a spy in the house of love

Like fellating the gardener who visits your house every two weeks to trim the shrubs and make sly peeks at the plentiful helpings of attractive young women walking through the lawn every ten minutes or so. He has hay colored hair and a pompous demeanor that more than makes up for the fact that you don’t even know his name.

You let the picture fill your mind, restlessly awaiting the lurch in your belly that notifies you you’re sufficiently turned on. But it never comes, so you knock the thought out of your head with a harsh shake.

Then, you imagine sucking the nipples of the TA from your previous semester’s philosophy course. She was a redhead with the cutest dimples you’d ever seen, and, if memory serves you right, the only interesting thing about that class. You are nearly certain this will be the thing to get you off (it surely did countless times last semester), but your body feels just as it did minutes before: frustrated, antsy, and so very sore.

If you were to put a mirror in front of your vagina and inspect it from above, you’d likely find it to look as though it had been flattened repeatedly under the wheel of an F-150. You rub a cautious finger over your clit only to find that the bud is almost numb and begging for you to give her a fucking break.

So, you do. You throw your vibrator toward the foot of the bed and yank your pants back over your hips in defeat, ignoring the sensation of your juices smearing over your inner thighs and leaking down the crack of your ass.

For a moment, you consider slamming your head against your headboard or letting your body roll off of your bed and onto the floor. Just to feel something, or maybe just because.

You’re asleep for maybe twenty five minutes before a quintet of knocks at your door wakes you. When you swing your legs over the edge of your bed, you have to kick your feet around for a second in search of your slippers.

The early morning sun is trying its damndest to peer through the thickness of your curtains. Though, just enough light shines through for you to take a glance at yourself in your floor length mirror and see the glaring wet spot staining the crotch of your pants. You grab a silk Victoria’s Secret robe and cover yourself in it just before opening the door.

It’s Kingston, the girl who lives just down the hall and has a penchant for making her early risings your problem. “I’m totally late for the gym, and I can’t find my deodorant. Do you have a spray on I can use? Pretty, pretty please?”

The words shoot out of her mouth so fast you hardly have time to process her request. You’re only nodding to make the noise stop.

You allow her in to get what she needs, and the vanilla scent tinging her skin spreads through your room like fungal spores. Her brown eyes are wholly alert, almost as if they’ve been surgically peeled back. It never fails to amaze you how awake someone can be before 6:30 in the morning.

She deodorizes her armpits before you can even make niceties and skips out of your room with a chirpy, “Thanks, see you at brunch later!” without shutting the door behind her.

A recently bought dress stares at you from the purchase of your closet door. You had completely forgotten your sorority’s brunch.

***

Your plate is covered in a hearty helping of french toast and apple slices, a dollop of yogurt, and one omelette. You’re surrounded by about seventy of your sisters, all dressed in white, all talking in place of eating.

An occasional cloud dots the sky, but other than that, the sun has a crystal clear view of Phi Mu’s All White Brunch. About thirtysomething small circular, white tables fill the sunny space of your backyard.

Your yogurt disappears after about two spoonfuls down your throat, and your apple slices don’t stand a chance for much longer. You skewer some elaborately on your fork before practically inhaling them.

Sitting to your left is a girl named Parker, whose entire vocabulary seems to be ripped straight from a social media comment section. “Ugh, I’m scared to even touch any of this,” She says at a volume that makes it unclear if she’s talking to herself or your entire table. “My back is gonna be soooo big later.”

You look down at her modest helping of potato wedges and egg salad. “I think you should just eat your food.” The small smile you lend her afterward is only to signal that you meant it in the kindest way.

To your right is Leila Hanamichi, your sorority’s president—a picture of grace as she demurely sips her grapefruit juice through a paper straw. She is having a rather animated conversation with the girl to her right, about plans for an upcoming party. Something about exchanging numbers and ‘making sure things go smoothly’. Whatever that means, you don't spend much time pondering it as you dig into your omelette.

Then, Leila turns to you.

Still stabbing into your food, you don’t notice her until she chirps, “Hi!” Your name rolls off her tongue, albeit unsurely. It doesn’t offend you. “Oooh, french toast! Delicious. I’ll have to grab some in a bit.” It’s clear she’s attempting to make friendly conversation, so you indulge.

“Oh, yeah, it is really good.” You say, despite not having had a single bite yet.

Her voice lowers to a soft whisper. “Do you think we could talk later? Before we all take pictures?” Almost as if she can hear the quickening of your heart, she follows up with, “Don’t worry, it isn’t anything bad. I just need a small favor from you.”

“Right,” you say, slowly processing her words. “okay.”

She gives you a brief squeeze on your hand. “Perfect.”

After brunch, just before you were all due to have your group photo taken, Leila led you into the empty living room of your sorority house.

