-ˏˋ𝐯𝐚𝐥ˎˊ-

One thing no one ever told you was that life after college would have been this heavy.

You were expecting job offers on your doorstep summoned just by the fact that your grades had always been better than anyone else’s, that you had graduated with honors and relied on your professors’ words when they had told you that you were the kind of person that would have gone places. Stunning ones. So you made the mistake of resting on your laurels and placed all your hopes on the fact that you were good. The best, even.

And that didn’t prepare for this kind of heavy. Not the one that crushes all at once, but the slow, persistent kind. Like the sound of the upstairs neighbor’s leaky sink dripping through the walls in intervals you can’t predict.

You still have your degree at least, although folded into a cardboard box with old notebooks and dried-out highlighters. You have your tiny apartment that always smells like vanilla from your diffuser, your closet full of soft things, like satin bows, tulle-trimmed camisoles, pink mesh panties that feel more like decoration than protection. At the end of the day, if you can’t adorn your life with fancy job titles and bonuses that you were promised so feverishly you can still make yourself feel better by looking pretty.

But—most importantly—you have Ellie.

Ellie, whom you’ve met in your first year of college and never quite were able to get rid of. Not that you wanted, of course. She makes everything feel tolerable: the hard days you spend crying on your shared bed because it’s not fair that you’ve busted your ass off for four years just to end up with a nothing of fact other than an old, now dusted piece of paper you keep tucked away like it doesn’t mean anything anymore. Ellie, who’s always made you laugh so hard with jokes that you once snorted your coffee out of your nose during breakfast, no matter how dumb you like to call them. Ellie, who anticipates every single one of your thoughts, kisses you slowly and loves you deeply, as if she's always known every secret you tried so hard to keep and how to make it feel less heavy. 

The only thing that you miss? Money.

No matter how many late shifts Ellie does at that grimy, little bookstore together with filling the rest of her days half-heartedly applying to internships she doesn’t really want. You freelance on and off, commissions when they come through your Etsy shop—because you had to keep at least one hobby alive before losing your mind—and edit essays for other students who still have to graduate and who beg for your help in your DMs.

But it’s never quite enough.

Rent is always due way too soon, Spotify is threatening to cancel your student account, utilities prices have gone over the roof and when you buy groceries you’ve started putting things back, which you don’t tell Ellie but something tells you she already knows. 

You were sitting on the bed when it hit you, scrolling in bed with Instagram open in one hand and the other deep down inside a bag of chips. It wasn't so much a lighting bolt idea, but more of a slow unraveling, like a ribbon slipping loose from your hair. The kind that comes wrapped in shame, but also—inevitably and undeniably—in glitter. Maybe struck by the picture glowing before your eyes of this girl you knew from one of your classes and that you remember talking to her friends while you were hunched over your notes waiting for the professor to walk through the door. Except now she wasn’t dressed with jeans or a sweatshirt and complaining about the class you were in and how college would’ve never given her anything but a “stupid title” she would’ve never used, but was dressed in pretty lingerie with a caption that said see you tonight, boys. 👅

You scrolled through photos she posted in baby blue lingerie, grainy clips with soft moans and prettier lighting than porn ever deserved. In some sort of way, it was art. And that was what made that seed of a thought root securely in your brain.

A cam site. For girls. Only girls. Mainly because the mere thought of undressing for a man makes you want to throw yourself into traffic.

So you dropped your phone beside you, dusted off the crumbs of chips from your fingers to grab your laptop and did your research just like you did not even a year ago when you used to spend your days either at the library or holed up in your dorm and it didn’t matter if your eyes were burning and you were awake only thanks to an elevated quantity of energy drinks. Except instead of looking for scientific proofs that could be used on a paper or your thesis and using them to argumentate your stand, you were now looking for something that would allow you not feel like you were drowning in student debt and the pressure of a career that felt only like a mirage in the desert and—more specifically—somewhere you could take your clothes off without showing your face.

Turns out you could and that were entire websites where women performed for other women, no men allowed, the whole thing wrapped in pink fonts and blocky privacy disclaimers and curated profiles made to feel like a secret, a sisterhood, an indulgence. A small rebellion.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the hum of your laptop fan filling the room as you started typing out the form. You gave a fake name, uploaded a photo—one that you remember sending to Ellie on an early morning after she had left for work. Something tame, just a peek of thigh beneath a silk robe, your lace-covered chest cropped right below the chin. You listed your interests, added a few details and clicked save. Suddenly, your mind started picturing it: tips piling in, late-night streams in your sheer white knee socks and you being finally in control of something, able to give room to breathe even to the girl you loved and that at that moment was probably cursing customers under her breath behind a counter surrounded by returned books and a register that didn’t work more than it did.

The same girl who called you just as you were closing the tab.

You answered in a hush, guilty for no real reason.

“Hey,” Ellie whispered through the phone, voice rough and low like she was halfway between a cigarette and a sigh. “What’re you up to, baby?”

You swallowed. “Just… watching YouTube.”

She hummed, didn’t push, just vented a little about this guy who swore he bought a book from her shop when in reality his receipt clearly stated otherwise. When she hung up, you stared at your screen a moment longer, your reflection caught in the black mirror: lips parted, cheeks pink, your camisole slipping off one shoulder.

You weren’t even sure at that moment if it was worth telling her. At the end of the day it was supposed to be temporary, just until things stabilized and you caught your breath. It’s not even sex anyway: you don’t let people see you safe or talk to you like they own. It’s just you, your body in the soft glow of your bedroom. Performance, pretending. Nothing more.

So you didn't tell Ellie at first. Not when you created the account, not when you picked your name, not when you bought your first new set of lingerie, the one with the white lace and the tiny pink ribbons and the matching bra.

Eventually—though—she found out. Not in the way you feared: there was no fight, no explosion, nothing of that sort. She just came home early one day and the when the door creaked open she found you still smoothing your thighs in front of the camera, smiling to the screen while moaning something sweet and high-pitched, toes curling against your desk chair and wearing a pair of panties she had never seen on you before.

She didn’t say anything in that moment, not on the spot and not even for hours later. The only thing she did was just staring at you for a long second that felt like hours and closed the door behind her while muttering something about preparing dinner. But you saw the look in her eyes: not anger, not even jealousy. Just… something that maybe neither she was able to word right. 

It’s been four months since you told Ellie everything and there’s something different about her lately.

She’s quieter, restless, she touches you more and has started staring too long when you’re getting dressed. Sometimes, you caught her scrolling something on her phone just to close it the second you glance over.

It’s not loud or obvious, though. She still kisses you good morning when you shuffle into the kitchen with your eyes barely open; still makes your coffee first, always remembering how you like it—too sweet, barely any bitterness, oat milk frothed like a cloud—and she still curls up next to you during movie nights, legs tangled with yours under the blanket, head tucked in the crook of your neck like nothing’s changed.

Except it has.

It’s in the way her fingers graze your hip when she passes behind you, too gentle to be accidental but too fleeting to be sure. It’s the way her eyes linger on your thighs when you wear that tiny sleep set—the one with the ruffled shorts and the satin ribbon bow right at the waistband, the one you bought for streams but now somehow always slip into when you’re around her.

Even the way she looks when she thinks you’re not looking has changed: not the relaxed, head-in-the-clouds kind of look she always has when she’s home and the world seems to be giving her a moment to forget about all the things she has to do just to keep herself afloat. Now, her gaze is sharper, brighter in a way. Like there’s something boiling in her that she’s trying very hard to keep contained.

But it’s slipping.

And it finally does on a perfectly normal Tuesday, exactly the same as any other would be.

It’s the kind of day where everything feels too quiet, like the city itself is nursing a hangover. Ellie’s off work, which means you’re both home with the curtains drawn halfway against the pale sun that stubbornly tries to peek from behind the clouds outside the window. You’re down on your knees sorting colors from the laundry basket that’s currently overflowing in front of the bed while Ellie sits on the edge of it with one leg tucked underneath her and the other outstretched in front of her, calloused fingers smoothing over satin while folding each piece of clothing like it’s sacred. Maybe because this load was mostly full of your stuff.

She’s never complained about doing this, never rolled her eyes at your pile of pastel, at the tiny bows sewn into the waistband of your underwear. If anything, she lingers too long on them.

You’re probably halfway somewhere else completely—lost between the repeated monotony of folding each corner of fabric towards the middle on one side, then the other, then in half again—becuase when Ellie’s voice fills the room, quiet and low, it almost startles you, your head whipping up to look at her with your brows high.

“You like doing it?” She blurts out.

It’s careful how you place a pair of shorts from the floor onto the pile right in front of you and next to the basket, almost like doing it too aggressively or even casually might disrupt something you can’t quite name. After a second, which feels more like an hour, you finally answer with a quiet, “What?”

“The shows,” she shrugs, green eyes locked down onto her portion of clothing as her hands keep moving. “You like ‘em?”

Your answer takes a little too long to come through, too busy assessing every single expression on her face like that will give you the key to truly understand what she’s really asking for and in that maybe you’ll also find the reason why your girlfriend has changed so much in the past few months. 

“I like that it helps,” you answer eventually. “That we can breathe a little easier now.”

Finally, Ellie looks up at you again, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek while her hands fall down in her lap. “That’s not what I asked,” she breathes.

Leaning back on your hands, legs coming up with your knees bent, you let out a long sigh, the kind that doesn’t hide how much you’re being careful in weighing your words. “Yeah,” you admit, looking down, eyes fixed on your thighs. “I do. It’s… fun, sometimes. Makes me feel powerful.”

The silence that follows is deafening, more than any questioning would probably ever be. Because that’s the thing. Ellie has never made you feel like you should’ve hid it, not even when she found out at first and fell silent for hours. It was never about judgment, never about being jealous or possessive, but rather about something you—even after so many years spent together through exam seasons and thesis and barely managing to keep your heads above the waters at the end of every single month—can’t quite understand. Doesn’t matter if you’re one of the few people who can confidently say to know her like the back of your hand. So silence, in this case, only seems like proof that this is a part of her you can’t quite reach.

But then—

“I’ve been watching ‘em.”

Your head snaps up, legs falling onto the fall beneath you once more as you straighten up. “Ellie—”

“I needed to,” she cuts in, voice quieter now, but lower, almost guttural. “I was going insane not knowing.” Another breath in, another breath out, finally meeting your eyes. “You’re so different in ‘em. The stuff you do there it’s not what… we do.”

“I—” you whisper, but the words don’t come out. They just stay stuck in your throat, locked up just like your whole body is. And you don’t really understand if she’s saying all these things because she’s hurt somehow, or because she hates it, or because god knows what else. Whatever it is, you don’t seem to be able to exactly pinpoint it.

“You don’t have to explain why,” she continues, almost breathless as she twists the strings of her sweatpants like maybe she’s able to find the right words by pulling cotton and elastic. “It’s just—we’ve been together for years and I—I never let myself go there with you. I was so careful. I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. You’d get all shy and I didn’t wanna push. I thought—thought soft was good. And it was, babe, it was.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and you swear your pulse echoes in your ears. “But now I see you on that chair doing all that thing for strangers and all I can think about is why you won’t do them with me.”

That’s the moment something inside you breaks loose. Have you thought about it before? Of course. Have you ever dared to even suggest doing all of that with Ellie instead of just in front of the camera? Absolutely not. Because no matter how well you know someone, no matter how many times you’ve seen them with or without clothes before, no matter if you’ve shared with them things you would’ve never thought of sharing with anyone else… there’s always going to be something stopping you from sharing certain things. The most intimate ones, the ones you’re afraid are going to be criticized. So you kept quiet, refrained from even thinking about putting them on the table and reserved them for a corner on the internet where nobody knows you and no one will judge you for them. So you kept being soft, because that’s what you thought your girlfriend needed.

And in doing so—maybe—you’ve actually made it worse.

“Of course we can do them,” you murmur, mouth dry. “We can do anything you want.”

“Then why do they get to see you like that and I don’t?”

Silence follows like you’re being punished for all the things you’ve been keeping for yourself, for all the things you didn’t share. All that you can do is just stare at her with your hands fidgeting restlessly in your lap and breathe in and out like every single molecule of oxygen coursing through your nose is requiring way too much effort for something that the body should do on its own.

And Ellie can only take advantage of it by finally saying the things she’s been keeping for herself too.

“I wanna see it,” she adds, her eyes glued on yours while you keep looking up at her through your lashes from your spot on the floor in front of her. “All of it. Wanna see you getting ready, what you do when you’re trying to make them beg. I want you to show me what you do for them—” she stops for just a second, enough to straighten up a little and mask the way her pulse is jumping beneath her chest. “But you’re gonna do it for me.”

There’s another deep exhale coming from you, but it doesn’t last long. You only bite the inside of your cheek and lean forward a little. “Now?”

“Yes,” Ellie replies. “Now.”

The air in the bedroom seems completely changed. Charged in a way that it’s never been, not even during drunk nights coming back from the club when neither you or Ellie could keep your hands off each other. The clothes are back in the basket, some folded, some tossed in a rumple with little to no care at all, lights are low—just the soft, orangy glow that comes from the salt lamp on your nightstand—and the only sound filling the space around you is the one of you moving around the room and the impatient tapping of Ellie’s fingers on the armchair she’s sitting on, legs only partly spread.

You’re taking your time getting ready and not because you’re stalling, not exactly. It’s something else. Something warmer, heavier, sinking slowly in your stomach as you stand in front of the dresser with Ellie’s eyes burning the side of your face, watching every single movement you’re making like it’s the most important thing she’ll ever do today, maybe even the most important she’s done during her entire week. Her eyes trail over the curve of your spine as you lean down to skim out of your shorts, your fingers brushing delicately along the skin of your thighs. You don’t know if it’s all in your head or not, but you swear you actually feel her tensing beside you.

It’s like she’s never seen you naked before, like sex under the stream of your cramped shower has never happened and you’re both back in the darkness of your dorm room trying very hard to be quiet while she was whispering constant check-ins with her fingers inside you. And maybe—to some extent—it is the first time she’s seen you naked, bare in a completely different way than just the matter of skin.

You keep moving though, because this type of intimacy—letting her see what you were the most scared of sharing—is something far more intoxicating than any other substance would be. So you take off the rest of your clothes, fold them messily on the top of the wood in front of you and choose something delicate, almost innocent: white lace with pale pink bows and soft cups that barely cover your nipples, little embroideries sewn where the straps meet your shoulders.

When finally—after a quick look in the mirror and a few adjustments to your hair—you finally look at Ellie, you don’t struggle too much to find the green in her eyes. She’s already looking, already taking in everything like she’s done for the past few minutes and she looks like she’s barely holding in from saying something, or rather… doing it. But instead of addressing it, of asking if she really wants to do this, you just sit on the edge of the bed, right in front of her, hands on your knees and head barely tilted to the side.

