorter, rougher. You reached down between you and rubbed her, fingers sliding through her soaked folds, circling her swollen clit in tight little strokes.

Ellie’s rhythm faltered. “Shit, baby, yeah, just like that. Touch me while I fuck you. Wanna come together.”

She dropped down closer, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand sliding between you to pinch and roll your clit. The new angle had the cock dragging perfectly against your front wall, and the dual stimulation, her fingers on your clit, the strap pounding deep, had you spiralling again within minutes.

You came hard the second time, walls clamping down around the silicone so tight Ellie hissed through her teeth. The pressure pushed her over the edge right after, hips stuttering, grinding deep as she rode out her own orgasm against your fingers, a broken “fuck, I love you” tumbling out of her mouth like she couldn’t hold it back.

She didn’t pull out right away. She stayed buried inside you, both of you panting, sweat-slick skin sliding together. She kissed you slow and deep, tongue lazy now, like she was tasting every aftershock still rippling through you.

After a minute, she eased the strap out, gentle and careful, then unbuckled the harness and tossed it aside. She pulled you into her arms on the quilt, your back to her chest, one leg thrown over yours. Her hand settled possessively between your thighs—not fucking you anymore, just cupping your still-throbbing cunt like she wanted to keep the warmth there.

“Still wet,” she murmured against the back of your neck, voice sleepy and satisfied. “Gonna have to clean you up with my tongue in a bit. But first… stay here. With me.”

You felt her smile against your skin. Ellie’s heartbeat thumped steadily against your spine. Her fingers traced lazy patterns over your hip when you realized you were still dripping.

She kissed the nape of your neck, breath warm. “Round two when you’re ready, baby. I’ve got all night to prove it.”

You watched her watch you, her dark eyes wide with pupils blown so large the green of her irises had almost disappeared, tracing slow, deliberate paths across your bare skin: the way the silver barbells in your nipples caught the slanted afternoon light and glinted with every small rise and fall of your chest, the gentle slope from collarbone to sternum, the faint constellation of freckles scattered like spilled coffee across the tops of your breasts, the subtle hollow of your stomach when you exhaled.

She wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore. She didn’t have to be. You’d already given her permission with nothing more than a sleepy smile and the words “You can look.”

“You really weren’t expecting anyone,” she murmured, her voice gravel-rough and low, the words more observation than question. You stretched again, slower this time, letting your back arch just enough to make the movement impossible for her to ignore.

The highlighter cap balanced precariously on your thigh rolled and clattered softly against the bedframe. “Nope,” you answered simply, voice still scratchy from disuse. “Mariah texted twenty minutes ago. Said she’d be gone at least two hours.”

Ellie’s throat worked visibly as she swallowed. “Two hours,” she repeated, the number hanging between you like a dare. The silence that followed was thick, heavy with everything neither of you had said yet, electric and waiting.

Your fingers found the drawstrings of her hoodie again. You tugged once, playful, teasing. “You’re still dressed like you’re about to run a 5K in the rain.” She huffed a small, disbelieving laugh that sounded more like relief than amusement.

“Yeah, well… didn’t exactly plan on walking into a fuckin’ renaissance painting when I came to drop off weed.” You grinned, sliding your hand under the hem of her hoodie, fingertips brushing warm skin just above the waistband of her jeans—not pushing, just there, testing the waters.

Ellie sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, the sound ragged in the quiet. “Still okay?” you asked, softer now, giving her the out if she needed it. Her eyes flicked to yours, serious and searching for only a heartbeat before she nodded once, decisive.

You tugged the hoodie up and she helped, lifting her arms so you could peel the thick fabric over her head and toss it somewhere behind her. Underneath was a plain black sports bra, straps thin and slightly stretched from wear, the material clinging to the small, firm swell of her chest. A few more tattoos peeked out: the fern leaf curling behind her ear, the tiny moth just below her collarbone, the faded outline of another fern along her ribs that you suddenly, viscerally wanted to trace with your tongue.

She looked nervous, stripped down in more ways than one, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache sweetly. You reached out slowly and dragged your knuckles lightly down the center of her sternum, following the faint valley between her breasts. Her nipples were already peaked beneath the fabric, hard little points that became even more obvious when she shivered under your touch.

“God,” she breathed, eyes fluttering half-closed. “You have no idea how long I’ve—” She cut herself off, cheeks darkening with embarrassment.

You tilted your head, curious. “How long you’ve what?” Ellie swallowed hard. “Thought about this. You. Like this.” Your smile turned wicked-soft. “Like what?” “Topless,” she rasped. “Teasing me. Letting me look. Fuckin’ killing me slowly.” You leaned in then, close enough that your noses brushed.

“Then stop dying so dramatically,” you whispered against her mouth, “and kiss me.”

Ellie moved like she’d been waiting for the green light her entire life. Her mouth crashed into yours—hungry, messy, not gentle at all. One hand flew to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to hold you exactly where she wanted you; the other slid to your waist, palm flat and searing against bare skin, thumb brushing the sensitive underside of your breast in a touch that felt almost accidental but definitely wasn’t.