“Now,” she says as she guides you into a pacing rhythm across the living room floor. “You know that Theta party that’s coming up?”

You nod with a soft hum.

“Well, it’s been a real hassle for the boys to plan, and they asked for my help. So, I’m—”

Offloading chores onto us to make their load lighter?

That’s not what she says, but it may as well be. At this point, you’d rather her be honest with her motives than sugarcoat it under the guise of purely being helpful.

“I need you to get weed for the party.”

Your poker face doesn’t kick in in enough time for Leila to miss the incredulity on your face. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll Venmo you whatever I need to. And Tucker knows a guy who sells already, so it’ll be easy peasy!”

“If he already knows someone, then why can’t he just buy it himself?”

“Midterms, y’know? He’s been really slumped, and he had to pay for Steve Aoki all by himself, so I just offered and…”

You tune her out without even trying, annoyed that you and your sisters were having to play housemaid to those guys. For a moment, you wonder which one of the Theta boys Leila must be fucking.

***

Do you sell?

???

who’s asking

Me?

do i know you?

Tucker gave me your number.

He told me you did.

ahh, ok

yeah i do

whatu need?

A zip, I think.

I’ve got cash.

cool cool

i can meet u wednesday @ 5

corner of mckinley

behind the old pizza hut

That’s pretty out of the way for me.

Do you know anywhere closer?

u want the shit or not?

Fine. Wednesday at five.

That night, you clean your room as obsessively as ever. Just so you can have control over something.

You pluck every bit of dirty laundry off the floor and separate it into hampers, Windex both mirrors—floor length and vanity—, and clear the empty bottles of water from your nightstand. You clear the rugs and vacuum until the carpet is layered in sleep lines, clean your vibrator under warm water and antibacterial soap in the bathroom, and move any shoes you might’ve kicked off in the path to your bed.

Finally, you take a lysol wipe and polish the framed photo of you and your best friend until the fine covering of dust is gone. For a moment, you lose yourself and you can hear her laugh in your ear as if she’s right next to you. You still have that? she’d say, We look so young.

“I know,” you respond.

It’s the two of you at your high school graduation. Hands around each other’s waists, matching gowns and diplomas. Your smiles light up the photo, her’s especially. 

Her eyes carry the familiar, optimistic gleam of a high school graduate—eager to take the plunge into collegiate adulthood. Only, she doesn’t know she will be dead within a month and a half. Funny how that works. How can someone be here one moment and gone the next?

You finish wiping the photo without even giving it a final look, choosing to instead drown your sorrows in a vigorous workout tape and another round of failed masturbation.

***

The parking lot by McKinley is dimly lit by a couple of blinking lamp posts. Brilliant streaks of orange and pink smear the sky in what looks like a drunken watercolor image. Ellie arrives at 5:13 to find a car is already parked there.

Her primary customers are usually frat guys, nerds who use weed to relax, or nerds who swear weed gives them super-genius brain power. She came across the occasional dad that wanted to relive his teen years and was always stunned by her prices, always commenting, ‘this better be some good skunk for what I’m paying’.

So, she’s uncharacteristically intrigued by the figure stepping out of the white BMW before she can even fully park.

The two of you exit your respective cars at the same time. Ellie, wanting this to be quick, doesn’t even bother shutting off her engine.

She’s pretty

The thought eclipses Ellie’s better judgement, but she is wholly unable to help herself. It’s true. It’s all there in the deep furrow in your brows, the slight crinkle in the bridge of your nose. The anger visible in your eyes should give way to unease, but it only incites embers of newborn curiosity within Ellie. She wants to know how she can soften them.

The headlights of her car illuminate the delicate sheen of sweat on your collarbone and forehead. You look as though you have just worked out. A likely possibility, considering the athletic tank top, jacket, and leggings you’re wearing—all of which accentuate curves Ellie feels a guilty letting her gaze linger on.

Her eyes are just beginning to draw over the bow of your lips when they part to say:

“Do they not teach punctuality at drug dealer school?”

The words are so bluntly absurd that Ellie finds trouble being offended. “What?”

You heave a world weary sigh before rolling your eyes. “You’re, like, fifteen minutes late. I thought I was walking into a sting operation or something.”

She’s surprised at how forthcoming you’re being. Most patrons don't care that she turns up late. Usually, they’re nothing but elated that she showed up at all and are itching to get whatever she has off her hands.

However bizarre your statement may be, Ellie lets it roll off her back with a mirthless laugh. “You’re real prissy for someone buying a whole zip.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for—oh, who cares.” You cut yourself off with another eye roll. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

You step closer to Ellie, fully bathing yourself in the warmth of her headlight. You’re even prettier when she can see you crystal clear.