“You like it?” you murmur, hands slowly trailing up to skim from your navel to the underside of your tit. “Picked it a few weeks ago…”

Ellie’s throat bobs visibly, hands gripping the edge of the armrests like it’s the only anchor she has and the only thing stopping them from moving to the spots on your body your fingers are grazing over. “Yeah,” she manages.

You tilt your head, lips curving a fraction. “Just ‘yeah’?” You pout, legs spreading excruciatingly slowly as your hand fully cups the swell of your right breast. “Gotta gimme a little more than ‘yeah’, baby. Or I’ll think you don’t like it that much.”

It’s not clear if what comes from the auburn-haired is a scoff or the sound of someone aching, pleading maybe, her eyes fixed somewhere between your collarbone and the way you’re now tracing over your knee. “It’s really fucking pretty on you.”

A hum. “What you like about it?”

“That—uhm—fuck—” Ellie clears her throat, the freckles on her cheeks blending with the flush blooming there. “The way it looks on your tits? And—uh—the panties are pretty, too.”

You huff a small chuckle, finally spreading your legs more, one outstretched, foot arched and barely touching one of her knees to gently spread them as well. “Show me, then,” you encourage. “Show me how much you like it.”

Her brows shoot up suddenly the way they usually do when she’s caught off guard and her brain is a mush of thoughts she can’t quite decipher herself. “Isn’t it… supposed to go the other way around?” She asks, almost innocently.

“Usually,” you shrug, leaning back on your hands. “Trying to make it special for you, though. Don’t you want special?”

There’s a short pause, the kind that tells you clearly she’s finding herself in a battlefield she’s never seen before and that she doesn’t know if to hold her ground or run the opposite direction. So the only thing you can do is giving her a soft smile—something close to reassurance, encouragement—and pull back enough for her to beg for more.

“I’ll give you a head start, hm?” You whisper, voice thick.

It doesn’t take you long after that to retreat further back on the bed, slowly laying down until your back hits the mattress but only for a short moment—enough for you to lift your hips and drag your panties down your thigh with the slowness of someone who knows exactly how to tease, how to make the other hang by a thread until they’re breaking. When the fabric finally reaches your calf, you sit back up again, taking it into your hands and making it dangle mid-air, watching Ellie’s eyes follow them like it’s a prize she’s not allowed to have yet when you finally drop them at her feet.

“Should I lean back?” You ask sweetly. “Use my fingers? Or… should I come sit on your lap?”

It only takes Ellie a minute before her hands finally move, leaving the armrests with a shaky breath that sounds more like a surrender than anything else. “C’mere,” she pleads, voice low and rough around the edges, the kind of tone you’ve only heard in the middle of the night when she thinks you’re already asleep. “Please.”

You don’t make her ask twice. Instead, you slowly crawl from the bed, the lace of your bra brushing against your skin with every shift as you pad towards her, thighs glistening under the soft glow of the lamp radiating from the corner of the room. You take your time settling in, straddling her lap, hands on her shoulders, leaning in until your breaths mingle and there’s only an inch of space left between the two of you.

Ellie’s hands land on your hips as soon your skin meets the fabric of her sweats, gripping onto your skin as if she still has to understand if this is reality or yet another one of those nights she’s spent with the blue light of the screen of her phone glowing against her face, the nail of her thumb caught between her teeth and your moans loud in her ears through her headphones.

“You’re so fucking hot,” she mumbles, looking up to you with her mouth only slightly parted.

“Yeah?” You chuckle, watching her nod quickly as you give your hips a slow roll, a quiet little sound slipping from your throat.

The space between you closes for only a second, the time it takes you to catch her lower lip between your teeth and making her shudder, whimper so close against your mouth that it warms up your skin, One of your hands falls down from her shoulder, making its way towards her tits from above her hoodie, light as a feather, a torturous game of giving, but never enough. That, until you finally leave the fabrics covering her body to touch yours, skimming down as your eyes stay locked on hers, watching every swallow, every sharp exhale, every instinct she’s trying to keep under control as your fingers finally part your folds, gathering the slick between them and drag it along your slit.

“Eyes down, baby,” you breathe as you start rubbing your clit in lazy, circling strokes.

With a hard swallow, Ellie’s eyes finally drop like she was just waiting for your permission to do so, like it’s taken everything in her to not just watch the spot where your core meets the cotton now slightly damp underneath you. You feel her hands tightening where they’re still resting on your hips, only for them to travel down your thighs, holding firmly between each time she kneads them, leaving red marks on her way enough to pull you closer, guiding your movements so you’re grinding down with more pressure that that only makes your breath hitch in your throat, brows pulled together, mouth hanging open as your forehead comes to rest against hers.

For a long minute, those are the only sounds that fill the room: your moans against her mouth, the chair creaking beneath both your bodies with her roll of your hips against your own hands and Ellie’s ragged breathing that’s growing faster every single time your middle finger grazes your clit.

Until—just as you feel that familiar heat coiling, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, just before as your muscles tense and your back arches while your other hand is digging into her shoulder—you stop. Abruptly and unexpectedly, lifting your hand from your centre and laying it lightly at her waist.

Ellie’s eyes shoot up immediately, pupils blown like she was getting off only by watching you like that sitting in her lap. “Why’d you stop?” She asks quickly. “Please don’t stop.”

You press a soft kiss on her jaw, laughing softly against her pulsepoint as you trail lower. “Not yet,” you tease, breathless. “I told you I was just gonna give you a headstart.”

Slowly, but surely, you climb off her despite her best efforts to desperately keep you there although her hands fall uselessly at her knees as you step backwards with your lips twitching upwards—one of them caught between your teeth—until the back of your legs hits the bedframe behind you. And Ellie? Elie just stares at you like you’ve just deprived her of something sacred, like stopping in that moment took away from her something she had been fantasizing for months and she was so close to finally hold between her hands. Something you’ve snatched away like she hadn’t been fantasizing about this moment since she saw you on that chair with your fingers deep inside you in front of your laptop and that had only felt like she would’ve never got to have.

And you did it easily, like it was part of the game. Maybe for you it was.

Which is exactly what makes the last thread inside her snap. Visibly, in how quickly her hands clench against her legs, how her eyes darken and how—before she probably even realizes it—she stands, taking one step closer, than the other, before there’s once more barely any space left between the two of you and you can hear how sharp her breathing is. But it doesn’t last long. Because before you can even realize it, her mouth is crashing on yours, tongue parting your lips before stroking yours with the kind of intensity that makes you dizzy, molten, a surprised whimper falling from your lips as you fall back onto the mattress.

Ellie follows, quickly, frantic, like there’s little time in the world for her to actually touch you like she truly wants to. Her clothes come off in a rush, discarded on the floor like they carry no importance when she has you beneath her and her hands are back on your body, reaching behind your back to take off the last thing that’s between her and feeling you entirely.

“Take this off,” she pants, fumbling with the clasps of your bra as her knee presses more firmly against your centre. “Need to see you. Please, baby.”

You reach behind with a soft, breathless laugh, arching your back just enough to help her. The lace slips down your arms and she doesn’t even wait for it to hit the sheets: her mouth is on you the second your tits are bare, lips wrapping around one nipple while her hand palms the other, making your back bow off the mattress further, a quiet moan spilling from your lips as your fingers thread through her auburn hair, holding her there.

Ellie groans against your skin, sucking harder, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks down your spine while her free hand slides between your bodies, two fingers dragging through your folds, gathering the slick that’s been building before she pushes them inside you. It’s slow at first, then deeper, curling perfectly, exactly the way she knows you like to fall apart.

You gasp, thighs falling open wider around her as she starts pumping her fingers in a steady rhythm, her palm pressing against your clit with every thrust. At the same time her hips roll against your thigh, heat sliding along your skin, leaving a wet trail that makes everything feel slick and messy as her breaths come in hot little pants against your chest, each one shaky with how desperately she’s grinding down on you, chasing friction.

“God… you’re so wet,” she mumbles against your breast, voice thick and rough, barely pulling her mouth away long enough to speak. “You’re mine, right, babe?.”

You nod quickly, a broken sound escaping you when she adds a third finger, stretching you open just right. Your hips buck up to meet her hand, one leg hooking around her waist to pull her closer, feeling every roll of her hips against your thigh, the way her clit catches against your skin with every desperate movement.

Ellie’s mouth switches to your other nipple, sucking and licking like she can’t get enough, her fingers never slowing. The room fills with the wet sounds of her hand working between your legs, your quiet whimpers, and the creak of the bed beneath you both. You can feel how close she is already: the way her hips stutter against your thigh, the little tremors running through her body every time she grinds down harder.

Then—without warning—she pulls her fingers out.

A whine leaves your throat at the sudden emptiness, but Ellie is already moving, strong hands gripping your hips and flipping you onto your stomach in one smooth, urgent motion, your cheek pressed into the sheets as she settles behind you, knees pushing your thighs apart. You hear the familiar sound of the nightstand drawer opening, the soft rustle of straps and then the quiet click of the harness being fastened.

Ellie’s hand smooths down your back, almost reverent for half a second, before her fingers dig into your hips again, pulling you up onto your knees until you feel the cool silicone of the strap press against your entrance, teasing, sliding through your folds once, twice, coating itself in your wetness.

“Tell me you want it,” she breathes, voice low and strained, the head of the strap nudging insistently against you. Her chest is pressed to your back now, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me you want me to fuck you like this.”

You push back against her, needy and aching, fingers twisting in the sheets.

“Please, yes, Els…” you whisper, voice trembling with how badly you need her inside you. “Fuck me.”

She doesn’t make you wait any longer.

With one slow, deep thrust she pushes inside, filling you completely, a shared groan falling from both of you as your walls clench around the thick silicone. Her hips stutter for a moment, like she’s trying to hold herself together before she starts moving—deep, steady rolls that make the harness press perfectly against her clit with every thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room along with your muffled moans into the mattress and Ellie’s desperate, breathless curses against your shoulder.

But steadiness and softness don’t last for long.

Ellie’s hand slides up your back, fingers twisting into your hair until you’re arching back, making the strap sink even deeper, the thick head dragging against that spot inside you that has your fingers scrambling for purchase in the sheets.

“Fuck— Ellie,” you cry out, the sound of it getting lost into another moan. “Feels—feels so fucking good. Keep going.”

She answers with a low, broken sound and snaps her hips forward harder, sharp and sudden, the pace turning ruthless almost instantly, each thrust punching the air out of your lungs and despite how the base of the strap is catching just right against her clit in a way that’s making her whimper behind you, she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip so tightly you know you’ll see traces of them tomorrow, the other still fisted in your hair for leverage while every thrust jolts through your whole body, your breasts press into the cool sheets, nipples tight and sensitive from the friction, while the silicone drags along your walls.

Ellie fully leans over you, chest flush against your back, her breath hot and ragged against the nape of your neck as her forehead presses against the back of her hand, the other snaking now underneath you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles that match the rhythm of her hips.

“You’re so hot like this,” she pants, voice wrecked, lips brushing your skin with every word. “You’re taking it so well, my good girl.”

A broken moan tears from your throat as she angles her hips just right, the strap hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs start to shake, the pressure building fast and overwhelming, your walls fluttering wildly around the silicone as your fingers twist tighter in the sheets, knuckles white, mouth open in a silent cry as the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter as her fingers on your clit never falter, rough and perfect, pushing you closer to the edge with every circle.

“Come on, baby,” she breathes, voice strained and desperate, teeth grazing your shoulder. “I know you’re close. Let me feel you.”

The words—raw and hungry—tip you over.

Your orgasm crashes through you hard, sudden and blinding, muscles clamping down around the length of the strap as pleasure rips up your spine. A choked sound spills from your lips, body shaking beneath her as your hips jerk back against her, riding out every wave while she keeps moving through it, dragging it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, mumbling soft curses into the sheets as her breathing grows more ragged, broken little whimpers falling against your neck while the edge of the strap catches against her clit.

“Fuck—I’m so close,” she gasps, voice cracking, her movements turn erratic, shorter and harder. “Shit—”

One final, deep thrust and Ellie comes with a guttural moan, hips grinding desperately against you as her whole body shakes. You feel every pulse of it through the way her thighs tremble against the backs of yours, the way her fingers dig bruisingly into your hip as she rides it out.

For a long moment the only sounds in the room are your shared heavy breathings and the faint creak of the bed as Ellie’s weight slowly settles over you, both of you slick with sweat and trembling. She presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to the back of your shoulder, lips lingering there as her breathing slowly evens out. Her hand slides up your side, gentle now, tracing lazy patterns over your ribs like she’s reminding herself this is real, that she’s still allowed to touch you like.

Eventually, she pulls out carefully, the loss making you both sigh before she finally slips the harness off, tossing it carelessly back inside its drawer. One moment later, and she’s collapsing beside you on the mattress, tugging you against her chest without a word with your leg draping over hers as her fingers thread through your hair, still slightly damp at the roots.

After a minute of quiet, her chest vibrates with a low chuckle. “So…” she starts, voice hoarse and amused, “that was supposed to be my private show, huh?”

You tilt your head up just enough to catch the lazy grin spreading across her freckled face, one eyebrow raised like she’s proud of herself for the pun.

You huff a tired laugh, burying your face back into the crook of her neck and nipping at her skin in retaliation. “Private show, my ass,” you mumble against her pulse, smiling. “Next time I’m charging you double for the live audience participation.”

Ellie snorts, the sound turning into a soft groan as she pulls you closer, pressing one last kiss to the top of your head. “Deal. It’ll go into shared groceries either way.”

It’s with another laugh that you nuzzle closer, finally closing your eyes again. And who knows, maybe next time those shows can become something shared. And maybe the tiniest bit less private.

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𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @machetegirl109 @valeisaslut @imliterallyjustonegirl @liztreez @seasonsofchaos @satellitespinner @les4elliewilliams @ghostofmaxx @starduszt @merrilypurplemoon @hopeflhharls @lonelyoutinjackson @elliexbuckets @thinkingabtellie @starrypeachxx @slutforabbyanderson @archersbows @angelz-void @sawaagyapong @mxchi-mxxn @rhian88 @iloveclairo2016 @serenadarling

In the second semester of your junior year, you developed the fattest crush on this girl in your grade. Her name was Abby, and she was a player on your school's varsity soccer team, and a damn good one at that. She was intelligent too, planning to follow in her father's footsteps of going to med-school and becoming a doctor. There was something about her that you couldn't quite resist. With her kind eyes, broad shoulders, and a smile so bright it creased her freckle-adorned cheeks, Abigail Anderson had charmed you, a part of your heart already preparing itself to be carved out and set aside in devotion to her.