You opened for her immediately, and her tongue slid against yours, slow at first, exploratory, learning the shape and taste of you, then deeper, wetter. A low sound rumbled in her throat when you sucked lightly on the tip of her tongue, and her hips jerked forward involuntarily, pressing the rough denim of her jeans hard against your bare thigh.

You hummed into her mouth, pleased, and she kissed you like she was starving, like every slide of lips and every catch of teeth was something she’d been replaying in her head for months on end. She pulled back just enough to breathe, then dove back in harder, more desperate.

Your hands weren’t idle. You skimmed them up her sides, under the sports bra, pushing it up until it bunched beneath her armpits. Her breasts were small, perfect handfuls, nipples dark and tight. When your thumbs brushed over them she gasped into your mouth, sharp, almost pained, and her whole body arched toward your touch like she couldn’t help it.

“Fuck—fuck,” she panted against your lips. “Do that again.” You did: slow circles, then a light pinch, then dragging your nails very gently down the sensitive skin until she whimpered, high and broken in the back of her throat. Her hand on your waist slid lower, fingers splaying over the lace at your hip, tracing the scalloped edge where fabric met skin. She didn’t try to slip underneath. Not yet. Just felt, memorized, her thumb dipping under the waistband and retreating again and again like she was testing how much she could take before she completely lost it.

You shifted, rolling half on top of her so your bare chest pressed flush against hers. Skin on skin, heat on heat. The barbells in your nipples dragged across her own and she jerked, hips bucking up hard enough that you felt the thick ridge of her through her jeans.

“Ellie,” you murmured, smiling against her jaw as you kissed the spot just below her ear, where her pulse hammered wildly. “You’re shaking.”

“No shit,” she rasped, voice wrecked. “You feel—fuck, you feel so good.” You rocked down against her once, slow, deliberate pressure, and her head dropped back against the pillow with a choked groan

“Don’t—don’t do that unless you plan on finishing what you start,” she warned, the words trembling. You kissed the corner of her mouth. “Who said anything about finishing?”

Her eyes snapped open—wide, disbelieving, a little betrayed. “You’re evil,” she whispered. You grinned, wicked. “Maybe.” Then you kissed her again, slower this time, languid and deep, letting her chase your tongue, letting her hands roam your back, your sides, the dip of your waist, the curve of your ass over the lace.

You kept the rhythm lazy, hips rolling in slow, maddening circles that dragged her jeans against your barely-covered center—enough friction to make heat bloom low in your belly, but nowhere near enough to satisfy. Every time her breathing hitched higher, every time her fingers tightened like she might flip you over and take control, you eased off just enough to keep her teetering on the edge.

After long minutes—maybe ten, maybe twenty—her kisses turned desperate, sloppy. Her hips kept chasing yours in little aborted thrusts she couldn’t stop.

“Baby,” she breathed against your mouth, the word slipping out unguarded and raw. “Please.” You pulled back far enough to look at her: lips swollen and shiny, cheeks flushed dark, pupils so wide the green was gone, hair a wreck from your fingers. She looked utterly wrecked already, and you hadn’t even taken her jeans off. You brushed your thumb over her bottom lip.

“Not today,” you said softly. Ellie made a sound that was half-whine, half-laugh. “You’re actually trying to murder me.” “Maybe a little,” you answered, leaning down to kiss her slow and sweet one last time. “But only because I want you thinking about this every time you walk through that door from now on.”

She groaned, long and suffering, and dropped her head back against the pillow again. “You’re gonna leave me like this?” she asked, incredulous. “Blue-balled and fully clothed?” You hummed, tracing the shell of her ear with your tongue. “Mhm. Consider it motivation.” “For what?” You smiled against her skin. “For coming back tomorrow. With flashcards. And snacks.” Another slow grind of your hips made her curse under her breath. “And maybe fewer layers.”

Ellie stared up at the ceiling like she was praying for strength. “Fuckin’ evil,” she muttered again, but there was a helpless, adoring smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. You rolled off her, stretched out beside her, still topless, still smug. She turned her head to look at you, eyes soft now, wondering.

"Ready to freeze our asses off for six hours?" she asked, bumping your shoulder.

"Always," you replied, bumping back. "You packed extra fags this time? Last patrol you whined the whole way back about—"

"Shut up," she laughed, shoving you lightly. Her green eyes sparkled under the brim of her beanie. "I did not whine. I stated facts. Very calmly."

You grinned. "Sure. Very calmly."

Inside the stables, the horses nickered softly. You both saddled up—her on Shimmer, the paint mare she treated like a spoiled sibling, and you on a sturdy bay named Rusty. Jesse gave the usual briefing at the gate: check the creek trails, clear the old motel and gas station outposts, mark the logbook, radio if anything looked off. Standard shit. Nothing ever felt standard when you were out there, though.

The gate groaned open, and you rode out into the wild.

The first couple of hours passed easy. You checked an abandoned cabin, found a couple of rusted cans of beans and a half-box of ammo. Ellie pocketed a faded postcard from the windowsill, some pre-outbreak mountain view, and tucked it into her journal without a word. You watched her sketch something quick on the page before she snapped it shut.