She extends the package out to you and you take it, reaching into your pocket with your other to retrieve a modest wad of cash. When the exchange is made, your fingertips brush over the heel of her palm. It’s a familiar skin to skin that usually carries no weight, but now makes the hairs on her nape stand at attention.

Against her better judgement, she calls out, “I’m Ellie, by the way.” as you make your way back to your car.

You shoot her a, “Yeah, nice meeting you.” before you disappear behind the deep tint of your windows.

***

Theta parties suck ass—a fact you’re only just fully realizing as a clammy brother shoulders you in the back for probably the third time. You’re still somewhat tipsy from the shots you threw back at the pregame, but not enough to ignore the blatant discomfort of the atmosphere.

Frankly, you’re not even sure why you convinced yourself to come. Something about being a supportive sister and needing to get out of the place where orgasms went to die (your room).

Sufficiently annoyed, you venture from the backyard and into the house where the haze of marijuana smoke and perspiration has transformed the air into a murky abyss. It’s asphyxiating and pungent and it reminds you of Ellie.

It was unlike you to kick yourself for any reason, but you had been for two days over your interaction with her. She seemed nice for the most part, despite how viciously upset you were at her.

Truthfully, her presence intimidated you in an odd way. She was stupidly attractive, so much so that it almost made you angrier at her the moment she stepped out of her car.

A smattering of freckles covered her face. From the crown of her head to the column of her neck, right where the collar of her pitch black hoodie censored any further showings of skin. Her hair was tinged the sweetest flavor of auburn you had ever seen and framed her face perfectly.

And her eyes. You had never felt your body betray you on such a visceral level until you looked into her eyes. They were a bewitching shade of green that sent your heart lurching into your throat.

You could go on and on. Her lips that settled somewhere comfortably between a smirk and a pout. The half a second of contact you made with her hand—a barely there graze you were still reeling from a whole forty eight hours later.

Guilt swells in your chest.

You quickly weave your way through the sea of inebriated bodies until you were behind the door of nearest bathroom.

It’s not exactly the Ritz Carlton, but you’re not there to pee. You retrieve a shooter from your purse and down the thing in a few paced chugs. The guilt is promptly replaced with a delicious burn that your body is more than elated to host.

When you come out, the party’s a lot more bearable. Without even thinking, your hips sway to the rhythm of whatever song is playing, even if normally you’d find it a little repulsive. For a moment, you feel in with everyone else. Not like you’re tiptoeing along the outskirts, awaiting permission that will never be given to you.

That is, until an arm snakes along your shoulders. So confident and sure, as though it’s meant to be there. The touch is accompanied by the scent of cologne so sharp you can taste it.

You choke back a cough as you look up at the person. “This your first time at Theta?” he asks. He’s blond and confident enough in his approach that you can tell he’s been successful in it before.

“Excuse you?” You say, shrugging out from underneath him.

He’s offended as though he’s the one that’s just been unconsensually solicited by a strange drunk man. “Don’t be rude, baby.” He slurs, taking a closer step toward you. “I just wanted to show you around, that’s all.”

You push through the congregation of people until you’re outside. It shocks you how fast you moved in the span of only a second. But it isn't enough to just be outside with more people and music and possibilities of discomfort.

Your feet carry you what feels like miles down the street until you are completely alone on the sidewalk. You find a car parked against the curb park yourself atop the hood.

Occasionally, a gaggle of drunk girls will skip past you, moving from one party to the next. One of them will say, “You’re so pretty!” or “Ohhh, I just love your hair,” or “That’s such a cute dress. Where’s it from?”

While it does lift your spirits just a tad, you cannot help the feeling nagging at you within. The feeling that you don’t belong here, or anywhere at all. If you could shake that feeling at all, maybe you would have joined those girls at the next party.

You look down at your dress and fix its hem just a tad. It’s a white, strapless number that flows freely around the tops of your thighs. It’s a shame you had to waste it on a night like this.

A soft ahem cuts through the silence, and you snap your neck toward the noise. Behind you is Ellie, walking slowly toward the car you’re sitting on as if she’s approaching a wild tiger.

“Ellie?” It’s the first time her name has ever left your lips, and it feels wonderfully foreign rolling off the tongue. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was at the Theta party and—”

“You were at the Theta party?” You’re unable to stop yourself from interrupting her, try as you might. “Sorry, continue.”

Ellie chuckles. “Friend invited me.” She explains. “Anyway, I saw you running out and thought I’d check on you.”

“Oh,” Your lips quirk up in what’s sort of a smile. “Well, thank you, but I’m fine. Really, I am.”

At that, Ellie raises her hands in surrender before walking closer to you with a more relaxed gait than before. She sits next to you on the hood of the car at a more than respectable distance. You highlight that part because you count the inches you are apart (five) and feel the urge to scoot closer to her.