So, when Abby asked you out to prom in the spring, you didn't hesitate to say yes, jumping up and squealing in excitement as you threw your arms around her neck.

Prom was perfect, the baby pink color of your long, sequined dress matching Abby's tie. The two of you were practically inseparable for the entire night, exhibiting the behavior of what some would consider "puppy love."

Abby wasn't your only highlight of the night, though. The moment they called your name out for prom princess, your heart filled so full you swore that it would spill out any second. As they placed the glittering sash over your shoulder, you truly felt like a girl at the end of a coming of age movie, like you had finally found where you belonged in the world, and it was here, under flashing lights in the venue of your high school prom, the validating cheers of your peers blaring through the room.

With a gleaming tiara on your head and Abby on your arm, you knew this night would be one that you would remember forever.

That summer, in the blaring heat of a June sun, Abby asked you to be her girlfriend, and just as you had in response to her promposal only a few weeks earlier, you enthusiastically accepted, throwing yourself into her arms.

Between tanning beside glittering swimming pools with your best-friends, getting virgin piña coladas with your mom, and sneaking out with your new girlfriend, you thought you had the best senior summer a girl could ever ask for—and that’s without mentioning the cherry on top: your father gifting you your dream car, a pink Mercedes-Benz. 

So, when it was time to begin your senior year at Jackson High School, you had not even a single doubt in your foolish belief that your senior year would live up to the expectations of your Hollywood-inspired fantasies you had possessed through all of your youth.

With your sexy buff girlfriend by your side and a hot new ride, your year was bound to go perfectly, right?

As you soon discovered, all expectations you had could be totaled up to nothing but the wet dream of a naïve spoiled suburban princess.

Just a few weeks into the first semester, you were driving yourself to school in your 21st century royal carriage, iced coffee in hand and bedazzled sunglasses balanced on your nose, when the shitty Subaru in front of you slammed on their brakes abruptly, causing you to run into them from behind.

"What the fuck?!" the car in front of you stepped out, fury ridden in every crease of their face.

After profusely apologizing to the angry stranger and offering to pay for repairs, you ended up sobbing while attempting to explain what you had gotten yourself into on the phone with your father, who only sighed in disappointment on the other end, “Daddy, it wasn’t my fault, I swear! They were the one who slammed on their brakes in front of me!”

Though you didn’t know yet, this accident only marked the beginning of the most humiliating week of your life.

Graciously, your parents let you stay home from school that day as you grieved your pink Mercedes. Their mercy didn't last for long, though, as they forced you to go back the next day, not allowing you to miss anymore school.

To your dismay, the angle at which your car was impacted left it in no condition to be driven. Since your parents both had work and Abby claimed she had an early morning gym sesh planned, you found yourself riding the infamous Big Cheese to school that morning. You felt so humiliated being a senior and having to ride the bus to school. The pickled odor ruminating through the air combined with the sticky seats left you less than comfortable, to say the least. Some underclassmen boys were play fighting behind you, and one ended up elbowing you in the face. You glared at them offensively, but neither of them offered so much as an apology, just continuing to laugh obnoxiously while sloppily throwing their hands at each other.

You started that day already pissed off, and what made it worse was that Abby had been acting distant. In fact, she had been acting distant ever since the first week of the semester. She had only been replying to all your texts with one-word responses, and she had been avoiding you at school, too. When you texted her regarding her distant behavior, she just replied, "dw abt it, baby."

Safe to say, you were angry, but you didn't know if there was anything you could do about it. After all, you didn't have any reason to suspect her of doing anything wrong.

You were about to fall asleep in study hall when all of a sudden you got a notification from your best friend Dina.

wifey dina <3 - 10:05 AM

"holy shit, did you see cat's story?"

you - 10:05 am

"who the fuck is cat?"

wifey dina <3 - 10:05 AM

"she's like some stoner chick. has tattoos n shit."

wifey dina <3 sent an attachment

Upon clicking on the photo Dina sent you, you audibly gasped. It was a screenshot of an Instagram story, a grainy photo of some girl with black micro bangs (who you presumed was Cat) with her hand wrapped around someone's hickey-littered neck from behind while leaning down and biting their bicep.

It wasn't just anyone's bicep, though. You would recognize those freckled broad shoulders from anywhere, and the dirty blonde baby hairs peaking out from behind the person's ears only confirmed your suspicions.

you - 10:06 AM

"i fucking know that's not abby."

wifey dina <3 - 10:06 AM

"babe, i'm afraid it is.”

“and leah told me that she overheard someone saying that they saw them making out behind the bleachers yesterday after school too.”

You didn't know what to do. You didn’t want to cry in the middle of class, but your tightening throat and the tears blurring your vision didn’t really give you much of a choice. Sure, you had only been dating Abby for a couple of months, but part of you felt like you truly loved her.

Your mind began racing: Is this why Abby has been so avoidant? Is it my fault? Am I not pretty enough? Did I not give her enough attention?

wifey dina <3 - 10:07 AM

“i’m so sorry, doll.”

“you deserve so much better.”

Damn right you did, and after the initial wave of sadness and heartbreak washed over, you were immediately filled with rage.

As the bell rang for lunch, you marched toward the cafeteria with more purpose than a Navy SEAL.

If Abby had no issue with carelessly making this such a public ordeal that you had to find out through a blurry screenshot, then you didn’t have any problem making your confrontation a scene.

Usually, Abby would sit with all her soccer friends, while you would sit with the cheerleading girls.

Today, though, you stomped directly towards Abby’s table, calling out her name angrily as you approached.

When at first she didn’t hear you, you yanked on her shoulder forcefully, shouting her name again to capture her full attention.

“Oh my god—what the fuck, babe?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What is your problem?”

“My problem is that you think it’s okay to just run around and fuck other girls when you have a girlfriend.”

“You’re seriously accusing me of cheating on you?”

At this point, her entire table was either staring at the two of you or whispering and snickering amongst themselves, but you couldn’t have cared less in the heat of the moment.

“Oh, I’m not accusing you. I know what you did, so don’t even try to lie to me.” You pulled out your phone, shoving the screenshot of Cat’s story in Abby’s face, “Mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing here?”

Abby just scoffed in disbelief, staring at your phone scathingly, as if you would have never caught on if it wasn’t for the stupid, tattletale device in your hand.

She returned her gaze to you, “Babe, I can explain—“

You interrupted her before she could even start, “Abby, please. Don’t try to lie to me. I mean, for fuck’s sake, people are running around saying they saw the two of you making out! There’s no explaining this.”

To you, it didn’t matter what she said at this point. Even if she apologized, the hurt had already been caused.

Abby sighed, defeated, “I think we should just break up.”

“What—?”

“Yeah, if you really feel that way, then I don’t think—“

“No.”

“No?”

“No! You cheated on me. You don’t get to dump me now. I’m the one dumping you.”

Abby raised her eyebrows and smirked as if she just couldn’t take you seriously, “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure I’m the one who said that we should break up first.”

Abby’s snarky facial expression combined with the obnoxious snickering of all of her friends made your blood boil. You had never been more pissed off in your life.

"You know what? I fucking can't with you. Don’t try to talk to me ever again. I’ll see you in hell.”

You hoped your dramatic exit would be something iconic or even badass that would stick in Abby’s mind and make her immediately regret ever breaking your heart.

However, as fate would have it, something less ideal occurred. As you walked backward, you bumped into someone, causing you to yelp while falling onto your ass as their black coffee got spilled all over your shirt.

Abby and all her friends began laughing hysterically. At this point, your face must have been flushed completely crimson. Now, whether it was more from anger or embarrassment, you didn’t really know.

Getting back up on your feet, you were fully prepared to berate the moron that let you get drenched and humiliated at the hands of their carelessness, but as you saw the person responsible for your misery, your blood boiled even hotter (if that was still possible), your eyes narrowing in on her scrawny figure.

Ellie fucking Williams.

Well, technically the one who spilled the coffee on you was her idiot best friend, Jesse, not Ellie, but you knew it somehow had to be Ellie’s fault anyways. Why? Because it just fucking had to be, nothing else would make sense. Ellie hated you, and you hated her. It’s just how it was.

If anyone were to ask you when the feud began, you wouldn’t have been able to answer exactly when. Maybe it started in middle school when you spread a rumor that she was a druggie and her dad was a satanic cult leader—or maybe sophomore year when she muttered something about you being a “spoiled, dim-witted, brat” under her breath when you passed her in the hallway, and when you forcefully turned around to quip something back, you tripped onto your face in front of half your school, effectively destroying the heel on your favorite pair of pink pumps and spraining your ankle in the process, all while the little demon laughed at you from behind.

For a while after that incident, nothing else had happened between the two of you. No drama, no rumors, no petty remarks, nothing. It was peaceful, you thought maybe the tension had finally dulled between you both. Well, that was until last November when she sent photos of you drinking at a Halloween party to the principal, almost causing you to lose your position as captain of your school’s varsity cheer team. What business did that stoner have tattling on anyone over substance use, anyway? Well, you didn’t have any way of knowing for sure Ellie was the one who snitched on you; the report was anonymous, of course. But it seemed obvious to you that she was the only one bitter enough to do something so petty with the sole motivation of hurting you and your reputation.

It didn’t even have to be about the trivial dramatics; just the way Ellie presented and carried herself was a mortal sin against everything that you stood for. You were the spoiled princess of poised perfection and cherry flavored lip gloss dressed in rhinestoned true religion jeans and lacey pink baby doll tops, locked in your upper middle-class tower—while she was the fire-breathing, smoke-exhaling, lighter-slinging dragon with dingy black scales and worn wings, adorning silver piercings and black eyeshadow, lurking from outside palace walls as the epitome of a suburban pariah.

Everything about her made your blood boil. It was as if the resentment between you was fated, written in the stars, no matter how horribly cliché it was.

So, naturally, you had to suspect her of scheming on your downfall through even the most insignificant things.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to!“ Jesse scrambled to apologize, but it was too late, rage had already consumed you.

“Do you not fucking pay attention to what you’re doing?”

Ellie decided now was the best time to butt into the conversation, attempting to rescue her friend from the blunt end of your wrath, “Hey, c’mon, dude. Y’know he didn’t mean to.”

You glared at Ellie as if she was the most malevolent creature in the whole world, “Do you really wanna be talking right now, Ellie? I know this is all your doing.”

She laughed at you like you sounded crazy, “What? How is this my doing?”

“Because,” through your anger, you still tried to make sense of all the shit you were spewing, “only you are bitter and spiteful enough to do something so petty just to embarrass me!”

Ellie furrowed her brows at you in disbelief, "How the hell is it my fault that you bumped into Jesse? You’re the one embarrassing yourself, you don't need my help to do so.”

You scoffed, irritated by her audacity, “Listen, if this was any other day, I just might let this go, but you chose the worst possible time to fuck with me."

"Again, I didn't do anything to fuck with you. Get over yourself, princess."

Princess. You fucking hated when she called you that, condescension laced so firmly in her voice that it never failed to leave you feeling thoroughly disrespected and so impossibly small.

You rolled your eyes at her, "Just leave me alone, Ellie."

As you walked away, you internally hoped she didn’t hear the little crack in your voice from your tight throat, warm tears threatening to pour out your eyes.

You slipped into the first bathroom you spotted outside the cafeteria, finding refuge in a quiet stall as you hurled your legs into fetal position. There, you finally let yourself cry.

You weren’t crying over your altercation with Ellie, of course. You weren’t even crying over your break up, really. It was just everything. You were so overwhelmed. For the past few days, it felt as if you weren’t ever able to catch a break, not even for a second. It all just kept on coming, and a girl could only be so strong.

So, when the bell rung, you decided that, after the week you’ve had, you didn’t have it in you anymore to sit in a miserable classroom with a bunch of sweaty kids for an hour while trying and failing to understand whatever shit your math teacher had on the board that day.

Instead of going to class, you slipped out of a side door of the school, concluding all you needed was some fresh air.

"You still pouting, princess?"

You whipped your head around to meet the condescending voice calling at you, only to see Ellie Williams, again.

You huffed, “What do you want, Ellie?”

She looked so smug, sitting there with one leg tucked against her chest and the other lazily stretched out against the ground. She pulled out the blunt gently pressed between her lips, exhaling soft gray smoke into the air.

“Why don’t you come and join me?”

“And do what? Sit there and smoke weed for an hour then walk back into class and pretend people can’t smell the shit on me?”

“Sure, why not? Maybe it would help you chill out for once.”

You crossed your arms in defiance, shocked at her audacity to ask you to smoke with her after the shit she pulled earlier today. 

You could brush her off and say you had better things to do, but you did have a really shitty day. You could use something to relax after everything you’ve been through. Besides, maybe it would help to have someone to rant to.

You quickly glanced around, checking for any cameras or people around that could rat you out, but you didn’t see anything. After all, Ellie did this all the time, and she never got caught.

You huffed defiantly, crossing your arms as you slipped into the space on the concrete staircase beside Ellie.

She handed you the blunt, but you just stared at it dumbly, not fully understanding what she was expecting of you.

Ellie smirked, “You’ve never smoked before, have you?”

You glared at her, “What do you think, Ellie?”

Ellie grinned before taking the blunt back, “All you have to do is press it against your lips and inhale, just like this.”

You stared at her mouth as she demonstrated, thin paper brushing against the soft pads of her rosy pink lips. As she exhaled, the wind carried the smoke through the air, allowing you to breathe in its herbal scent.

Once complete, Ellie turned towards you. She leaned in, placing the blunt in your hand as her hand clasped over yours, guiding the blunt towards your lips.

Your cheeks burned red from the proximity as you took a hit from the joint, maintaining eye contact with her the entire time.

As she pulled the blunt away from your lips, you were immediately thrown into a fit of coughs, all while Ellie laughed at you, clearly finding amusement in your failure.

Once recollecting yourself, you glared at Ellie once more, smacking the tattoo on her forearm, “Hey! Quit laughing at me!”

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry!” Ellie took a deep breath, trying to restrain herself from cracking up again and pissing you off further, “Y’know, don’t feel bad. A lot of people struggle when they first start.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! I mean, I didn’t really. But I’m sure lots of other people do!”

You rolled your eyes, “Yeah, whatever.”

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, enjoying each other’s silence and the chill breeze of the September air.

Watching Ellie take a hit from the joint, you grew a bit hungry for another.

“Ellie?”

“Mhm?”

“Can I have another hit?” you asked sweetly, your doe eyes pleading to her.