"Whatcha drawing?" you asked, leaning over her shoulder.

She tilted the journal away playfully. "None of your business. Private artist shit."

"Liar. It's me naked, isn't it?"

Her cheeks flushed pink—not from the cold. "Keep dreaming."

You laughed, the sound echoing off the trees. She pulled you in by the collar of your jacket and kissed you quick, fierce, tasting like the coffee you'd shared at dawn. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours for a beat.

"Don't get cocky out here," she murmured. "I need you in one piece."

"Same goes for you, Williams."

The creek trails wound through dense forest, the river murmuring under shelves of ice. You dismounted near the old motel, tying the horses to a rusted signpost. Ellie went ahead, bow drawn, arrow nocked. You followed with your pistol ready, sweeping corners.

The place was quiet. Broken windows gaped like empty eyes. You cleared the lobby, finding nothing but dust and old bloodstains. Upstairs, a few runners in tattered clothes shuffled in the hallway. Ellie took one down silently with an arrow through the eye. You knifed the other from behind, the wet crunch making you both pause, listening.

"Clear," she whispered.

You nodded, wiping the blade on your sleeve.

Outside again, heading toward the gas station a half-mile down the road, you walked close. Ellie’s hand brushed yours every few steps—deliberate, grounding.

"You ever think about what happens if we just... don't go back one day?" she asked quietly. "Just keep riding. See what's past the mountains."

You looked at her. "Sometimes. But Jackson's home. And Maria would hunt us down and drag us back by our ears."

She snorted. "True. Plus, who'd feed Shimmer her stupid carrots?"

You smiled. "Exactly."

The gas station loomed ahead, pumps long dry, windows boarded haphazardly. You split up to check the perimeter, a standard procedure. Ellie took the back, you the front. You were prying at a loose board when you heard it: the low, guttural rasp of something moving fast.

Too fast.

A runner—no, a stalker, cordyceps blooming grotesquely across its face, bursts from the side alley. It had been waiting. Silent until the last second.

It slammed into you full-force.

You hit the ground hard, breath punched out of your lungs. Snow and gravel bit into your back. The thing was on you instantly, knees pinning your hips, hands clawing at your jacket. Its mouth opened wide—blackened teeth, fungal tendrils writhing inside. You got your forearm up just in time, shoving against its throat, muscles screaming as it pressed down.

"Fuck—get off!" you snarled, bucking hard.

It snapped its jaws inches from your face. You twisted, knee driving into its side, but it barely flinched. Stronger than a fresh turn. Older. Meaner.

You heard Ellie shout your name—sharp, panicked—from somewhere behind.

The infected lunged again. You managed to roll, but it followed, slamming you back down. Its weight pinned your arms. Hot, rancid breath washed over your neck. Teeth hovered above your skin.

No time. No angle for your knife.

It reared back to bite—

Ellie crashed into the side of it like a freight train.

She didn't hesitate. Her left hand shot forward, shoving straight into the thing's open mouth. Fingers splayed, palm-first, right between those jagged teeth.

The infected clamped down hard.

You heard the crunch of bone and flesh. Heard her sharp intake of breath—pain, but no scream.

It bit harder, grinding.

Ellie didn't pull away.

Instead, with her free hand, she yanked her switchblade from her belt. The shiv flashed. She drove it up under the thing's jaw, through the soft palate, into the brain.

The infected spasmed once, twice, then went limp.

Ellie wrenched her hand free, blood slicking her arm, dripping red onto the snow. The runner collapsed half on top of you, dead weight. She shoved it off roughly, then dropped to her knees beside you.

Her face was pale, eyes wide and wild.

"You okay?" she rasped. "Did it get you? Your neck, let me see..."

You sat up fast, hands shaking as you grabbed her wrist. Blood poured from between her fingers—deep punctures, torn skin. "Ellie...your hand—"

"I'm fine," she said quickly. Too quickly. "I'm immune, remember? It doesn't matter. It was gonna rip your fucking throat out. I didn't...there wasn't time—"

You stared at the bite marks. Perfect crescents. Already bruising around the edges. But she was right. No fever. No turning. Just pain.

And blood. So much blood.

You yanked your scarf off, wrapping it tight around her hand. She hissed through her teeth but didn't pull away.

"You idiot," you whispered, voice cracking. "You could've, fuck!"

"Stop." She cupped your face with her good hand, thumb brushing your cheek. Her eyes searched yours, fierce and terrified all at once. "I couldn't watch it take you. Not you."

Tears stung your eyes—anger, fear, love crashing together. You surged forward and kissed her hard, tasting salt and copper and her. She kissed back just as desperately, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer like she could fuse you together.

When you broke apart, foreheads pressed, breathing ragged, she laughed shakily. "We're a mess."

"Yeah," you managed. "But we're alive."

You helped her stand. She flexed her wrapped hand, wincing. "Gonna need stitches. And probably a lecture from the doc."

"And a new scarf," you added, trying for lightness.

Ellie looked down at the dead infected, then back at you. Rawness flickered across her face, vulnerability she rarely let show.

"I love you," she said quietly. No preamble. Just truth. "Like... stupid, reckless, can't-breathe-without-you love."