“I never got your name,” She says. You can smell her from here. A twisted mix of mahogany and vanilla. It’s deep and sweet at the same time. You look toward her, slow and cautious, trying not to drink too much of her in at once.

She’s wearing a shortsleeved black band T-shirt that showcases the subtle definitions in her freckled arms. As well as the vague, inky patterns of a tattoo that travels from her elbow to her wrist.

“Figured you could at least tell me that. Since we’re exchanging pleasantries on top of my car and stuff.”

Your sadness is quickly eclipsed by embarassment when you look down to ee that you are, in fact, siting atop the hood of Ellie’s black Chevy sedan.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” You move to get up, but her hand reaches out to stop you.

Still, though, she isn’t touching you. Her fingertips only graze the fabric of your dress. “No need,”

“Why? Are you enjoying your time with me or something?”

“Oh, yeah,” She smiles, “Lot more fun than my time at drug dealer school.”

Your forehead falls into your palm. You’re not entirely shocked she would bring that up now, but that doesn't take away the embarrassment of having said it. “I’m—” You cut yourself off, feeling as though a plain sorry is insufficient.

“It’s okay.” Her voice drops to a lower register, like she’s trying to whisper it into the shared space between you. Even though the street is virtually deserted now. “Next time we meet, I’ll be perfectly on time.”

Hope tinges your voice. “Really?” You ask, even though Leila and Tucker will have to pay your remaining tuition balance before you buy drugs for them ever again.

You whisper your name and hope Ellie catches it before it disappears into the inky black night. She does. And she repeats it, trying it out on her tongue a couple of times. The sound sends waves of warmth rolling down your body.

Ellie moves her hand away from your dress and you feel cold without it there. She runs her palms over the denim of her jeans, and you begin to think she’s ridding herself of you bit by bit. That is, until she heaves a breath and asks, “Wanna go for a drive?”

***

Ellie’s car is a separate embodiment of her. When you slide into the passenger seat, you’re bombarded with the scent of her, multiplied by about fifty. She cranks the engine to life, and an Oasis song stirs from the radio. It’s one you recognize from an episode of The OC you watched ages ago.

You jam your seatbelt into place, pull down the passenger side visor to take a quick look at yourself. Your makeup doesn’t look horrible. A little smudged around the eyes, but it adds to the spontaneity you feel. You catch Ellie’s gaze through your peripheral vision. “Sorry,” You say, folding the visor back up. “Am I touching too many things?”

“No,” Ellie says, her tone light. She puts her seatbelt on and pulls the belt so it’s pressed under back instead of against her chest. “Touch whatever you want.”

You open her glove department and peek in before turning an overhead light on and off. Then, after a second of shallow deliberation, you poke your index finger gently into Ellie’s bicep. It’s a feeble attempt at humor that makes you immediately bury your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” You say, even though Ellie’s giggling silently under her breath. “I was, like, trying to be funny, and I’m not very good at it. That’s my fault.”

Ellie heaves one more boisterous laugh as the car drives down the road. “I’m a little drunk, too,” You say, the speed of the car making your body feel light as a feather. “Sorry.”

“Stop that.” She replies.

“Stop what?”

“Apologizing for shit,” She’s a vision as she maneuvers a smooth turn with just one hand, the other finding purchase on the back of your headrest. The contact moves her just barely an inch closer to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an unbecoming sound.

“It’s okay.” Ellie’s voice breaks through your reverie. “There’s a joke book in the console. If you ever wanna be as funny as me one day.”

“Really? You haven’t made me laugh yet.” Hesitantly, you pull the little book from her center console and flip to a random page. “Why do mushrooms get invited to all the parties?”

“Hm,” Ellie hums as she comes to a stop light. The blare of red does something to her beautifully concentrated face that is almost trance-like. “I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Because they’re such fungis.”

“Oh-ho!” She chortles, a full belly laugh, as if the joke was that funny. “I hadn’t heard that one before.”

“Looks like I’m the one that’s making you laugh.”

“Hey, don’t rush greatness.”

Silence purges the air for a moment, giving way to the guilt that still lingers in your chest. You glance at her focused face, your gaze drawing over the furrow in between her brows. It feels wrong to be enjoying her so much after how cruel you were.

Your voice is a squeak over the music. “I know you told me to stop apologizing for shit,”

“Then, why does it feel like you’re about to?” Ellie says, the sentence scored with a throaty chuckle.

Despite yourself, you smile. Somehow, she manages to make the hardest thing in the world (apologizing) just a little easier.

“Because, I really am sorry about the other day. I…” have been going through a hard time for the past two years. “…was having a bad day, and I took it out on you. I’m…” You want to finish with, not usually like that, but you are unsure if that’s completely true. Instead, you just say, “…sorry.”

“Can I be honest with you?” She inquires earnestly, whilst also seeming wholly unmoved by your apology.