Ellie passed you the blunt back, but not without smirking while doing so. Why did she have to look so god damn smug all the time?

This time you took it much more smoothly, no coughing involved. Ellie even nodded her approval.

In your mellowed state of mind, you became the first to break the silence, “Why did you invite me to smoke with you anyways?”

Ellie shrugged, “I told you, I thought it would help you be not so stuck-up for once.”

You shook your head, “Yeah, but we’ve never really gotten along.” Residing in the calm solitude the two of you shared now, you couldn’t help but laugh at the stupidity of your guys’ past altercations, “I mean, our interaction in the cafeteria today wasn’t exactly friendly.”

“Eh, I saw you and Abby fighting right before. ‘Figured that had to be the reason you were acting so particularly bitchy today.”

You groaned at the mention of your ex-girlfriend’s name, “Ugh, Abby.”

“What happened between the two of you anyways?”

You sighed, annoyance permeating through the tone of your voice, “She cheated on me.”

“Oh my god, that sucks.”

“Yeah, it does, and I had to find out through a fucking Instagram story too. I felt so humiliated.”

“I’m sorry, that’s horrible,” Ellie comforted you as she reached over to her water bottle, twisting off it’s plastic cap. “If you don’t mind me asking, who did she cheat on you with? It’s hard for me to imagine she could’ve done much better than you.”

You knew that she didn’t mean much by the last comment. She said it so casually, but you couldn’t help but feel a bit flustered anyways.

“It’s some girl named Cat,” you answered.

When you looked back at Ellie, she was choking on the sip of water she had just taken.

You placed some gentle blows on her back, trying to help her out.

“Hey, are you okay? Is something wrong?” you asked, concern laced in your voice.

She managed her words through coughs, “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine.”

She coughed a bit more before recollecting herself, finally responding to what you said, “Yeah, Cat isn’t shit. Abby fucked up, for sure.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, exchanging stories with each other, talking about people from your school, and laughing at each other's stupid jokes.

You didn’t like to admit it, but part of you had started to develop a real understanding of her. She could be really nice when the two of you weren’t dead set on hating the other. At one point, you mentioned that you were hungry, and she gave you a full bag of sour gummy worms. It might’ve just been candy, but that moment had to have been the nicest she’s ever been to you in all your time of knowing her.

Who would’ve known that the two of you could actually really enjoy each other's company? (Even if you had to be a little bit high to do so.)

When the bell that finally cut school out rang, you were surprised. You didn’t think you had been out there with her for that long, but maybe time just seemed to pass by faster when you were hanging out with her.

You groaned as students piled out of the building.

“What’s wrong?” Ellie asked as she threw all her things back into her bag.

“My car’s broken and I don’t want to ride the bus…”

“I could drive you home if you want,” Ellie offered.

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. Your house can’t be that far away.”

The ride home was quiet, but never awkward. Somehow it didn’t feel weird to be in Ellie’s space, listening to her playlist softly playing from her car’s speakers. It was almost comforting, but the thought of accepting that made you want to throw up.

So, instead, you just stared out the window, trying to force your mind to not think about the humiliation you had endured this week or, arguably worse, the prospect that the girl you had despised since middle wasn’t actually the devil reincarnate you imagined her to be.

After you got home and had finished taking your shower, you laid down in your bed, sinking into the mattress. For the first time that day, you felt like you could finally decompress. But before the silence could give you enough space to reflect on everything, you received a face time call from your best friends Dina and Leah.

“Hey, babe!” Dina exclaimed as you picked up, “Leah wants to know if you can come to this party.”

“Yeah, Jordan’s parents are out of town on some work trip or whatever, so he’s gonna invite a bunch of people over tomorrow night. You should come!”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you hesitated, playing with the hem of your satin pink pajamas. With your break up being so fresh, you didn’t know if going out would be the best idea. Sure, you weren’t going to be alone since you had Dina and Leah, and Jordan was Leah’s long term boyfriend, so it wouldn’t be like you were somewhere unfamiliar. But, still, you couldn’t help but feel like you wouldn’t be able to fully enjoy it.

“C’monnn, it’ll be so fun!” Dina pleaded.

Leah pouted, “You usually love going to parties, what’s wrong?”

“Well, it’s just that since I broke up with Abby—“

“Hold on,” Dina interrupted, “you actually broke up with Abby?”

“Yeah…”

“As you should,” Leah said, “You deserve so much better.”

You chuckled, but there was no amusement in your voice, “I know.”

“We’re always here for you if you need to talk,” Dina reminded you.

“Thank you guys,” you said, smiling softly, truly grateful your friends’ support.

“Don’t even worry about it, girl,” Leah chimed in again, “Abby downgraded anyways. Cat can’t dress for shit and those micro bangs look like she cut them in the dark with craft scissors. Not to mention that she’s Ellie’s ex-girlfriend.”

Your heart dropped, “Cat is Ellie’s ex-girlfriend?” 

“Yeah—you didn’t know? They had, like, a really messy break up last year. Something about Ellie being too obsessive and Cat cheating on her with like some older guy at her job so Ellie stole Cat’s car for revenge on some Grand Theft Auto shit.”

Leah’s eyebrows twisted as she recalled the rest of the story.

“Then she recited this really cringy poem to her English class she apparently wrote about Cat. Somehow the president of Mozambique was involved too, but I don’t remember.” 

“Oh my God—did all that really happen?”

“Yeah!” Leah claimed, “Well that’s just what I heard. I’m sure some of it has to be embellishment of the truth or whatever—But, anyways, yeah. Everybody knows that they used to date.”

You were sure Leah was just regurgitating a bunch of bullshit—you loved her, but Leah was involved in so much shit talking that you began to suspect that her brain had started melting.

Despite that, through Leah’s rambling, you did recall something about Ellie being in love and falling out with another girl in your guys’ grade.

Your heart sunk a little at the thought of Cat’s relationship with Ellie, a feeling settling inside you somewhere between disgust and devastation. You just brushed it off, though, not understanding what it meant and not being able to unpack it even if you did.

“Don’t worry about Abby and Cat,” Dina comforted, “You should still come to the party, it’ll help you get your mind off her.”

“I’m still not sure…”

“C’mon,” Leah pleaded, “We’ll have so much fun, you’ll completely forget all about her!”

You sighed, “Fine.”

“Yes!” Dina grinned.

“Great!” Leah exclaimed, “I’ll probably go to his house first to help set up, then I can go pick you guys up.”

“Alright,” you said, “Dina, is it okay if I go to your house after school tomorrow to get ready?”

“Of course, babe,” Dina agreed.

“Thank you!” Suddenly, you yawned, a wave of exhaustion crashing over you, “I’m getting pretty tired. I’m gonna go to sleep, I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Almost immediately after ending the call, sleep consumed you. Which, in hindsight, you were grateful for, knowing that if you had stayed up any longer, your overthinking would latch onto you and keep you up for the rest of the night.

After getting home from school the next day, you were having second thoughts about the party. You were utterly exhausted, part of you just wanting to lay in your bed and eat ice cream while wallowing in the hollow aftermath of your break up.

Fortunately for you, your best friend Dina was determined to help you escape the claws of your own self-pity. Confident that the perfect antidote for your heartbreak was a night of going out, she was there at your house at 5pm sharp to help you grab your outfit and makeup and take you back to her house to get ready and pregame.

Though you seriously doubted how effective partying would be for curing your sadness, you trusted your best friend. After all, she knew you better than anyone, and you did love getting dolled up and tipsy at some rich stranger’s house after a long week.

After a diligent half hour of makeup and careful outfit deliberation, you stood in front of Dina’s floor length mirror and inspected the figure reflected back at you. You truly felt beautiful, adorning a skintight cheetah print tank top, cleavage on display, with a black mini skirt draping over your hips. The fishnets and black pumps you put on tied your look together. Bright strands of hair tinsel glittered when caught in the lights while the charcoal tightlining of your waterlines allowed the color of your eyes to pop out more than ever before.

“Holy shit, you look hot,” Dina remarked, her voice pulling you out of your own head. You only laughed shyly in response. 

“Abby must be a fucking idiot. She has no idea what she’s missing out on right now.”

Upon glancing over your face, she immediately picked up on the sadness engrained into your features.

“Hey, don’t be sad, okay?” Dina comforted you as she placed her hand on your shoulder, “You deserve way better than Abby anyways. If she’s a cheater, it was never gonna work out anyways. You practically dodged a bullet. You’re hot, funny, hardworking, and actually really good at math.”

Dina softened her voice while kneeling down in front of you, “You’ll find another girl to love, and she’ll never take for granted how lucky she is to have you.”

“Do you really mean that?” you asked, throat tight as tears pooled at the bottom of your eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Of course I do. Besides, we’re gonna have so much fun tonight, you’ll forget Abby even exists,” she brushed your cheek, collecting a rogue tear that had dripped down from your eye on her thumb, “Now cheer up before you mess up your makeup.” She tousled your hair before pulling out her phone, “Leah should be in here like five minutes to pick us up, you ready?”

You nodded, looking back at your reflection one last time, reapplying your favorite cherry-flavored lip-gloss for good luck. You really hoped Dina was right. You didn’t want to think about Abby anymore, and you sure as hell did not want to think about whatever couple shit she could be doing with that Cat girl.

Tonight, you just wanted to have a good time. You wanted to enjoy being young, single, and hot—maybe get a little bit tipsy, and (most importantly) get Abby off of your mind. 

Despite your wishes, it seemed fate had other plans for you.

As soon as you got to the party, Dina and Leah spotted someone they had met at a concert they attended a few weeks ago. Promising them that you would be okay by yourself, you decided to slip away from them to grab a drink while they caught up with their friend. 

Once acquiring your drink, you slipped into the crowd and observed the mass of partiers. To your devastation, in the center of the room stood no other than your ex-girlfriend: Abigail Anderson, shamelessly making out with the same girl she had cheated on you with underneath the party’s violet luminescence with no regard for the presence of other people around. Her tongue was stuck so far down Cat’s throat it was as if she was trying to reach the depths of her soul through her mouth.

You stared at the two of them, disgust rising and settling deep inside your gut.

“They’re so disgusting,” you muttered, not even realizing that you were saying your thoughts out loud.

“Yeah. They make me want to throw up,” a voice next to you sneered. 

You flinched, not expecting another voice to boom so close and unexpectedly near your ear, “What the fuck?!” 

The voice came from no other than Ellie Williams, who paid no mind to your jumpiness as she continued talking shit, “Y’know, never would I ever imagine the two of them together."

You scoffed, piling onto Ellie’s thoughts in agreement, “Yeah, because they don’t look good together. Besides, I don’t understand why they feel the need to practically eat each other alive in front of everybody.” 

“Exactly,” Ellie chuckled, “It’s just gross.”

Silence settled between the two of you for just a second longer than what felt comfortable.

You shifted your feet as you worked up the courage to ask her the question that had been lingering in your mind since last night.

“Ellie?”

She returned her head and her attention back to you, “Yeah?”

“Yesterday, when I told you about what happened between me and Abby,” you paused for a moment, collecting yourself, “Why didn’t you tell me that Cat was your ex-girlfriend?”

You watched the muscles of Ellie’s throat flex and relax slowly as she swallowed, jaw tensing, “We were talking about you, what happened between me and Cat didn’t matter.”

“Oh, okay,” you replied, suddenly shy.

After a moment, Ellie spoke up again, “But, y’know, about that… I can’t help but think…”

“Think what?”

She turned her body fully towards you, engaging eye contact, “Do you really think that they’re just making out in front of everybody because they just find each other so irresistible?”

You furrowed your brows, “What the hell are you trying to imply?” 

Ellie smirked, mischief suddenly creeping across her expression, “I’m saying that they’re obviously trying to make us jealous. Don’t you see it?”

Swishing the drink in your hand absentmindedly, you doubted her theory, “I don’t know, Ellie. What if they just like each other? I doubt they thought about it that deeply.”

Ellie rolled her eyes in response, “You don’t have to believe me, but I’m right.” 

Silence lingered between the two of you as Ellie turned her gaze away from you. As her gentle features got caught in the violet glow reflecting off the silver mirror ball, you couldn’t help but notice that she was actually quite beautiful.

Your eyes locked back onto the couple, who was now grinding on each other to the rhythm of whatever shitty bass-boosted house song was blasting from the speakers.

“They make me fucking sick,” you muttered.

Ellie smirked as your gaze met with hers again, “Well, I’m telling you, they’re just trying to get under our skin, and there’s only one way we can get them back.”

“Now what the actual fuck are you trying to say?”

As she lowered her voice, Ellie leaned in so close that you could feel the warmth in her breath and smell the liquor she had downed ten minutes ago.

“I think you already know what I’m trying to say, princess.”

For a moment, you were stunned, heat rising in your cheeks at the proximity.

Was she seriously trying to imply that you two should kiss in an attempt to get back at Cat and Abby?

As appealing as it sounded to rile Abby up and make her jealous, the idea of kissing Ellie sounded fucking insane to you. She might've comforted you after your break up yesterday, and the two of you might be currently bonding over your exes getting together in a fling that nobody could have ever predicted—but none of that made you forget the years of resentment that had festered between you both until this week.

Besides, she was still a stoned out loser. What would people think of you if they saw you kiss her?

Breaking out of the trance you were in, you shook your head, pushing her off of you, “C’mon, Ellie. That’s fucking crazy and you know it.”

She just shrugged in response, “Maybe, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't do it anyways."

"If you change your mind, I'll still be here," she practically breathed into your ear, “Just saying, it would really piss Abby off.”

It was true, Abby hated Ellie as much as you did. Well, nearly as much as you did. Ellie made you want to fucking rip your hair out of your scalp and strangle her with it. Well, at least she used to. Everything seemed to be confusing lately.

You brushed Ellie off and made your way through the crowd, finding Leah and Jordan by a wall, cuddling up and laughing. The love that radiated off of them mocked you in your post-breakup state, reminding you of Abby and enraging you all over again.

You stomped up to the couple, “Jordan, why the fuck did you invite Abby?”

“Wait, she’s here?” Leah said, beginning to glance over the crowd.

“I’m so confused,” Jordan said, “Isn’t she your girlfriend? I thought you would want her to be here.”

You rolled your eyes, “Look at what she’s doing right now.”

Jordan scanned the crowd and gasped when he saw Abby, “Is she making out with another girl?”

“Yes,” you groaned, “We’re not together anymore because she’s a fucking cheater.”

As you began to turn away, Leah tugged on your forearm, pulling you back.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized, “I should’ve told him not to invite her, I had no idea she would even come.”

“It’s okay, Leah. Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing we can do about it now. I’m just pissed.”

Pulling away from her, you continued walking towards the bar.