Your heart squeezed. You reached up, brushing a strand of auburn hair from her face. "I love you too. More than anything in this fucked-up world."

She smiled. "Good. 'Cause I'm not letting anything take you from me. Not infected. Not raiders. Not even bad patrol luck."

You leaned in, kissing her again—slower this time. Gentler. The wind picked up, swirling snow around you both.

Eventually, you pulled apart. Horses still tied. Radio still silent. Patrol wasn't over.

But you'd finish it together.

Always together.

You mounted up, Ellie cradling her injured hand against her chest. You rode side by side, close enough that your knees brushed every few steps.

The ride back to Jackson felt longer than the patrol itself. The sun had dipped low, painting the snow in bruised purples and golds, and the cold sank deeper into your bones with every step the horses took. Ellie rode mostly silent beside you, cradling her bandaged hand against her chest like it was something fragile she didn't want to acknowledge. Every so often, she'd flex her fingers experimentally, then grimace and stop.

You kept stealing glances at her—checking for fever, for pallor beyond the usual winter flush, for any sign that immunity might fail her this time. Logically, you knew it wouldn't. She'd told you the stories: bites from years ago, scars faded to thin white lines on her arm. Still, seeing those fresh punctures weeping through the makeshift scarf made your throat tight.

By the time the gates of Jackson came into view, the sky had darkened to indigo. The watch posted at the wall recognized your silhouettes and waved you through without much fuss. You dismounted in the stables, handing Rusty off to one of the stable hands. Ellie tried to unsaddle Shimmer one-handed; you gently pushed her aside.

"I've got it," you said. "Go get warm. I'll meet you at the clinic."

She opened her mouth to argue, stubborn as ever, then just nodded, shoulders slumping a fraction. "Don't take forever."

You didn't.

The clinic was a converted house near the main square, lights glowing warm in the windows against the evening chill. You found Ellie already inside, perched on the edge of an exam table in one of the back rooms. The doc, Maria's go-to for anything beyond basic first aid, wasn't there; she'd left early for dinner, leaving the place quiet except for the low crackle of the wood stove in the corner.

Ellie looked up when you entered, relief flickering across her face before she masked it with a smirk. "Took you long enough. Thought you got lost in the hay."

You locked the door behind you and crossed to her. "Shut up and let me see."

She held out her injured hand without protest. You'd unwrapped the scarf on the ride back just enough to check bleeding; now the cloth was stiff with dried blood. You peeled it away carefully. The bite marks were ugly: four deep crescents on the palm side, one shallower on the back where a tooth had scraped. Swollen, red-rimmed, but no black veins. No heat radiating unnaturally. Just angry, human damage.

Ellie watched your face as you examined it. "Told you. Immune. No mushroom party in my bloodstream."

"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell," you muttered.

You moved to the supply cabinet, familiar now after too many patrols ending in stitches or splints. Gauze, antiseptic, suture kit and antibiotic ointment from the last FEDRA raid stash. You set everything on a clean tray and pulled up a stool so you were eye-level with her hand.

"Hold still," you said softly.

She did.

You started with saline to flush the wounds, cool liquid running pink into a basin. Ellie hissed once when it hit a deeper puncture, but otherwise stayed quiet. You dabbed gently, cleaning away grime and dried blood until the raw pink of torn flesh showed clear. Her fingers twitched involuntarily when you pressed too close to a nerve.

"Sorry," you whispered.

"'S fine." Her voice was rough. "Keep going."

You dried the area, then applied the ointment, thick, medicinal smell filling the small room. Ellie’s other hand came up to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing the side of your neck in slow, absent circles. Grounding herself. Grounding you.

You threaded the needle next. "This'll sting."

"I know."

The first stitch pulled a sharp inhale from her. By the third, her jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump. You worked methodically—small, even stitches to close the worst of the punctures, leaving the shallower ones to heal on their own under bandages. Every time she tensed, you paused, murmuring nonsense to distract her: "Remember that time you tried to teach me guitar and I broke a string in your face?" "Yeah," she grunted through gritted teeth. "Still owe me a new one."

When the last knot was tied, you snipped the thread and sat back. Her hand looked better—ugly still, but contained. You wrapped it in fresh gauze, then a layer of bandage, securing it with tape. Not too tight. Room for swelling.

Ellie flexed experimentally when you finished. Winced, but less dramatically. "Feels... better. Thanks."

You didn't let go of her hand. Instead, you lifted it to your lips and pressed a careful kiss to the bandage over her knuckles. "Don't ever do that again."

She looked at you, really looked. The bravado cracked just enough for you to see the fear underneath. "I would. Every time."

"I know." Your voice cracked. "That's what scares me."

You rose, stepping between her knees where she sat on the table. She parted her legs automatically to let you closer. Her good hand slid to your waist, pulling you in until your foreheads touched.

"I can't lose you," she said quietly. "Not to some rotting fucker in an alley. Not to anything."

You cupped her face, thumbs tracing the freckles across her cheeks. "You won't. But you don't get to throw yourself in front of every bullet, or bite for me. We're in this together. Equal partners. No heroes."