Whatever she is about to say, you’re not sure you’re ready to hear it. Still you hum, “Mhm.”

“I think you take yourself way too seriously.” She says it lowly and a little fearfully, as if she’s trying to convey bad news in a soft way. “It’s okay to chill every now and then.”

“I am chill sometimes!” You erupt without meaning to, moving from the comfort of your seat and fully turning to face her. “I am,” you repeat in a softer register, only after proving her point.

“No, you’re not. I mean, even in your texts, you sound like a fed.” The statement is so jarringly and absurdly sincere that you can’t even bring yourself to be offended. Instead, you laugh so hard for so long that stitches cut up your sides. Ellie continues, “Who texts someone, do you sell? Like, okay. Good morning to you too, officer.”

She’s so right, you think. You are incredibly hard on yourself. You do think about yourself much more than any twenty year old girl ought to. It’s been an issue for so long that you’ve began to see it as a fact of life.

“It’s not intentional.” You say. Leftover giggles thread through your words. “I’m a very no-nonsense sort of person.”

“Life is all about balance. I think you can fit a little nonsense in.”

“Alright, o wise one.” God, this girl was all sorts of bad for you. You’re joking with the sole purpose of making her laugh and saying things like o wise one completely unironically. “Where do you suggest I start?”

There’s a mild timidness to her voice when she asks, “You ever smoke weed?” as if she’s heavily anticipating your response. Maybe, to her, you don’t look like the type to smoke. Hell, twenty four hours ago, you probably would have thought the same of yourself, too.

Your answer, though, is short and long. Yes and no. You had definitely hit a joint in an effort to impress some stoner boys in the ninth grade. And from what you could recall two years prior, you quite enjoyed the lack of inhibition that accompanied a fifty milligram edible.

“Not really,” you end up saying to Ellie. “Why?”

“‘Cause, you’re going to tonight. And you’re gonna like it.”

There’s something about the finality in her voice that makes you explode on the inside. Her telling you what you will do and what you will like without any room for dissent invokes a swell of warmth through your body. It spikes behind your ears, in your chest, right in between your thighs where you’re beginning to need her the most.

Still, you tease, “What makes you so sure?”

“I’m the o wise one, remember?” She parakeets your words from earlier, and you swat playfully in her direction. “Just trust me. Can you do that?”

Mhm, you ache to say, I can do whatever you want me to do.

You just say yes instead.

“Atta girl.”

***

Ellie drives to the old parking lot on McKinley, where the two of you met just days ago. You conclude to yourself that this spot holds some comfortability for her; whether it be for its vacant nature of vast amount of space.

It’s different from Wednesday, though. The place is blanketed in darkness, only dimly brightened by faraway amalgamations of stars and those same twinkling lamp posts.

Ellie rolls a blunt with all the finesse and care of someone performing surgery. After sprinkling and dispersing the weed over crisp rolling paper, she appraises it for a while. You stare at it too, though you’re not sure what it is you’re supposed to be looking for.

Then, Ellie darts her tongue out to wet along the hem of the paper.

It’s a methodical motion that feels like it lasts forever. You definitely want it to. You don’t even hide the way your eyes drink in the pink muscle. So full, so wet, you want to suck it into your mouth and caress it with your own, over and over again.

“Based on our first interaction, I wouldn’t have expected you to be much of a partying type.” She hypothesizes, pulling a lighter out of her jean’s front pocket and sparking the blunt to life. Graceful tendrils of smoke fill the air like tiny dancers.

“It’s on and off,” You say, watching the gentle purse of Ellie’s lips as hits it once. “Theta parties, not really. Phi Psi is usually fun, though.”

“Yeah?” She asks even though you’re positive half of what you’re saying sounds like gibberish by now.

“Yeah. They play good music, and they serve real alcohol. If I have to try and get drunk off another beer I might kill myself.”

Ellie hums a soft, throaty chuckle, and you feel as though you have hit the lottery. But, like any gambler, it isn’t good enough to win once. You want to do it again and again and again until you touch that ever elusive state of euphoria.

Dopamine rushes through your brain so turbulently that you don’t even feel nervous when she passes the blunt to you. You put it to your lips and suck for only a second. Just long enough to keep you from falling into a coughing fit.

When you breathe it in, it spreads throughout your body real slow and warm. Like you’re sinking into a bubble bath. You blow it out, and surprisingly only cough once.

“Anyway, yeah, they’re usually a good time.” You repeat the process, subconsciously uncrossing your legs. “You should come to their next one. It’s for St. Patrick’s Day.”

Stray light from a lamp post catches a portion of Ellie’s face perfectly. One of her eyes, the smooth valley of her cheekbone, that flash of auburn at her hairline.