You downed a cup of suspicious fruit punch and mentally prayed to God that it wasn’t laced with anything other than cheap liquor.

With the bitter taste of alcohol settling in your throat, you leaned back against the wall, your eyes scrutinizing the room of partiers once more.

Sure enough, Abby and Cat were still there in the center of the room, grinding and kissing on one other.

You thought you were fine. You thought you could handle it. Not everything is meant to last and people grow apart and all that other bullshit about letting go.

But then you saw Abby’s hands slide over Cat’s body.

Abby’s fingertips caressed the sensitive muscle of Cat’s abdomen, making her gasp and look back at your ex-girlfriend, the two closing the gap with a messy kiss.

How fucking dare she.

It broke you to see Abby touch another girl with the same hands, the same intensity, the same purpose that she had touched your body with only a week prior.

That was your final straw.

With liquid courage burning through your veins, you thought back to Ellie’s proposition.

Without giving yourself a chance to have second thoughts, you pushed through the crowd.

Sure enough, she was still there in the party, just as she said she would be, now talking to a few other losers that you (quite honestly) didn’t care enough to learn the names of.

All you had to do was call out her name once, and she turned back towards you, your gaze meeting hers immediately.

If you were going to back down, this was your final chance to do so.

But you didn’t back down.

Instead, you wrapped your arms around her neck, pulling her into a warm kiss.

Ellie responded to you immediately, pressing your body into hers through her hold on your hips.

After a few seconds, you were the first to pull away from the kiss, gasping for air. Ellie didn’t seem satisfied with that, though, soon pulling you back in for more, this time much more confident and intense as you both grew more familiar with the other’s body.

Ellie licked across your bottom lip as a request for entrance, to which you accepted, allowing her to deepen the kiss.

Once you both had no other choice but to break away for air, you still held Ellie close, resting your head against her shoulder as you attempted to recollect yourself.

As the adrenaline crash hit you, you began to undergo the full consequences of the shots you took at Dina’s house in combination with whatever shit was in those red solo cups.

Everything sounded like it was underwater. You couldn’t even see the crowds of your peers staring and whispering as everything blurred together in your vision.

Each light was blinding. Each noise was deafening.

Your stomach turned like it was working against its natural movement, trying to force out something you desperately did not want to come out right now.

You leaned against Ellie to prevent yourself from falling over as your limbs shook they would soon stop working entirely.

“Ellie, I don’t feel so good.” you muttered into her ear. “Can you take me home?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just hold on to me.” Ellie agreed, her voice still breathy from the kiss.

She guided you out of the party with her hand on the small of your back. You knew people were talking about you, but you were too dazed from the kiss and your inebriation to care.

Once outside, Ellie unlocked her car and helped you into the passenger seat before walking around and climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Ellieeee?” you drawled out her name.

“Yeah?” she turned towards you, genuine concern in her eyes, “Do you need anything?”

“Can I have your jacket? ‘M so cold.”

Ellie threw her jacket into your lap before turning on the car.

You pulled the leather over your shoulders, immediately finding comfort in the scent of smoke and musky cologne that radiated off her jacket.

Fortunately, Ellie remembered your address from taking you home yesterday, so it didn’t take long for the two of you to take off after settling into the car.

After Ellie started driving, you quickly accustomed to the gentle hum of the car beating against the road, finding comfort in it's rhythm.

Hearing your phone blow up with notifications, you clumsily unlocked your phone. Seeing that all the texts came from your group chat with Dina and Leah, you tapped on your screen to read what they were saying.

In your drunken state, the blue and white hazes from your phone all blended into one, forcing you to have to squint your eyes to make out what the texts said.

leah baby - 11:32 PM

"lol tell me why i just saw cat and abby walking out the party"

"they seemed like they were fighting too"

wifey dina <3 - 11:35 PM

“y/n.”

"where the fuck are you?"

leah baby - 11:36 PM

“omg”

"y/n, why are people saying that you and ellie kissed?"

"What are you looking at?" Ellie asks.

"Oh, my friends are just texting me."

You moved to reply to your concerned friends, but your fingers felt like jelly. Despite it feeling almost impossible to type back a coherent response, you carried through.

you - 11:38 PM

"m oksy guys"

"ellie s takinf me homd"

You shut your phone off and relaxed into your seat, resting your head against the window as you watched Ellie drive, her brow furrowed in focus.

After a minute or two, you finally decided to break the silence, “Ellie?”

“Mhm?” She met your gaze momentarily before returning her eyes to the road.

“What actually happened between you and Cat?” You thought back to your conversation with Leah yesterday, giggling at the absurdity of her story, “Leah said that she cheated on you with some old man and you stole her car or some shit.”

“That did not happen,” Ellie sounded a bit defensive at first, but couldn’t help the smile that adorned her face upon hearing the gentle melody of your soft laughter.

“Then what did happen?” You asked, looking up at her with big doe eyes from your slouched sitting position.

Ellie sighed, "Well, I met her in this art class I was taking sophomore year. I thought she was really cool... and pretty," Ellie let out a short, breathy laughter as she recalled what was now just a distant memory to her. "We had a lot in common, too, so we became friends pretty quickly."

"One day we were chilling in her car listening to Pierce the Veil or whatever shit was on our playlist," Ellie paused like it still hurt her to remember, "Then she leaned in and kissed me."

"Then what happened?" You asked, fully engaged.

"Well, we started dating—and at first it was good, like really good. I mean, she was my first girlfriend since middle school, so it wasn't like I had a lot to compare it to, but still."

Ellie bit her lip for a moment, lost in thought, "Then, I guess she got tired of me. 'Said I was getting too clingy or something, started acting distant... then she cut things off."

"I'm so sorry, Ellie," you said softly, fully sympathizing with her and relating to what she went through through your own break up.

She shook her head, "It's fine. I'm over it now; it just hurts to think about."

You leaned in and placed your hand on her forearm, rubbing circles into her skin in an attempt to comfort her, "Still, nobody deserves to be treated like that."

Your heart felt like it was being squeezed a little as you witnessed the soft smile that graced on Ellie's face. It may have been there for just a second, but that was enough for you.

Ellie cleared her throat as the car came to a stop, "We're here."

You looked out the window and, truth be told, there stood your family's house illuminated under the pale moonlight.

Ellie got out the car and walked over to your side, opening the door for you and helping you get out while holding your hand.

Still inebriated, you had to lean onto Ellie as you walked up towards your house.

"Fuck, Ellie," you giggled, "I left my keys on my nightstand. I'm gonna have to crawl through my window."

Ellie laughed at you, "Are you fucking serious? How do you forget your keys?"

"Oh my God, shut up!" you laughed along with Ellie. "Dina was rushing me out the door, okay?"

"Okay, but now seriously how the fuck are we going to get up to your window?"

"Chill out, I live on the first floor. It's right there."

Once reaching the outside of your bedroom, you leaned against the vinyl panels of your house while staring at the flexing of Ellie's muscles as she pushed open your window.

You climbed through the window first, landing on the floor with a thud due to your drunken lack of coordination.

Ellie followed, climbing into your bedroom next.

"Ellie, what are you doing?" you asked, not expecting her to actually come in.

She fidgeted with her hands, suddenly a bit shy, "I just wanted to make sure that you were going to be okay before I left."

Upon seeing you struggle to get your heels off, Ellie kneeled down and helped you unfasten all the straps, tossing the shoes into a corner of your room once complete.

Stumbling over to your dresser, you pulled out a change of clothes so you could finally get out of your itchy bra and tight clothes.

"Ellie, can you please turn around while I change?" you asked.

"Oh, right—sure! I mean, yeah, of course I can," she spun around, cheeks flushed completely red. You thought it was adorable how easy it was to make her nervous and get her wrapped around your finger.

Sometimes Ellie could seem so tough, her confidence radiating in a way that appeared so effortless to those around her. Underneath her sharp tongue and edgy demeanor, though, she was just an awkward girl that got shy when you went soft on her.

Once slipping out of your party outfit and throwing on the Fleetwood Mac shirt you religiously wore to bed once a week and a striped pair of pajama pants, you told Ellie she could look again.

The alcohol debilitated your senses once more as you stumbled on your way towards your bed, making Ellie rush over and hold your waist as she helped you climb into your sheets.

As you let the comforting familiarity of your mattress embrace you whole, you realized how fucking tired you actually were.

“How about we exchange numbers?” she asked, “That way you can text me if you need anything.”

“Mmmm,” you groaned in exhaustion. “I don’t wanna get up, I’ll just tell you mine.”

You recited your phone number out to her as she diligently tapped it into her phone to save it.

“Ellie?” you called out to her, your voice low and soft as you were actively trying and failing to fight off sleep.

“Yes?”

“I think you’re really sweet.” you confessed.

“Thanks,” her face turned red from your flattery, “I think you’re really drunk right now.”

You hummed, your eyes fluttering shut as you surrendered to sleep, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course, it’s the right thing to do.”

Before climbing out your window to return to her car, Ellie took a minute to admire you in your unconscious state. She truly believed you looked beautiful like this, curling into yourself as you buried your head deeper into your pillow. You looked more than precious with your soft lashes pressed gently against each other and your pouty lips agape. Ellie wondered if this is what angels looked like in flesh.

She shook her head, breaking herself out of her thoughts. No, she couldn’t think of you in that way.

She forced herself to rip her gaze away from you and instead head back into the night. Regardless, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that any proximity between the two of you was strictly a product of random circumstance and a desire for vengeance, the gross pink thing beating between her ribs argued otherwise.

You woke up the next day with a pounding headache that never ceased, a sour taste in your mouth, and a hot sweat that made your clothes stick to your skin. You covered your eyes with your hands in an attempt to hide from the sun, whose blinding light left black and blue dots permeating your vision.

Groaning, you pulled your phone off your nightstand.

The time on it read 1:52 PM. You didn't think you stayed at the party for that long, so you must have just been so tired after the week you had that you slept for over twelve hours.

The time wasn't what shocked you the most, though. In fact, the part that made your heart sink was the amount of texts that had blown up your inbox over night.

wifey dina <3 - 11:39 PM

“you're in a car with ellie?"

"are you fucking serious, y/n?"

leah baby - 11:42 PM

“holy shit”

"so you actually kissed ellie?"

"wait, but i thought u guys hated each other?"

wifey dina <3 - 11:44 PM

“they do."

"i don't know what she was thinking."

abigail. (cheating asshole) (DO NOT CALL) - 12:05 AM

“what the fuck”

"did you seriously make out with ellie?"

"in front of everybody?"

"are you insane?"

"out of all the fucking people you kiss ellie?"

leah baby sent an attachment - 1:03 AM

leah baby - 1:03 AM

“someone posted a photo of you two kissing on their story”

(###)-###-#### - 8:22 AM

“hey, it’s ellie”

"text me when ur awake"

You threw your phone across the room and rolled onto your side, placing your palms against your forehead as you groaned deep enough that it echoed across your bedroom walls.

What the fuck did you get yourself into?

౨ৎ starts picking baby names out of nowhere, like, you’re in the middle of grocery shopping and she goes, “that’d be a sick name if we ever had a kid,” then refuses to explain further. “not sayin’ we should. just sayin’... plus, s’not like i’d be a bad mom, right?” then crashes face-first into the doritos aisle when you actually agree. 

౨ৎ suddenly starts leaving her sketchbook out, hoping you’ll find the little doodles she’s been doing of you. ones where you’re asleep with your hand on a pregnant belly you don’t even have, or you holding a baby she hasn’t told you about yet, as a silent “if you’d ever want one, i’d want one, too” she doesn’t have the heart to utter, mostly out of fear. because what if you don’t want it? even though you said a long time ago that you were open to it, things change, and so do people. that’s enough to scare her into silence. unbeknownst to her, she’s been knocking on a door that’s already pretty much unlocked.

౨ৎ floats subtle ideas like getting a dog, casually throwing out a shy, “just to see if we’d survive having a creature that needs us, like, a test run! a baby but with less trauma, y’know?” or testing the waters with offhand comments “you’d be such a good mom,” pretending she hasn’t been carrying that shit in her chest this whole time. but eventually, she grows a pair.

౨ৎ blurts out “would you ever wanna… y’know. do the baby thing? with me?” mid-makeout, while you’re straddling her, cheeks of a deep cherry-red as if she just asked you to try out a new position (you lowk have tried them all by now, but that’s besides the point.)

౨ৎ reads all the parenting articles you send her after saying yes. she’s got whole tabs open on her ipad titled “gentle parenting for anxious people” and “how to not fuck up your kid when you’re gay and traumatized.” #ipadkidcore

౨ৎ talks with you for hours about the different options, like real adults and real partners, because she’s serious about this and wants to be ready. timelines, genetics, your job, her job, who would carry, health considerations, etc. all of it etched right next to a half-completed drawing of you in an unfairly serene slumber.

౨ৎ nods to every word that comes out of the doctor’s mouth on your first appointment. he’s explaining how reciprocal IVF works and ellie’s can’t shut the fuck up for more than 6 seconds (you were keeping track.) you think her questions are silly, but to her, they are highly significant and totally life-altering.

“can she still eat gas station sushi, or is that a bad mindset for implantation?”

“does stress really lower fertility because she gets stressed when she looks for parking—” you smack the shit outta her.

౨ৎ cries as soon as you walk out. her legs feel so weak that she has to lean against a wall, eyes all glassy, trembling hands braced on her knees. you even start to worry, already convinced she’s about to backtrack and change her mind after dropping three grand, just like that one time she impulse-bought wonder woman curtains from tiktok shop because ‘they matched the living room vibe’ and regretted it instantly. typical ellie behavior.

“ellie? what’s wrong?”

“it’s just— the idea of… you carrying something that’s half me?” she sniffles, looking away ashamed, “i didn’t think i’d ever get something that good.” only option, really, is to kiss her dumb. what else could you do?

౨ৎ suddenly develops a huge breeding kink out of nowhere. 6 inches in and she goes, “fuck, yeah. just like that. takin’ me so good. my girl’s gonna get full off me, huh? gonna carry our baby.” you try to remind her how insemination really works and all you get is a defensive, “shut up. it’s my fantasy.” 

౨ৎ slaps your ass around the house every time you bend over. “that’s a breeding ass, babe.”