Her eyes searched yours, green and stormy. Then she leaned in and kissed you—slow, deep, tasting faintly of blood and antiseptic and relief. You kissed back just as slow, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if you let go.

When you parted, she rested her forehead against yours again. "Deal. But if it's you or me... I'm picking me every time."

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. "Stubborn asshole."

"Your stubborn asshole."

You helped her off the table. She tested her weight on both feet, then pulled you into a one-armed hug—careful of the injury, but tight enough to feel her heartbeat against yours.

"Let's go home," she murmured into your hair. "Shower. Bed. You can yell at me more there."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Outside, the town had gone quiet under fresh snow. Street lamps glowed soft along the paths, smoke curling from chimneys. You walked hand-in-hand, her good one in yours, toward the small house you shared near the edge of the settlement. No rush. No infected. Just the two of you, bruised and breathing, heading toward warmth.

Ellie Williams looks exactly like the rumours. Shorter than you imagined, definitely shorter than you, but built solid, like she actually does things with her body instead of pilates once a week. Faded black t-shirt, messy auburn hair tucked behind her ears, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like someone flicked paint at her. There’s a faint smell of smoke drifting past her shoulder. She looks you up and down once, assessing you, like she’s deciding if you’re going to waste her time.

“You the new one?” she asks as her eyebrow scrunches up.

You nod, clutching your fist so hard you crack your knuckle, like it might protect you from something. “Yeah. Cass sent me.”

“Mm.” She steps aside. “You look like you brought flashcards.”

You flush immediately. “I didn’t.”

She raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe you and shuts the door behind you. The living room is dim, LED strips casting a low purple glow along the ceiling. There’s a couch that’s seen better days, a coffee table with a half-full ashtray and rolling papers scattered across it, a guitar leaning in the corner next to a TV that’s paused on some game menu. It smells earthy, sweet and slightly burnt.

“So,” she says, leaning against the counter and folding her arms. “What do you need?”

You clear your throat. “Just… something small. I’ve never done this before.”

Her mouth twitches. “Never?”

You shake your head.

She exhales a soft laugh, not mocking exactly, just amused. “Okay. First time. Got it. You nervous?”

“A little.”

“You don’t have to be. I’m not gonna corrupt you beyond repair.”

You try to smile, but your stomach is tight. “That’s reassuring.”

She pushes off the counter and grabs a jar from a shelf. “You got exams or a breakup or an existential crisis?”

“Exams,” you answer too quickly.

She glances at you. “Just exams?”

You hesitate for half a second. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t press, just unscrews the jar and taps some of it onto the rolling paper. Her fingers move easily, practiced. You watch because you don’t know where else to look. There’s something almost meditative about the way she shapes it, seals it, twists the end. She catches you staring and lifts one eyebrow.

“You good?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I faint sometimes,” you blurt without thinking.

She pauses. “That’s… concerning.”

“Low iron,” you mumble. “I’m fine.”

She studies you for a second longer than necessary, then hands you the joint. “Okay. I’ll light it. You just inhale slow. Don’t try to prove anything.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything.”

“Yeah, right, everyone says that,” a soft scoff leaves her lips.

She flicks the lighter and the flame briefly warms her freckles gold. She brings it toward you, and for a second you’re hyper aware of how close she is. Physically. Her knee brushes yours when she sits on the edge of the couch. Her hand steadies yours when you fumble.

“Okay,” she says. “Breathe in.”

You do. It burns. You cough immediately, violently, eyes watering as your lungs revolt.

She laughs under her breath and takes it back before you drop it. “Tiny baby.”

“Shut up,” you croak.

“Slow down. Small pulls.”

The second try goes better. Less coughing. More warmth. You hand it back, watching her take a drag like it’s nothing, exhale casually toward the ceiling. You don’t know how long you sit there passing it back and forth. Time starts to stretch in strange ways, as if it were made of something soft and bendable.

At first you just feel lighter. Your shoulders unclench. The static in your head quiets. Then the thoughts come louder, but slower, like they’re echoing down a hallway. The room feels both bigger and smaller at the same time. Your hands look unfamiliar in your lap.

“You okay?” Ellie asks, studying you now instead of the joint.

You nod, then shake your head. “I don’t know.”

“That’s normal.”

“I feel… weird.”

“That’s also normal.”

You stare at the purple light on the ceiling. “You have a lot of freckles.”

She snorts softly. “Yeah. Been told.”

“They’re like constellations.”

“Okay, now you’re weird.”

You press your lips together, but something inside your chest feels tight all of a sudden. Not panic. Something that’s been sitting there for a long time and suddenly has space to breathe.

“I have a boyfriend,” you say abruptly.

Ellie blinks. “Cool.”

“He’s really nice.”

“Okay.”

“And I think I like girls.”

The words hang there, heavy and bright and impossible to take back.

Ellie doesn’t react dramatically. She doesn’t grin or lean closer or make it about herself. She just shifts slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Okay, so do I,” she says again, softer this time.

Your throat closes. Tears well up before you can stop them. It’s instant and humiliating. You press your fingers under your eyes like that might contain it, but it only makes it worse.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Why am I crying.”