“See, thing is, I’m not really much of the partying type.”

The sting of rejection feels unnatural to you. “It’ll be fun, though. The theme is Nothing but Green. You could, like, sell some of your weed there. I don’t know, is that allowed?”

You go to hit the blunt a third time, but are interrupted when Ellie deals a prompt pinch to your arm. It commands your attention without being altogether painful. You let yourself imagine how it would feel for her to pinch your nipples. Would she start off more gentle than that? Would she do it harder if you asked her to?

“Don’t do that shit,” She says, summoning the blunt from your hand.

“What?”

“Puff puff, pass.” She faux demonstrates. “All the time, every time. Golden rule.”

“Got it,” You nod. “Puff puff, pass.”

You are not sure if this teaching moment embarrasses you or turns you on. Perhaps it does both at once. Maybe, the fact that you’re embarrassed turns you on. Or the fact that you’re turned on embarrasses you.

“When will it start to kick in?” You mumble, entranced by the sight of smoke leaving Ellie’s lips and dispersing into the air.

“You said you don’t really smoke, right?” You nod. “Then, probably around now.”

Ellie hits the blunt again, a longer one this time. She lets the smoke come out of her mouth and nose in some entrancing trick of magic.

“Mmm,” She hums, brows furrowing in inquisition. “Your lip gloss is all over it.”

You’re so turned on you don’t even notice how you nearly grit your teeth to the point of stubs. “I’m sorry,” You whisper. It’s all you can say.

“Don’t be.” She reassures you, her voice taking on a more authoritative tone. It’s clear she’s the teacher to your pupil. “‘S just got a little bit of your taste on it now, that’s all.”

“What do I taste like?”

The words leave your mouth before you can even assess them properly. Strangely enough, you do not care to. It’s freeing to not have to think about anything.

Ellie licks her lips—slow and pensive, the way someone would if they were in deep thought. But she isn’t. She’s just trying to get an accurate appraisal of your flavor before it dissolves in her mouth.

She tasting me, you think. I’m all over her tongue right now.

“Peaches.” She decides after a moment. “Like the kind they make in Georgia, y’know. Fresh. Sweet.” Ellie softly smacks her tongue against the roof of her mouth a couple times. A slow, deep gulp from her follows. “Pure.”

You feel anything but. There’s nothing pure about the way you feel right now, or the things you want Ellie to do to you.

Your mind is mangled by desire, but the usual bashfulness around it completely disappears under the weed’s influence. If she asked you right now (What do you wanna do?) you would answer with full sincerity (I want to sit on your lap, and grind against your thigh until I cum. Then, I want to do it again and again and again and again and…)

Arousal begins to drip out of you at a sedated pace, rendering your panties a sticky mess.

“That’s really sweet of you, Ellie.” You smile. “You’re really sweet.”

“Yeah,” You know you aren't hesitating when you feel her gaze ride over you in a slow, long once over. Individual hairs on your body point up under her stare. It smooths up your calves but pays extra care to the buttery softness of your thighs.

When your four eyes meet, Ellie knows that you know she was just ogling you. But she doesn't care. She doesn’t even afford you the politeness of looking away, flustered at having been caught. She isn’t embarrassed of wanting you. You just wish she would take you already. Instead, she just says, “You’re not too bad yourself.”

When the blunt has been smoked down to basically nothing (a roach, Ellie calls it) your limbs feel like big hackysack bags, and your heart is beating maybe twenty times per minute.

You use an inordinate amount of strength turning your body towards Ellie. She’s began fiddling with the aux on her radio, flipping back and forth through songs in search of what she deems perfect.

Despite being a little out of your sound mind, you cannot fight the desire you have for her to fuck you anyway. You hope that by the time you get out of her car, the evidence of your want has soaked through your panties and into the suede passenger seat, leaving a little piece of you behind for her.

Ellie calls your name just as she’s picked what she deems the perfect song—Mac Miller’s Skin. She relaxes in her seat, narrowing her eyes on you and whispering, “You feelin’ alright?”

“Mmmhhmm,” You hum, soft and content. “Does it always feel this good?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” The low rumble of her voice softens your chest like hot tea. “Helps when you have someone to shoot the shit with.”

“Am I a good… shit shooter?” You ask, though not a hundred percent certain you’re even saying the right words.

“Not bad for your first time.”

Ellie drops you off in front of the Phi Mu house not too long after. You slink out of her car just as the clock strikes 2:53 in the morning. “Thank you, Ellie,” You say through open passenger side window. “I had fun.”

“So did I.” She says. Then, after a moment of tensed staring, “Will you text me whenever you get settled in? I don't want you bumping your head or anything.”

“Okay,” You grin. “Drive safe.”

You turn away and begin walking to the door, only looking back once you’re a few paces away from her car. Ellie watches you the whole way up.