౨ৎ takes the donor selection process way too seriously. at first, at least. the intention is there: notebook draped over her laptop keyboard, highlighter cap clenched between her teeth type of serious. she writes things down, circles relevant stuff; even makes a pros and cons list like it’s a fucking job interview. 

but no one’s good enough. she’s actively roasting these dudes like they personally disrespected her entire bloodline. “his name is braxton,” she reads out loud, squinting at you sideways. “nope. immediate red flag. he absolutely says ‘epic’ unironically. instant pass.” click. “liam. i just know he got arrested for tax evasion and called his mom to cry about it.” click again, without even giving you time to react. “why does his smile look like he knows what crypto is.” click. “babe, i swear i’ve seen this one dude on the dark web before,” she stabs at the screen of her laptop with her finger. click. “absolutely fucking not.”

she’s scrolling fast now, flicking through profiles like she’s on tinder with way too much repressed rage, commenting it all—height, hair color, childhood photo, medical history tabs she pretends not to care about while still reading every single one with a judgmental heart. 

the clicking eventually comes to a stop. “what. the. fuck.”

your eyes land on the name and you can’t help but snort. “who the fuck names their kid… elliot jackscum?”

click. click again. then goes back and clicks on the profile.

“…why does he lowkey look like me though.” you both frown, exchanging looks, “that’s me in the upside-down.”

now you’re both dead silent, fully locked in, reading every detail that actually matters. the medical history is clean, genetic screening clear. education is something arts-related, a personality similar to ellie’s (not that that holds much importance, in your opinion.)

you sigh, studying her face before murmuring a “we should pick him, shouldn’t we.” less a question, more a i know that look.

ellie sinks into the couch, blowing out a resigned breath through her nose as a calloused palm drags down her face. “god fucking damn it.”

“…yeah.”

“jackscum wins.”

౨ৎ starts hormone injections for egg retrieval and instantly becomes the most disgusting, horniest version of herself.

౨ৎ shrugs it off at first, saying it’s whatever, that she’ll get used to it. but it doesn’t level out; if anything, it escalates. gradually, but surely. suddenly she’s spooning you tighter at night, her hands wandering way more than usual, past the waistband of your underwear, up your shirt, cupping your breasts, kissing the back of your neck like you’re the dinner she didn’t get to eat because she got sent to bed early, grounded and starving. 

the sex dreams start happening almost every night. sometimes she even moans in her sleep. all you know is you’ve caught her humping her pillow more times than you care to count. you bend over for half a second to pick something up, and she’s there, fake banging you from behind like a dog in heat—except she very clearly wishes it wasn’t fake at all. then she starts begging. for neck kisses. for head. always pulling you into her lap or groping your ass at the most random times. sometimes all while dirty talking to you in a low rasp, her mouth at your neck, her breath caressing your baby hairs deliciously. it makes your head spin.

౨ৎ starts with hints before she actively starts begging. you’ll be eating and she’ll just stare at your mouth and go, “you could do something else with that mouth.” or “how bout you kiss my thighs and see where it goes?” still, not so subtle, but at least she’s cute about it.

౨ৎ other times she straight up whines about it, every time using the same old excuse when you dare call her out. “you don’t understand. i feel like a greek fertility goddess right now. it’s a medical thing—what happened to feminism anyway? girls having each other’s back and all that shit.” does she make any sense? absolutely not, but you hold her hand through it and keep her thighs open when needed, mouth where it matters, patience in your praises and your tongue on her swollen clit. <3

౨ৎ wakes you up in the middle of the night to announce how unwell she’s feeling. 

you feel her shaking you like a cocktail while you’re chasing some distant, juicy slumber of your own just to whisper, nearly panicked, “babe. emergency.”

“what,” you mumble, half asleep, half groan, half annoyed.

“i had a dream you ate me out while i was crying and then gave me a juice box. and i woke up horny and thirsty. it’s a sign. please.” she shakes you again, more urgently this time.

“mkay…” you don’t  fully register any of it. your half-conscious brain assumes she’s hungry or something, she’s woken you up for less. “go drink water,” you reach for her blindly, eyes still closed, meaning to pat her on the shoulder, except your hand lands right on her tit and her breath stutters like you just hit a wounded nerve.

“it’s not the same,” she sighs, pouting a little at the ceiling.

౨ৎ jokes about dying if you don’t suck her tits and moans way too loud when you actually do. 

from there, things derail fast, because somehow you end up between her thighs, slurping on a clit that’s never throbbed so angrily against your tongue. she’s so wet you almost feel bad. between the constant horniness, the random mood swings, the cramps, the snapping, you figure your girl genuinely needs the extra attention.

except she’s greedy about it.

she yanks at your hair harshly, sucking in a breath, moaning like a pornstar. freckles scattered over pink skin, growing impatient beneath you, looking so fucking pretty it physically hurts. “babe… please,” she begs in a voice so feeble, so high-pitched, “please, please—fingers, please.” seconds away from a full mental breakdown even as you’re eating her out. 

it’s never enough for ellie. doesn’t matter if she’s going to bed with an orgasm count of five or thirteen.

you pull away with the filthiest smooch, lips abandoning her completely. “doctor said no internal stimulation.” your huff lands directly on her cunt, making her shiver. “you’re lucky i’m even doing this.”

of course, she argues. “i’m literally not gonna die from one knuckle—”

“ellie.” you glare at her through your lashes and she swears she’s gonna squirt just from that.

“this is the worst oppression i’ve ever experienced—oh my god, keep going, keep—oooh fuck, fuuck!—” she comes gasping into the crook of her elbow, all whiny and twitchy, actively trying to argue even as she rides it out on your tongue.

“you still gonna complain? i’m fucking you to sleep at this point.”

“i’ll give it a six… could’ve been better with your fingers.”

you wipe your mouth and snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t call the doctor mid-orgasm and tell him exactly what you were asking me for, you little bitch.”

౨ৎ wakes you up the next morning with breakfast in bed: a cute, wooden tray with a japanese cherry blossom tree painted on it (by her), heart-shaped pancakes, chocolate-dipped strawberries and a tulip very obviously stolen from someone’s garden two blocks away—plus… a thick envelope?

still blurry-eyed and half unconscious, you press a lazy peck to her lips, mumbling a sleepy thanks as you squint at the envelope. not that ellie isn’t a love-letter type of girl, but this is… not that.

“NOTICE OF NOISE COMPLAINT – UNIT 3C” written across it in threatening red sharpie, you frown. “huh… what’s this?”

you shift the tray over your thighs and tear the envelope open, barely looking at her as you pull the letter out. the mattress dips when she climbs back into bed, knee knocking into yours under the covers. you grab a chocolate-drenched strawberry, take a big bite and unfold the paper one-handed.

“looks like we got our first official citation,” she says casually with a slight bounce of her shoulders. “we’re on record.”

your eyes skim the page, the words making your frown deepen, “ellie… this is not… a good thing.” a masterpiece of overly formal language explaining that someone yelling “oh fuck, faster—” at ungodly hours has apparently disrupted the recycling schedule.

“the old lady next door told building management that unit 3c films amateur porn at ungodly hours and traumatized her grandkids. she kept tabs on us too… even submitted a whole report with timestamps. timestamps, babe.” 

the pride in her voice makes you look back at her in disbelief. not because of the notice itself, but because she isn’t even a little ashamed that half the building now has a rough estimate of how many times a week she comes. “what. the. fuck.” 

the concern is unmatched, she’s beaming by this point. “i know, right? you’re that skilled with your tongue. we should frame it and put it in the living room,” she lifts her hands to frame an imaginary golden plaque in the air, eyes all dreamy. “bachelor of arts in making your wife scream.” bumps your shoulder with hers. you snort, barely. more amused than anything. genuinely just shocked it didn’t happen sooner, back to when she used to fuck you stupid with her beloved strap every night before bed, period or not, because “your body didn’t get to cockblock her like that.” her words.

“should be fucking proud, babe. not even kat—”

your eyes narrow at the mention of her ex. “say that name again and you’re out of the fucking house.”

౨ৎ sits through the egg retrieval process like a real champ. all cocky in the car, all “guess i’m donating to the cause, huh?” but the second she gets in the gown and hears “you’ll feel a little pressure” she asks the nurse for “just a minute” at least five times before anyone gets to lay a finger on her.

౨ৎ something in her sick brain rewires the second she learns her eggs are fertilized. “that’s it, this pussy’s full of me already—ride me like you wanna make another.” science sure is an opinion to her.

౨ৎ goes fucking insane when the clinic clears you for a natural transfer cycle—which means no suppression, no medicated estrogen protocol, just monitoring, timing and a whole lot of hope. they explain to you that transfers are usually more controlled, with generous doses of estrogen and progesterone scheduled down to the hour, but your stubborn ass wanted to try option b instead. what they don’t explain is that this would apparently include ellie tracking your ovulation on THREE different apps and bothering you about it. constantly. and that’s on you, really.

“hydrate, mama. cervical mucus loves hydration.”

you could be brushing your teeth and she’s leaning against the doorway, “so… how’s the mucus lookin’ today?” 

or it’s her prophecies. “according to clue, you ovulate in 15 days. according to flo? 14. but babe my gut says 13.5. trust.” 

౨ৎ wakes you up every morning with fertility facts she studied the night before, after lying awake next to your snoring ass. the moment you open your eyes, the first thing you hear is shit like, “mornin’... apparently, when you sleep well, implantation chances go up.”

 “I HAVEN’T EVEN OVULATED YET.”

“yeah, but you will soon… my perfect little incubator.”

౨ৎ checks the cervical mucus so seriously it becomes scary. you drop your underwear to pee and she’s already leaning over your shoulder to take a peek. “hmm. fertile window approaching.”

“ELLIE WILLIAMS. GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM.”

“just saying, babe. it looks… promising.”

the craziest thing is that all her guesses weren’t even half wrong. the clinic confirms everything with ultrasounds and blood tests.

౨ৎ comes home after a long day of work and instead of greeting you with bouquets of flowers like she used to, she’s always carrying something that could benefit your health. vitamins, teas, supplements, all bought in ridiculous amounts. she even leaves little notes on them, the kind that used to come tucked between baby blue roses, baby’s breath and lavender. 

✉︎ “𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘦 ˙ᵕ˙ 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥.”

౨ৎ holds your hand through the entire embryo transfer, somehow more anxious than you are. the nurses nearly kick her out for interfering too much. she keeps stopping the doctor with stupid questions, insisting he double-check everything, even get another doctor in the room, just in case. she finally behaves after a few very firm warnings. (no pegging for a week.)

౨ৎ treats you like a fragile little fawn for the next two weeks. you’re not allowed to lift anything heavier than a bobby pin. “my wife’s got a belly to grow.”

౨ৎ constantly tucks blankets around you, shoving her own pillow under your legs, sleeping like a starfish without one ‘cause “science says gravity helps.” if you dare suggest she’s making that shit up, or that reddit isn’t reliable, “science IS reddit.”

౨ৎ sits on the bathroom floor two weeks later, shaking like a wet chihuahua while you take a pregnancy test. after peeing gracefully on the stick, you place it on the counter face-down. “please… please… please…” two minutes in, “why’s this shit takin’ so long? oh my fucking god.” four minutes in, “swear to god, if she gets pregnant i’ll go to church every sunday.” spoiler: she lied. she’s not even religious.

౨ৎ when the pregnancy test finally comes back positive, she doesn’t react like a normal person. sure, she kisses you hard and gets a little emotional, but she’s mostly praising herself.

“I DID THAT. I KNEW I NUT GOOD.”

“you didn’t even nut.”

 “emotionally i was balls deep. let me have this.” + endless kisses to your nonexistent bump<3

౨ৎ is a nervous wreck the day she has to tell your family. and her dad. 

it’s a sunny sunday, barbecue smoke filtering lazily through the open windows, the neighbors’ kids are shrieking outside, their laughter piercing straight through your skull. a dog down the street barks furiously at bees hovering over its bowl, while the grumpy man across the road yells at the kids for kicking a ball across his precious patch of grass.

and ellie is absolutely shitting her pants. quite literally. she’s excused herself to pee at least three times in a row. she always gets like this when she’s anxious. by the time she comes back the fourth time, your mom is setting a cherry pie down in the middle of the table.

ellie refuses to sit, impulsively blurting it out, “i got her pregnant.”

the crust of pie lodges straight in your throat as you launch into a coughing fit, hand pounding the table. “y—yes,” you manage between coughs. why is she like this. why does she have to make it weird. “a doctor got me pregnant,” you quickly correct her.

ellie turns to you, offended, waving it off. “my egg. her womb. our baby.” she finishes with a small shrug and a smug grin, “jackpot.” claiming it’s all thanks to her because she ‘manifested that shit.’

౨ৎ orders a mug that says ‘world’s best breeder’ that she claims is “a joke” but uses it every fucking day.

౨ৎ stares at your belly when it really pops and ellie looks like she’s just seen a leprechaun. “i gotta process this. it’s happening. you’re big. (you’re not) i did that. i did that. holy fuck.”

౨ৎ starts giving you weird ass pet names, “my little transport truck full of baby” or “my stacked fridge.”

౨ৎ immediately leaves a positive review on the clinic google page “$14,000 to breed my wife. money well spent!!!” 

౨ৎ won’t let you walk anywhere alone. you don’t get privacy or independence, not anymore. you stand up to get water and she’s like “nonono—sit down. i’ll get it for you.” you sneeze once and she’s looking up: “can sneezing effect early pregnancy??” you lay on your stomach and she gets anxious about it, “what if you pop a tit?? will the baby feel it?”

౨ৎ has absolutely no idea how to act when she’s horny anymore. like, yeah, she’s still wildly attracted (obviously), but she’s also scared as fuck. she’ll kiss your belly, trail her mouth down your neck, press slow kisses to the inside of your thighs, then freeze like she’s committing a felony, two seconds away from an actual panic attack. “is it okay if i—? wait. is that safe? are you comfortable? tell me if you’re uncomfortable. actually… no sex tonight. nope. abort mission. i need to research.” she lasts exactly three hours before she’s straddling you again, phone carelessly tossed somewhere in the sheets, eyes gleaming in the dark like a cat’s. “okay,” she grins sheepishly, “i researched. turns out we can. can i ride your thigh now or no.” all that unnecessary stress just for her to end up leaving snail trails on your thigh. disappointing to say the least.

౨ৎ turns aggressively protective and insists on coming with you for every errand. 

grocery store? someone bumps your cart with theirs and ellie’s already stepping in front of you like she’s shielding the president. “watch where you’re going, for fuck’s sake,” she snaps so loud your face burns and you suddenly become a stranger three aisles away. “can’t you see she’s pregnant?” she gestures toward you like a crazy woman. you’re barely a few weeks in, nothing is visible yet, not even a hint. you honestly don’t even blame the guy for looking at your wife like she’s insane as he quietly wheels his cart away, terrified. little does she know, next time he’s bringing his wife with him because women terrify him. 

your first checkup? she nearly starts a riot in the waiting room because no one offers you a seat. again—absolutely no one can tell you’re pregnant. but ellie insists she can feel your shoulders tensing, your poor spine straining and your body working overtime.”