“Probably because you’ve been holding that in,” she says calmly.

“I’m not even sure,” you rush out. “What if I’m wrong? What if I just want attention? What if I ruin everything? He’s so nice and I feel disgusting.”

The tears spill over, fast and messy. Your breathing turns shaky. You’re fully crying now, mascara definitely smudging, nose running, chest heaving in embarrassing little gasps.

Ellie shifts closer, but not too close. Not touching yet. Just there. “You’re not disgusting.”

“I feel like I’m lying to everyone,” you sob. “I’ve been with him for two years and sometimes when he kisses me I just feel… nothing. And I thought maybe I was broken.”

“Yeah, you’re just gay.”

“I used to have crushes on girls all the time,” you say, voice wobbling. “I just told myself it was admiration. Or jealousy. Or whatever. And now I’m sitting here in a weed dealer’s house, fucking crying about it.”

“That part is kind of funny,” she admits gently.

You let out a strangled laugh through tears, which only makes you cry harder. It’s ugly, the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your stomach twist.

Ellie hesitates, then reaches over and awkwardly pats your back. Not smooth. “Hey. Breathe. You’re high. Everything feels huge right now.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” you whisper.

“Then don’t cheat,” she says simply. “If you need to figure stuff out, do it honestly. That’s not evil. That’s life.”

You sniff loudly. “You’re being really normal about this.”

“What did you expect me to do? Throw confetti?”

You almost smile. Almost.

“I just thought you’d… make it weird.”

“I deal weed, not sexuality interventions,” she says dryly. “But for what it’s worth, you’re allowed to question things. Doesn’t mean you have to blow your life up tonight.”

You wipe at your face, smearing everything worse. “I hate that I’m like this. I cry about everything.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You glare weakly at her and she shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth.

There isn’t some dramatic shift after that. No charged silence. She doesn’t look at you like you’re a revelation. She’s just there, steady and grounded, while you unravel a little on her couch. When you lean sideways from exhaustion, she lets your shoulder rest against hers without comment. When your breathing evens out, she hands you water and tells you to sip it slowly.

After a while the crying stops. The high softens into something manageable. You feel wrung out but strangely lighter, like something heavy cracked open.

“You’re not the first girl to figure stuff out in my living room,” Ellie says eventually, staring at the TV screen. “Won’t be the last.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s comforting and horrifying at the same time. Thought we had something special here.”

“Yeah.”

You sit there in the purple glow, mascara ruined, sweater damp at the collar from tears, life not solved but slightly more honest than it was an hour ago. She doesn’t push. She just checks the time and says, “You good to get home?”

You nod.

At the door, she hands you the small bag you actually came for. “Go drink water. Eat something. Don’t text your boyfriend while you’re high.”

Your face burns. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Sure.”

You hesitate on the porch. “Thanks. For not… being weird.”

She shrugs. “You paid me. Comes with the service if it means I'll have you here again.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something steadier in your chest now.

When you walk back down the sidewalk, the night air feels cooler against your blotchy face. Nothing is fixed. You still have a boyfriend. You still have exams. You still don’t fully know who you are.

But for the first time, the question feels real instead of buried. And that’s terrifying.

“You’re really fucking good at rolling,” you said, slow and syrupy. Your lips tingled from the last pull. “Like, dangerously good. Criminally good.”

Ellie laughed, husky and slow, her mouth pulling into a smug little smirk. “Well, y’know. Practice.”

“You sell weed, Ellie. You live in practice.”

She winked at you, took the joint from your hand, and inhaled. The red tip glowed bright in the dusky room, and her cheeks hollowed a little as she drew. When she pulled it away, she held the smoke in her mouth, tilting her chin at you.

You blinked. “Wait...”

She leaned forward, gripping your jaw, fingers cool against your flushed skin. Your lips parted, barely a breath escaping before she sealed her mouth over yours and exhaled the warm vapour into your mouth.

The smoke burned hot between you, swirling into your lungs and up into your skull, until the room melted around the edges and all you could feel was her. The scrape of her calloused fingers under your jaw. The slow brush of her tongue. The deep sound of her groan when you whimpered into her mouth.

You were already so high. The kind of high where you felt loose in your limbs, your head floating just above your body, everything heavy and slow and warm. And now she was kissing you, and you were definitely gonna die.

Ellie pulled back, licking her lips, looking at you like she knew. Her pupils were huge, dark and endless. You swore you could fall into them.

“I’m so fucking horny,” you blurted and slumped on her couch.

Ellie blinked, and then cracked up, low and loud, a real laugh that made her nose scrunch. “Jesus. Not even gonna try to be subtle about it, huh?”

You flopped onto your back with a dramatic sigh, hand over your face. “I can’t. Everything is hot. You’re hot. My knees are hot. I think even your couch is trying to fuck me.”

Ellie leaned over you, grinning like a wolf. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, loose strands falling into her freckled face. “Babe. You’re baked.”

“Exactly. Baked. Like your edibles. Like the ones you don’t share with anyone but me.”

Her brow quirked. “You tryna flirt or guilt-trip me right now?”

You shrugged. “Both?”