***

You slump against your bedroom door, pushing it closed with a loud thud. The space is so dark you can’t even see your own palm in front of your face. You don’t care. You kick your boots and socks off before shoving your panties down to your ankles.

Your spine goes soft at the first brush of your fingertips against your pussy lips. You spread yourself open, exposing your clit to the stiff chill of your bedroom. A soft hiss escapes your lips as you take a finger and dip it into the cleft of your hole, collecting a gush of your slick, before lathering it over your cunt. Wetting the softness of your clit and labia minora.

“Ellie,” You whine as those first few embers of goose flesh prickle over your skin. If you focus just enough, you can still smell the deep scent of her lingering against your skin. If you close your eyes, you can imagine she’s right in front of you, egging you along.

You couldn’t even make it to the fucking bed, she’d murmur into your lips, her breath fanning over tongue. The thought of her seeing you so vulnerable makes you rub your clit in a steadier rhythm.

“No,” you mewl, “I couldn’t.” Already, you feel that pull behind your navel that tells you you’re gonna cum soon. You’ve never gotten so close so fast before and the shock of it has you whining.

Is this what you were thinking about the whole time? You nod so hard that you bump your head against the door. ‘Cause I could’ve given it to you. All you had to do was ask.

That sends you over the edge. You come apart with a sharp gasp that tears through your throat. Your teeth lock together in an attempt to stop any further sounds from escaping, but you can’t help the desperate sob that comes with the relief of your orgasm.

Don’t stop, you hear Ellie’s voice say again, and your hunger is back as though it never left. Your middle and ring fingers return to your clit like reunited lovers.

“Please,” You breathe out. You’re scared of the fire erupting inside you. You’re scared that you won’t be able to stop now that it’s started.

Answer me, Ellie says, is this what you wanted?

“Yes,” you confess in a short grunt. You didn’t care that you were too high to hold your head up straight. You didn’t care that you wouldn’t be able to fight her off even if you wanted to. You just needed her so bad it made everything else seem foolish. “I wanted it so bad.”

Yeah? Her voice is so taunting it almost feels humiliating. Wanted me to reach over and lift your dress up?

“Mhmhmhmhm,”

Wanted me to play with your pussy?

“I did, I did, I did,” You pant, moving your fingers off your clit and dipping them into your sopping hole. The stretch sates you, though you have to imagine your fingers as Ellie’s just to tame that fire burning in your gut. A prurient chorus of wet sounds fill the air.

While you fuck yourself, you grind your clit against the heel of your palm, hungry for as much stimulation as your pussy can take.

Look at how wet you are for me, Ellie taunts, and I’m not even fucking here.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you so quickly, you have to clamp down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming Ellie’s name into the pitch black air. Your cunt flutters around your fingers as you ride it out.

As you begin to come down, your knees buckle together and you tumble onto the floor. You’re totally spent by this point—toes crinkling in aftershock, legs completely liquefied, heart hammering through your ears.

The scent of carpet deodorizer makes you sneeze but keeps you from knocking out on the floor. You pat around the floor for your purse, hastily retrieving your phone to text Ellie.

All settled in :)

Your text is read, and about a minute later, telltale typing bubbles pop up on her end of the screen.

goodddd

take it easy tomorrow

***

The next couple of weeks are punctuated by texts. For days after your first rendezvous, you weren’t sure if you should be the one to text first or vice versa.

Then, you were heading to your car after the end of a midday class when your phone pinged twice.

there were peaches at the dining hall td

ate one and thought of u

You responded quickly after skipping the rest of the way to your car.

Wowww

How were they?

Five minutes pass, and your heart is on edge for all of them.

nice i guess

not as good as the real thing

From then, you don’t feel so apprehensive texting her first or at all. Coming up with the most perfectly cool-sounding thing to say does leave your stomach in knots the first couple of times, but you get over it soon enough when you read whatever she sends back.

While picking up a study book at Barnes & Noble, you convince yourself to get one of those joke books on the next aisle over. You purchase it quickly so that you have no time to regret it. When you make it to your car, you send a picture of it to Ellie.

Picked this up at the bookstore.

Gonna be just like you lols

oh yeah?

spit me smth

Why don’t melons get married?

mmmm

i don’t know

tell me

Because they cantaloupe.

lmaooo

that’s a good one

i’m proud of you

Better step your game up!

At night, when you’re in the midst of sleep, three pings would startle you awake, only to be promptly delighted when you process Ellie’s name attached to them.

u up?

sorry that sounded weird

couldn’t sleep thought i’d text u

Lol. Nothing better to do?

woahh ur awake

You woke me!

Are you alright?

yeahhh

just up thinking i guess

About what?