౨ৎ treats you like actual royalty. she brings you snacks but won’t make eye contact while doing it, drops them off all awkward, without mumbling a single word (loser ellie nghh)

౨ৎ kisses your bump goodnight and gets shy if she catches you watching her. 

౨ৎ sticks little anxious reminders on your nightstand on mornings she has to leave early for work.

“𝘱𝘭𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳!!! 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘵!!!”

“𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴 >:(”

“𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 + 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘺𝘰 ♡”

౨ৎ narrates everything to the baby. you eat strawberries and she talks directly to your stomach, rubbing it gently, “hear that? mama’s feeding you antioxidants.” later, you’re watching zootropolis together, a fox plush tucked against your side and she adds, “see, kiddo? absolute cinema.” like the baby can actually see through your eyes. she’s convinced it can.

౨ৎ thanks you out of nowhere, because not only you’ve chosen her as your forever partner like swans do, but you’re also building a family with her. “hey, thanks for doing this with me.” then she kisses your shoulder and immediately pretends she didn’t just get emotional, stomping away before you can catch her tearing up like a way-too-chalant lesbian she swears she’s not.

౨ৎ cries over baby clothes, you’ll be walking in walmart and other places and she’ll be crying as if she’s the one pregnant and a walking ball of stubborn, unpredictable hormones. “babe it’s so fucking small—look—wait, hold it against your belly again—oh my god—that’s OUR kid—”

you swat her hand away. “kid? ellie, it’s barely an embryo.”

“bite your tongue. that’s our fucking heir.” she’ll promptly hiss every time you remind her. swear to god she’ll make you apologize like you just said the worst thing imaginable. 

౨ৎ checks your pregnancy app every morning before she even pees. you wake up to her perched in bed with her glasses on, “holy shit… the baby’s a blueberry today.” then she turns to you, grinning like a dork, “babe. you’re a blueberry mom.”

౨ৎ will clock that you’re sick before you even admit it.

౨ৎ cancels plans without even telling you because if her girl needs her, everything else can die. the world could literally collapse and crumble to the core of the underworld and she wouldn’t budge. you don’t even ask for her presence, ‘cause she’s already there like a sickening little parasite.

౨ৎ feels genuinely guilty when the morning sickness gets worse. you rush to the bathroom and somehow she beats you there. already kneeling behind you, holding your hair in a gentle fist and shielding your forehead from stubborn strands while you puke your soul out. rubs reassuring circles into your back with her palm, “’m sorry, baby… i’m so sorry you feel like this…” and she means that shit with her whole heart, like it’s her fault. “you’re doing so good. your body’s doing so much right now… i know it sucks ass, i know…” and the one that melts your insides every time, “my poor girls.”

౨ৎ goes down a rabbit hole about acupressure after reading somewhere in a facebook article dina sent her that it can help with nausea. the next morning you’re hunched over the sink complaining that you feel sick again and she’s already reaching for your wrist, “hold on, hold on, don’t move.” she presses her thumb on your wrist, right between your tendons, squinting back at you for any sign of improvement. “internet said this one’s for nausea.” when you tell her it actually helped a little, she sits back on the toilet lid looking waaay too proud of herself. “see? basically a doctor now.”

౨ৎ turns into a doberman about smells. you hate garlic, vinegar, anything sharp or fermented, so now she goes around sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “what the fuck is that? i said. no. funyuns. i told you the smell makes her gag. what the fuck is wrong with you?” and just like that, your friends are forever banned from your house.

౨ৎ sleeps lighter than ever when you’re feeling off. if you so much as shift or groan, she jolts awake like she’s just fallen into a void. “hey, hey… i’m here. what do you need?” even if what you need is just to complain.

౨ৎ refuses to complain herself, even when she’s exhausted, even when you keep her up all night because the nausea won’t leave you alone. she doesn’t say a word, doesn’t blame you, doesn’t take her stress out on you. even with dark circles under her eyes and all, she still rubs your shoulders, still makes you food, still reassures you. if you dare apologize, she shakes her head, shutting you up instantly. “don’t. you’re growing our baby and you’re sick. bare minimum. least i can do.”

౨ৎ cannot stand when men so much as glance at your bump or say anything remotely sweet to you. “that’s how it starts. smiling. then asking what school the kid goes to. next thing you know, he’s trying to be the father that steps up. not on my fucking watch.”

౨ৎ cries at your first ultrasound because the baby has her nose. honestly, you were glad. but then she says weird shit, “look at that shrimp spine. head’s huge as fuck, babe! definitely got my brain in there. my swimmers were built different.” the nurse looks at her weird.

౨ৎ prints out an image of your ultrasound, laminates it and keeps it inside the back of her phone case just to peek at it when she’s having a bad day :(

౨ৎ has a completely blank sketchbook she plans to fill only with baby drawings.

౨ৎ spoons you extra gentle at night, with one hand over your bump and her mouth in the curve of your neck, “you smell different,” when you ask her to elaborate, you feel her shrug behind you, “like… mom energy. sweeter. ripe. i dunno.”

౨ৎ is suffocatingly obsessive the entire pregnancy—waking you up at 3am to make sure you feel okay or if you need to pee. sometimes, you have to sleep on the couch just to get away from her. when you wake up, she’s passed out on the carpet right beside you. you even accidentally step on her the first time. arghh.

౨ৎ starts rearranging the entire house in the middle of the night to make sure the closets are neat and everything even remotely dangerous for a baby shoved out of the way (despite the fact that you’re barely a few months in). 

౨ৎ keeps calling the baby “big sister” as if having this one in the incubator somehow means you’re already open to more kids.

“babe, she’s not even born yet.” (utterly irrelevant to ellie)

“doesn’t matter. mentally preparing her. she’s gotta know she’s not gonna be an only child.” she’s so excited it physically pains you to demolish that delusion of hers. “also i ordered matching onesies that say ‘1st round’ and ‘2nd round’—” and the cherry on top, “fuck it, let’s go full lesbian duggar family.”

“ah hell naww. i’m divorcing you.”

౨ৎ lowkey gets horny when hormones start fucking you up hard. you don’t cry, you’re just mean as fuck… to ellie it’s foreplay. she blushes and her pussy starts throbbing in about 0.34 seconds. immediate reaction.

“i said no fucking pulp.” you narrow your eyes, pissed as fuck. all because she got you the wrong type of juice. “fucking useless piece of shit.”

she wishes you were like this 24/7. snapping, mean, reminding her how stupid and pathetic and useless her existence is. 

she doesn’t argue. can’t. actually, you catch that fucking loser stifling a groan—maybe a moan, you’re not entirely sure. all you know is she’s drooling between her legs. “right. yeah. i’m so sorry… wanna spank me? i deserve it, ma’am.”

౨ৎ the mornings are consistently tragic. she wakes up, unfortunately—that’s her first mistake. the rambling starts before her eyes are even open, words spilling out as her legs swing off the bed like her brain never truly powered down overnight.

you’re at the table, swirling your cereal, already soggy and sinking depressingly to the bottom of the bowl. she won’t stop pacing, won’t stop fucking talking. you check the clock more than once. ten full minutes of this and you’re at your limit.

“—in addition to that, i was reading that hedgehogs—”

your spoon clinks sharply against the porcelain. “oh. my. fucking. god.” she blinks, genuinely startled, thinking she’s missed a cue you never gave her. confusion seems to shut her up, granting you a sacred moment of momentary peace. your irritation, however, keeps growing. “do you ever shut the fuck up?” you snap, “do you have a switch? or did you wake up with an eminem up your fucking ass?”

ellie has always known that the normal response would be to get offended. to shut down, perhaps. cry. maybe even to snap back. only she knows how many times she’s wished that she could be normal about this. because unpredictability gets under her skin in the worst ways and she never knows which version of you she’s waking up to. way to keep the marriage alive!

౨ৎ spends actual hours tracing your stretch marks with her tongue before head time, “fuckin’ marked by me” like she’s proud of leaving permanent scars on your temple of a body (which is every other night because she claims orgasms keep the baby healthy.) 

౨ৎ fucks you with a strap when you’re in the second trimester and gets anxious as hell. it starts before even getting you naked. you’re doing chores and randomly huff, frustrated, telling her you need her inside.

“oh! okay. yup. happening. bedroom. now. careful—let me hold you—no, don’t walk that fast—babe slow down—BABE YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

when she gets on top of you it’s even worse. she’s rocking the strap into you at the pace of a fucking snail. no cocky shit, no dirty talk, just a super focused look on her face like she’s scared of giving you an abortion with her strap.

you wrap your legs around her hips, the heel of your foot pressing into her butt as some type of encouragement. “ellie... faster.”

she tries to mask the nervousness with cockiness. doesn’t work. “…yeah?”

“yes. faster. please.” you pant, restless and impatient and worked up, watching her through a blur as she hesitates and deliberately keeps the same pace, dragging the slow strokes out like it’s a punishment. “are you—” you claw at her shoulder, visibly losing it. “what the hell is this? you fuck me slower than the wifi at my grandma’s.”

she’s offended, maybe even tries to defend herself, “i’m—m’not slow.”

“it’s awful. i’m pregnant, not a fabergé egg.”

“‘m just… savoring it, y’know?”

“oh my god,” you smack her hand off your tit, “you’re scared you’re gonna hurt the baby.”

she legit freezes mid-thrust. “…no?”

“ellie, the baby is in my uterus, not hanging out in the hallway waiting to get hit.”

still doesn’t speed up, stubbornly sabotaging your orgasm. “yeah, but… what if she’s, like, right here?” her hand drifts to the underside of your stomach.

you actually laugh at that and smack her hand away once again. “right where? in my fucking cervix? do you seriously think your strap has prenatal combat abilities?”

“i just don’t wanna bonk her in the head or somethin’.”

you cover your face with both hands, in disbelief. you aren’t sure if you find this hot or embarrassing. “ellie,” longest sigh she’s ever heard from you, “i am so close to flipping us over and doing this myself.” you threaten.

“oh my god. are you seriously pissed at me for protecting our child?”

“from silicone?!”

“from reckless parenting!—fetus cost me over ten thousand dollars, ma. think i’m about to knock it loose ‘cause you’re horny?” all of it punctuated by yet another slow thrust, “no thanks.”

“that’s not even how–”

“gotta protect the investment, bro.”

“call me bro again and you’re dead.”

in the end, you flip her over and grind down slow and deep. you don’t stop, not even after you’ve already come, not even when her fingers clutch at your hips in an anxious attempt to stop you. you had to. next time, you’re tying her to the headboard so you can fuck her properly.

౨ৎ keeps a tally on the fridge called “times she let me touch the belly” when you start getting self-conscious about the stretch marks on your body, about how different you feel in your own skin. some days you can’t even bear to let her rest a hand there, let alone kiss it. you erase the tally every time you see it, feeling embarrassed and completely overwhelmed. but she’s more stubborn, more determined. she starts it over every single time, even adding smiley faces to the days you let her kiss it, repeating every day “you’re even prettier like this” without fail, until it finally absorbs.

౨ৎ doesn’t ask questions when you’re upset or crying, because she’s aware hormones don’t always make sense, like that one time you sobbed over giraffes not having proper shelter during storms. she’ll disappear for a minute and come back with one of those microwaveable lavender plushies because she’s read somewhere—deep in a reddit thread full of other pregnant women swearing by it—that lavender and chamomile help calm the nervous system. aromatherapy. figured it was worth a shot. ever since that precious discovery, the routine’s been the same. she settles behind you in bed, tucking the warm plush against your chest and wrapping herself around you like a safe blanket. no talking, no trying to cheer you up at all costs, just warm lavender filling your nostrils and quiet reassurance. if you start crying anyway, she rubs slow circles into your arm, “yeah, i know, baby. hormones are evil.”

౨ৎ screams when your water breaks, not a cute gasp, not an excited “oh my god,” but something ugly. high-pitched, even. straight out of a horror movie. she even notices before you do. she’s mid-sentence when her eyes drop to your lap and goes dead silent for half a second before it dawns on her. “uh.” her breath stutters, “uh.” the scream that follows makes you flinch. “IT’S HAPPENING.”

you’re still processing, barely feeling any pain, and she’s already sprinting down the hallway like the house is on fire. drawers are slamming, cabinets are opening, she’s grabbing the hospital bag she packed three weeks ago at 2am, your phone charger, her wallet, your pillow(??) and somehow a random framed photo from the nightstand. as if you’ll need it. as if that’ll make the pain more tolerable. 

౨ৎ keeps dropping things because her hands are shaking so bad. the keys hit the floor several times, the suitcase tips over at least twice. she tries to carry all of it at once and looks like a raccoon stumbling out of a 7-eleven, caught stealing whiskey.

you waddle after her, annoyed and contracting at the same time, clutching at your belly. “ellie. calm. down.”

“CALM DOWN?” she shrieks, “WE TRAINED FOR THIS!”

she barrels toward the front door, flings it open with way too much force and makes it halfway down the stairs before you realize something. “ELLIE YOUR FUCKIN’ SHOES. PUT YOUR SHOES ON!”

she freezes mid-step, looks down at her star wars socks, then looks back at you. “FUCK. FUCK. SHOES!” she glitches in place, like a badly programmed 2000s npc lacking any real sense of awareness, turning left, then right. “WHERE ARE MY— I HAD THEM— I—” she runs back inside, collides with the wall, then trips over the edge of the carpet, moving too fast for her own coordination. she yanks her converse on without untying them, nearly falling again as she tries to shove her heel in, hopping around on one foot like a deranged baby chimp.

౨ৎ has absolutely zero skills under pressure. she backs out of the driveway without checking the mirrors, knocking over your lined-up trash cans and the neighbors’. she honks at a random pedestrian who was literally just walking, screaming, “HOLY SHIT— THE BABY— THE BABY—” she nearly runs a red light and kills you both.

౨ৎ tries so hard to be supportive in the delivery room, letting you demolish her hand, stroking your sweaty hair, kissing your feverish forehead… until she makes the mistake of looking directly between your legs mid-push. she goes pale in 000.11 seconds, “oh my god—s’that—s’that supposed to— oh, fuck— OH—” and then she collapses to the floor.

౨ৎ wakes up and tries to pretend she didn’t faint even with a confused medical student fanning her, sitting up like, “i’m fine, i’m fine.” gets up again, pushes the nurse out of the way, “keep going, ‘m so proud of-” looks between your thighs again and… lights out.

౨ৎ fully wakes up at last, when the baby is already out of you, crying on your chest. she’s missed the entire thing and will forever hate herself for it.