Ellie pressed one hand to the cushion beside your head and hovered over you, just enough to make your breath catch. Her other hand trailed over your side, sneaking under the hem of your tank top, dragging lightly up your bare waist.

Her touch was feather-light, teasing, calloused fingers dancing over your ribs until you squirmed. “You always get like this when you’re high.”

“I like you,” you said. “A lot. Even more when I’m floating.”

“I know,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your neck. “You’re such a needy little thing when you’re stoned.”

You were already gasping, toes curling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” she murmured, her breath hot against your skin. “It’s fucking cute.”

Her hand slipped lower, grazing your thigh, then curling under to squeeze the soft underside. You whined, arching into her, lips searching for hers.

She kissed you like she had all the time in the world. Slow and deep, like she wanted to taste how high you were. Your hips rolled up against her on instinct, and her body sank heavier into yours.

You tugged at her shirt, breathless. “Take this off.”

She obeyed, peeling it off over her head and flinging it somewhere behind her. Her torso was all lean muscle and tattoos, the defined dip of her waist leading your eyes downward. You bit your lip.

Ellie smirked. “Staring?”

“You’re art,” you said. “Like… illegal levels of art. Like ‘you should model for oil paintings in the 1600s’ kinda art.”

She snorted. “You’re so fucking gone.”

“I want you,” you whispered. “So bad, El.”

And maybe that broke something in her restraint.

She kissed you again, but this time it was messy. Desperate. Tongue and teeth and breathy moans tangled in your throat. Her fingers were quick, tugging your shorts down and sliding her hand over your panties in between your legs.

“Fuck, babe. You’re soaked,” she said as she rubbed her index finger into the fabric of your drenched knickers, tickling your clit in the process.

You whimpered. “You did just make out with me while shotgunning weed into my lungs, Ellie. What did you expect?”

Her eyes sparkled as her fingers pulled the pink lace to the side and dug into your slick folds, slow and teasing. “I love when you get mouthy.”

“You love everything I do.”

Ellie grinned, cocky as ever. “That’s true.”

Her fingers pushed in deep, curling in just the right way, dragging a broken sound from your chest. Your hands gripped her shoulders, nails digging into skin as your hips rocked into her touch.

You couldn’t stop moaning. The weed made everything feel more intense, your nerves hyperaware of every inch she touched. Her mouth moved to your chest, sucking bruises into your skin as her fingers kept working you open.

You were rambling now, words tumbling out between gasps. “Fuck—I love your hands. Love your mouth. Love you. You feel so fucking good, Ellie, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah? You gonna come already?”

You nodded frantically, your back arching. “Please.”

Ellie ducked her head, her breath hot against your ear. “Let go for me, baby. I’ve got you.”

And that was it.

You came with a high, shattered cry, clinging to her like she was your last tether to earth. The waves crashed through you, dragging your brain under, making your limbs shake. Ellie held you through it, slowing her fingers, kissing the tears off your cheeks.

When you finally came down, boneless and glowing, she smirked down at you.

“You’re such a mess when you’re high.”

You took the joint, still breathless, and grinned. It burned down between your fingers, nearly finished, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling like the ghost of everything you’d just felt. You were flushed and half-naked, sticky with sweat and still trembling.

She was watching you — sprawled beside you on the couch, her hair damp at the edges, chest rising and falling slowly. Her lips glossy from kissing you breathless.

Your gaze dropped to her stomach, to the faint line of muscle down the center, the flush to her freckled skin, the waistband of her boxers sitting low on her hips. You bit your lip. Still high and aching.

Ellie caught the look. “Don’t say it.”

You smirked. “Say what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking…” you trailed your fingers down her torso, slowly, teasingly. “That I want your mouth on me again.”

Her eyes darkened, lashes fluttering. “You just came.”

“And I want to return the favor,” you purred, crawling over her, straddling her waist. “Unless you’re too high to handle it.”

Ellie scoffed, but her hands settled firmly on your hips, grounding herself. “I can handle anything, babe.”

You leaned down, lips brushing hers. “Then prove it.”

She kissed you hard, sitting up just enough to flip you beneath her — the room spun deliciously as you gasped, landing on your back again with her above you, grinning like she’d just won something.

“I’ve got a better idea,” she muttered against your neck, already kissing lower, lower, dragging your underwear down as she went. “You want my mouth? You’re getting it.”

You barely had time to breathe before she shifted, moving down your body, but then her hand caught yours and tugged — pulling you with her, guiding you in a slow, twisting motion until you were both on your sides, facing opposite directions.

It hit you what she meant.

Your breath hitched. “Are you serious?”

She looked over her shoulder at you, her grin wicked. “Unless you’re too high to multitask.”

You laughed, breathless, and ducked your head down between her thighs.

It was messy. Uncoordinated at first. But when your mouth found echoing others' cunts, the room dissolved.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Everything was heat and wetness and moaning against skin. Her thighs around your ears. Your tongue dragged over her glossy folds slowly, then faster, as she trembled. The way her mouth was relentless, licking you open like she was starving. The rhythm of it — the building pressure — like a slow, shared fire rising up in both of you.