౨ৎ follows you around like an anxious golden retriever every time your daughter makes any noise, “babe???? is that normal? do they always breathe like that??” 

౨ৎ insists on taking the night shift so you can sleep, rocking the baby in the dim lit living room, “hey, baby girl… mommy’s tired. let her rest, ’kay? i gotchu, i gotchu…” when the baby finally drifts off, she tiptoes back into the bedroom and tucks the blanket around you with the same dedicated care.

౨ৎ always makes sure the bathroom cabinets stay stocked with extra diapers for the baby and extra postpartum pads for you.

౨ৎ becomes so domestic in the most adorable way your heart aches, doing everything she can to make postpartum easier, even if she looks like she’s two seconds away from passing out every day. she washes bottles, folds tiny onesies with crazy precision, brings you snacks and water without being asked, and holds the baby while you shower. sometimes she’s the one passing out on the couch from exhaustion, and you have to tuck her into bed again :( poor baby.

౨ৎ is understanding at first when, after birth, your body and its healing process don’t really leave space for intimacy. she’s supportive, loving, so patient it almost hurts, “you’ve been through so much, babe. just rest. i got you.” she gives you extra love and attention, takes care of you, makes you food when you forget to eat, rubs your legs when they ache from walking back and forth to the bassinet, and your tummy when you get cramps. because she loves you.

౨ৎ starts to get grumpy once you’re cleared to have sex and actually try to initiate it, only to get cockblocked by your own daughter. like, extremely bitchy. she folds laundry with too much force, cabinet doors no longer experience gentle closing. you swear you even hear her mutter “fuckin’ blue-balled in my own house” under her breath while warming a bottle.

౨ৎ the first time you ride her again after birth, she’s laid out flat on the bed, arms limp at her sides, eyes a little dazed like she still thinks she’s dreaming. it happens after the baby has finally fallen asleep in her crib (handmade by joel), you close the bedroom door like you’re planning a louvre heist.

“you’ve got fifteen minutes before she wakes up again,” you’d said and ellie makes it her side quest.

no strap this time, claiming she needs to feel the warmth she’s been missing for so long. she’s too overwhelmed just watching you hover over her, your tits bigger, fuller, your hips rolling slowly against hers, your stomach soft with loose skin and marked with lines she loves so much it makes her dizzy.

she just lies there with her mouth slack while you ride her slick cunt, so slippery you nearly struggle to anchor yourself against her. the wet sounds are louder than they should be in a quiet house. at one point, you lean over her, moaning into her mouth as your tits bounce and one leaks directly onto her throat. an accident that makes her whole body jerk like she’s been tased, clawing at your hips. she doesn’t think, doesn’t speak, just breathes heavily, letting out a strangled, wet “uhnngh—” that sounds like her soul leaving her body and something else taking over—a succubus, perhaps.

she’s already close when you grope your own chest, milk spilling over your fingers as it drips slowly down your wrist. that’s what truly breaks her. she whimpers like a kicked dog, rocking up into you, desperate, mindless rolls of jerky hips while she pants through a red face and damp mouth, “fuck—baby, you’re dripping. m’gonna cum—don’t stop—keep making a mess, fuckfuckfuck—”

౨ৎ googles “is it safe to breastfeed your wife” after accidentally licking your nipple clean earlier with the brightness all the way down. blueprint forever ruined.

౨ৎ genuinely starts tweaking when your tits leak through shirts and tank tops. even buries her face between them, motorboating you, greedy hands everywhere, mouth trailing down between your thighs, not giving two shits if you’re moaning into the baby monitor or how many times you try to push her head away. “she won’t remember this. shut up and take it.”

౨ৎ conveniently starts wearing a strap under her clothes like it’s a uniform. when the baby is finally out cold, she sneaks up behind you and starts palming you real slow, intentions clear in the greediness of her palms. “could just slide it in real quick. five minutes, tops—two if you’re loud.” if you try to protest, she has her answer ready. “hey, m’not tryna force it, baby, just sayin’. you’re dripping. math is mathing again.”

౨ৎ sends you texts from across the room while your family is over to see the baby.

“your tits look heavy. come sit on my face after they leave.” “leak on me and i’ll build you another kid.”

when you look at her, she’s pretending to listen to whatever your aunt is saying about swaddling techniques, nodding and smiling all politely, while your phone lights up again in your lap like she’s not two feet away, acting completely normal.

౨ৎ gets ridiculously turned on when you whine “my tits hurt,” pacing around the house in one of her tanks while it slowly soaks through at the nipple. eyeing you from the couch, manspreading, she offers to help relieve the pressure with her mouth like it’s a public service, hoping the throbbing in her sweats will disappear if she lets her intrusive thoughts win. “that sucks, babe… do you want… me to, uhh… do something about it…?”

౨ৎ starts pulling little tricks. it always begins with an innocent shoulder massage, hands working the knots out of your tense muscles before her fingers disappear under the hem of your shirt when you’re most distracted. “i just wanna feel you,” she’ll claim before pulling your nursing bra down in one quick tug, pretending to be shocked when you leak. “oh nooo. oops.” the proud little smirk that follows genuinely makes you want to split her skull in half.

౨ৎ you find a folder on her phone named “ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏᴍɪʟᴋᴇʀs” and it’s just videos of you leaking through your shirts or nipple play.

her search history is worse, though.

⌕ “lactation kink + pornhub”

⌕ “is it normal to nut from taste of breastmilk reddit” 

⌕ “wifey boob.fullplease help”

⌕ “www.betterhelp.com”

the kinkshaming goes crazy. “the fuck are you on. it’s not a kink, it’s just objectively hot. and you leaked on me last night, so that’s on you.” she’s just devoted like that. how dare you kinkshame your wife for worshipping you.

౨ৎ drags you into the backseat after grocery shopping and fucks you there with the diaper bag half-open beside you, its contents spilling out haphazardly. in broad daylight, in a walmart parking lot. the two car window sunshades barely hiding your naked lower half, your pants bunched around your ankles, shoes still firmly in place like shackles. her fingers plunging deep into your dripping pussy, her mouth stealing every moan from you. all because she couldn’t wait until nightfall, when the baby would finally surrender to a sweet slumber.

౨ৎ can’t sleep unless her hand is under your shirt and cupping one leaking tit. tries to be chill about it but whimpers a little every time you shift away ;((

౨ৎ goes through real grief when you stop lactating, wandering around the house sighing like a tormented spirit that never found the light, “miss ’em heavy.” she’s mourning</3

౨ৎ talks to your daughter like she’s an adult who just happens to be gnome-sized.

౨ৎ lets her “help” with everything, even if it makes the task ten times longer. even if it includes your kid handing her socks one by one while she’s folding laundry. even if your baby is just standing on a chair stirring absolutely nothing in her bowl. ellie never rushes her nor complains ‘cause—“we’re doing it together, that’s the whole point.”

౨ৎ never misses bedtime routine. she reads the same damn book every single night because your daughter insists and ellie reads the same lines she read the night before with the same excitement in her tone, switching between all the voices anyway, even when she’s exhausted. and if you dare suggest skipping a page or skipping reading before bed, ellie gives you a look, as if you’d just suggested abandoning your child in the woods with no water, no food, no caretakers. she’s a dedicated mom and you couldn’t be more proud.

౨ৎ lets your kid sit on the counter while she cooks. “this is garlic… it smells insane—don’t touch it,” she warns gently as the toddler’s finger wanders toward it, eager to poke it. when she touches it, ellie simply sighs but doesn’t get mad. “okay. now you know.”

౨ৎ tries to get the kid to say “mah-mah” again, but the first word that comes out of her mouth is a very firm “noh.” ellie bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh in the baby’s face. “strong boundaries. we love to see it.” later on, she tries again, crouching in front of the little gremlin and tapping her own chest. “say… love you. loh-ve you,” the kid squints, thinking very hard, then proudly produces a clumsy “wah-yoo.” ellie grins like she just won the lottery, her heart practically bursting. “yeah. wah-yoo too, kiddo.”

౨ৎ becomes the kid’s personal elevator. every five minutes, the toddler waddles up to her on unsure feet, arms stretched straight up, bouncing like a little spring because she barely knows how to walk yet. “UHP! EH-YEE!” (a gibberish version of her name) ellie sighs like she’s completely exhausted with the life she chose, but bends down to scoop her up anyway. “yeah yeah, uhp. i gotchu, bug.”

౨ৎ accidentally teaches her sarcasm before manners. you’ll hear your toddler drop her toy and dramatically exclaim, “oh great!” ellie grins proudly at you from across the kitchen. “what? she used it correctly.” she’s ellie’s daughter.

౨ৎ is weirdly gentle about scraped knees. you’ve never seen her panic over your daughter tripping or getting small cuts. instead, she’ll crouch down, inspect it like a professional and blow on it after disinfecting it. “okay. that sucks, i know, bug.” she applies my little pony band-aids and kisses all her boo-boos. done. that’s it. the kid immediately stops crying.

౨ৎ saves every drawing your daughter makes. every scribble, every half-ripped, crumpled piece of misunderstood art. you always find them tucked into her sketchbook, her wallet, or even her jacket pockets—the latter usually discovered after you’ve shoved the jacket into the washing machine and the drawing comes out soggy and ruined. when you ask why she feels the urge to collect them all like pokémon cards, she’ll say: “they’re important.”

౨ৎ teaches her music early. hands her headphones that are way too big for her head and lets her pluck the strings on her guitar. she nods proudly and pretends it sounds good. “you’ve got rhythm, peanut.”

౨ৎ never says “because i said so.” ever. because she doesn’t want to be like her dad. she’d rather overexplain everything, even when she’s tired as hell. 

౨ৎ packs her lunch every damn morning before kindergarten. sandwiches with little faces, tiny cupcakes ellie bakes just for her, star-shaped pieces of fruit she meticulously cuts with tiny cookie cutters.

౨ৎ gives her adult reassurance in tiny doses. “hey peanut, it’s okay to be bad at things. that’s how you get good.” it makes you wanna rip your hair out. in a good way.

౨ৎ lets your kid tattoo her or color over her already existing tattoos with washable markers, then forgets to wash them off before going out.

౨ৎ teaches her that asking for help is normal by doing it herself. now, she’s the first to hate relying on other people, but she wants to set an example. “hey babybug, help me open this?” your daughter beams, a gummy smile with barely a few teeth on display and uses all her strength. ellie thanks her like she just saved her life, boosting her tiny confidence straight through the roof.

౨ৎ has a secret handshake with her that changes weekly (mostly because your daughter keeps forgetting it) and no one else is allowed to learn it.

౨ৎ goes insanely overboard for the kid’s third christmas. sometime after midnight, you wake up to noises in the living room, only to find ellie crouched on the floor with a bag of flour, making tiny snowy footprints across the floor from the window to the tree, like santa broke in like a cheap burglar and walked around the house. she even takes one of your boots and lightly stamps it in the flour to make it look ““realistic.”” when your toddler wakes up in the morning and waddles into the living room, she freezes in awe and points at the floor excitedly, “sah-nah! sah-nah he come! mama, look!” big, dreamy green eyes look up at you, tugging at your pajama pants, “he WALK!” and ellie’s standing behind you trying so hard not to laugh, shoulders shaking, covering her mouth as she nudges you gently in the ribs, “holy shit. it actually worked.”

౨ৎ gets two bouquets on valentine’s day, one for each of her fav girls. your toddler’s is mainly a tiny bundle of plush flowers tied with a pink ribbon, a little rainbow dash tucked in the middle because ellie knows it’s her favorite pony. yours, meanwhile, is an absurdly massive bouquet that barely fits through the door or into a vase. roses, peonies, every fucking flower she was able to find in the store. when you raise a brow at her, she goes, “she’s my valentine,” she nods toward the gnome-sized, freckled mess of a kid proudly clutching rainbow dash and zooming around the living room. “but you’re my wife. there are levels.”

౨ৎ keeps snacks in every pocket of every hoodie for every eventuality. when your toddler asks for one, ellie pretends to be surprised every time she happens to find snickers tucked in her pockets. “woah! how did that get there?” your kid genuinely thinks ellie is a magician.

౨ৎ thanks your daughter for the smallest things, it’s either “thank you for trying,” or “thank you for telling me.”

౨ৎ on nights your toddler falls asleep between you, ellie brushes your hair out of your face and mumbles “you’re such a good mom,” eyes full of pride, gratitude making her heart throb.

౨ৎ becomes that parent with the camera roll. your phone has maybe ten photos of the baby. ellie’s has thousands. blurry ones, mid-yawn ones, ones where the kid’s just staring at nothing like a confused potato with not a single thought behind her irises. at some point, it genuinely starts to feel like she’s documenting a rare species.

౨ৎ sets one of her favorite girls as her lockscreen: your kid asleep on your chest, drooling on your shoulder and her tiny hand clutching your shirt.

౨ৎ loves motherhood far more than she ever expected, but more than anything, she loves seeing you round, glowing, growing an entire human inside you. she loves the ugly parts of it, too—the stress, the anxiety, the sleepless nights, the excitement that sits in her chest like it might burst into tiny sparks, but would you want to go through it again the way she would?

you’ve been out with friends all day when she finally finds the courage to bring it up. funny enough, they’d just had a baby. a newborn. ellie had held him for a while, rocking him gently while he fussed, nose pressed to the crown of his head, which smelled faintly like cinnamon. it made her chest ache with nostalgia, holding something that tiny again, she realized she missed it.

it comes up later at home, while you’re both getting ready for bed. “what if she had a sibling,” ellie mumbles suddenly, after spitting toothpaste into the sink, looking at you through the mirror while you brush your teeth, shoulders bumping together. “like, one that’s just as annoying. that’d be kinda cute, right?”

“you mean another baby?” you question, already clocking the look on her face, watching her slide the hair tie off her wrist and gather her hair into a messy, low bun.

she hums casually, “one more can’t hurt.” for a second, you think she’s talking about gummy bears.

“i dunno. we already have our hands full, el.” you sigh. “babies take a lot of time—we barely survived the first one.”

she shrugs, already committed to the idea, determined to put the idea into your head. “you’ve already been pregnant once... what’s one more?”

you don’t answer. you just leave the bathroom and crawl under the comfort of your blankets, hoping silence will kill the conversation, but nothing ever dies with her. she’s sliding into bed a second later, scooting closer like a clingy koala. “we already have one kid,” she continues, “might as well go for the dlc.”

“dlc is crazy,” you smile despite yourself, “go to sleep.”

“huh. g’night, ma.” she presses a kiss to your shoulder when you turn into her arms, facing the wall. “...sleep on it, though.”

divider creds @/cursed-carmine!!