You gripped her hip hard as you spat into her and sucked her clit in with your lips, fingers sinking into her as you whined against her. She growled into your skin in return. She dove her tongue as deep as she could, and then twisted it in ways that made you jerk up against her face. Your clit bumped into her nose and it sent a deep shock straight into your belly. Her thighs tightened, hips rocked into your mouth as she ground into you.

You came together — or close enough. It was messy and gasping and hot, both of you shaking and whimpering, bodies tangled, thighs slick, too high to tell whose moan belonged to who. She pulled you up, so she had you resting on her chest.

After, you stayed like that — half-laughing, half-breathless, curled up on the blanket with limbs tangled and skin flushed.

Ellie’s voice was hoarse. “You good, baby?.”

You groaned into her shoulder. “Never been better. You loved it.”

“…Yeah,” she admitted. “I really did.”

You grinned. “Told you the couch wanted to fuck me.”

“Arch your back again, babe,” she mumbled around the pencil between her teeth, dark brows furrowed, fingers twitching on the page. “Like before. You keep relaxing, and I keep losing your shoulder blades.”

You huffed out a small laugh. “I’m naked, El. My muscles are on vacation.”

She grinned without looking up. “Your tits are on full display, and I’m not even touching them. Vacate them from your bra after the patrol. I beg you,” she tilted her head, elbow slipping from her knee as she leaned on it.

“Oh, not the boob prison! You’re the one committed to making out with me every two minutes. At this rate of your work morale, you will not finish your pretty sketch,” you comment as you flop into the pillows for a moment, before propping yourself up on your elbows again.

“That’s the artist’s struggle. Dreaming of being buried in between your funbags. Let me suffer in peace.”

You stretched, shifting slightly, dragging the blanket further down your hips, showing the top of your mound in the process. Ellie's breath hitched audibly.

“Jesus,” she muttered, sketching faster now. Her tongue darted out, the pencil smudging just a little more charcoal across her already ink-stained fingers. She tapped the page with her knuckle. “You know you’re not supposed to look hotter every time I blink, right?”

You blew her a kiss. “Maybe you’re just obsessed with me. With the fucking funbags.”

Ellie didn’t argue, but she couldn’t stop a smirk from coming out of her mouth. She just kept sketching, eyes flickering from your bare skin back to the page, until the lines took form — the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the shadow beneath your breast where it hit the light. The gorgeous back dimples right above your bum that she loves to press her thumbs into whenever she had you pressed face down in a pillow or needed to move you around the house.

You’d lost count of how many of these drawings she’d done of you. They filled pages. Hidden beneath sketches of guitars, forests and deers, comic book monsters, pages of angry scribbles from the days when she couldn’t sleep.

This was your secret thing. This room. These hours. Her sketchbook, your body. Her love.

She set her pencil down eventually, crawling up over your back until her arms bracketed your ribs and her mouth brushed your shoulder. She kissed a slow line down the valley in between your breasts, taking a small nibble at your left one. 

“Break time,” she whispered, smiling as she kissed your collarbone.

Your fingers found the soft edge of her jaw, thumbing along the scar she always tried to hide behind her fringe. “You’re gonna be late for patrol.”

“Let ‘em wait,” she murmured, already lowering her mouth to yours. Her warm breath tickled your nose “I’m doing important work.”

You kissed her slow. Lazy. Her hands cupped your waist, palms warm, thumbs teasing over the soft skin under your breasts. Your fingers grabbed on her chin, lifting her upwards a bit. Your noses were side by side, sharing oxygen as you melted into her chapped lips.

That’s when the door opened.

“Oh—fuck. Shit, sorry!”

Jesse’s voice, followed by a high-pitched yelp from Dina.

You yanked the blanket over your chest just as Ellie whipped around like a feral cat, nearly launching her sketchbook across the room.

“Dude! What the fuck!”

Jesse covered his eyes. “I knocked! You didn’t answer!”

Dina was red-faced, eyes wide and flicking between you two, then to the sketchbook lying face-up on the rug, clearly revealing a very detailed sketch of your bare chest.

“Wow,” she muttered, half in awe. “That’s…that’s actually really good.”

“Dina!” Ellie barked.

You groaned and flopped back down into the pillow. “Can we please lock that damn door from now on?”

“I told you the latch is broken!” Ellie hissed, yanking her hoodie off the chair and throwing it over your body protectively.

Jesse was laughing now, hand still over his eyes. “Well, glad to know your ‘nap sessions’ weren’t code for actually napping. You’re doing so so good Ellie, we’re proud of you!”

“Get out!” Ellie snapped and launched a pillow that she pulled out from underneath your head at him.

Dina grabbed Jesse by the sleeve. “Let’s go, Romeo. Let the artists get back to… creating.”

They left with a slam of the door and a muffled laugh from the hallway.

Ellie groaned into her hands and flopped down onto you. Her cheeks were a deep, burning red. “I’m never leaving this room again. Ever.” 

You laughed so hard you nearly cried as you brought your hands up to wrap around her shoulders, snuggling her into you.

When she finally peeked up at you, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, you leaned over and pressed a peck onto her nose. Then her scarred eyebrow.

“Guess the secret’s out, huh?”