What you’re gonna wear to the NBG party?

very funny peach

The three words on your phone nearly burn your eyes. Your chest floods with a surge of ecstasy as you process the nickname she’s given you. You read the message about seven times over, your smile stretching bigger each time, imagining the words leaving Ellie’s mouth exactly as they’re written. You’re about to read it again when a new message springs forth.

you really want me to come?

You’re the only person I want there

***

Ellie sighs as she places her cards in the center of the coffee table.

It’s one of relief and anticipation—she can finally pick her phone back up and see what texts have materialized on your side of the screen.

“One three.” Jesse says, placing his cards down to the right of her.

Dina follows excitedly after. “Two fours.”

She can barely get the words out of her mouth before Jesse is declaring, “Bullshit,”

She scoffs and pulls the pile of cards at the table into her own deck.

While this is happening, Ellie is silently swooning over a photo you’ve just sent her—posed in front of your bedroom mirror, clad in a blush-pink athletic jacket and breathy white tennis skirt. Your eyes are just the tiniest bit softer, and Ellie swears she can see a kaleidoscope of emotion threatening to burst through your irises.

She’s not even sure if you’re trying to, but you look perfect. You always do. On the day the two of you met. On the night of the Theta party. On those Instagram stories Ellie isn’t sure if she’s supposed to heart or not (though, she always ends up doing so after an embarrassing amount of deliberation).

Fit check before my run later.

She’s about to respond when Dina’s voice sifts through the chaos of her thoughts. “Ellie,” She calls, “It’s your turn.”

Ellie diverts her attention back to her hand of cards. “One five.” She quickly lies, sliding it toward the center of the table, faced down.

She surveys the caption of words under your photo, swiftly and carefully preparing words of her own to send. love it peach, Ellie types. Then, once she’s gathered the confidence, lol run to my place.

Butterflies run fretful laps around her stomach as she awaits your response. Ellie presses her eyes closed for a moment, but only sees your smile twinkling behind the lids. She goes to worry her bottom lip between her teeth, hoping to find remnants of your taste still there, like some sort of perverted scratch and sniff.

“Three sixes.” Jesse announces, no doubt present in his voice.

“Bullshit,” says Dina, just as confident, “I’ve got all the sixes.” After a few moments of whispered counting, she offers, “Two sevens.”

When Ellie opens her eyes, three texts have appeared.

Haha, you wish

Come to the party tomorrow

Then I’ll consider.

Before she can think of a charming enough response, Dina nudges her leg under the coffee table. “Earth to Ellie!” She calls out. Ellie looks up—really looks—for the first time since before the game started to see Dina and Jesse staring back at her with annoyed albeit slightly amused faces. “Hey, we’re playing a game here.” Dina cajoles.

“Yeah, Ellie. Is it phone time or friend time?” Jesse joins, clearly equally motivated by curiosity and messing with her just for the sake of it.

Ellie breathes a soft laugh. “Sorry guys,”

“What’s got you all smiley, anyway?” Dina asks with a quirk of her brow.

“Nothing.”

“Bullllshit,” Jesse says, as confident as ever.

Ellie places her cards down, trying to conceal the lump passing through her throat. Despite being surrounded by her closest friends, she can’t help the spike in her heart rate.

“It’s just this girl I sold to a couple weeks back.” Ellie confesses.

“Oh,” Dina says, utterly delighted. Ellie doesn’t miss the look her and Jesse exchange across the table. “She nice?”

Just talking about you gets her going. A rush of heat blooms beneath her cheeks. “Yeah, she’s real sweet,” Ellie says before realizing that may not be completely true. So, she adds, “once you get to know her.”

Jesse pipes up from the other side of the table.“Is she cute?”

Dina reprimands him with a glare. “Don’t be such a pig, Jess.” Though it’s likely Jesse’s only said that to make her jealous. Her features soften as she turns her gaze back to Ellie. “But, I mean, is she?”

Ellie pulls a low whistle between her teeth, her own modest way of saying fuck yeah.

She pulls up your Instagram to show Dina and Jessie. Frankly, she couldn’t help the intimidation crawling up her back when she first looked at the page. One post, sixteen hundred followers, and a bio with only two characters—ΦM.

“Woah,” Dina blurts as she taps on the lone post. It’s a single photo of you outside a restaurant. The gown you’re wearing is a deep shade of scarlet, and your full, glossy lips are tilted upward in a coquettish sort of half smile.

Jesse claps a firm, proud hand over Ellie’s shoulder. “Sorority girl,” He says the two words as if they alone convey something much deeper. “Nice, man.”

“Yeah,” Dina chirps, “when can we meet her?”

“Woah,”

“Slow your roll, D.” Jesse says in the familiar mediating way that only he can. “You gotta let her come to us.”

“Yeah, you heard him, Mom,” Ellie smiles, though suddenly fighting the warmth that swirls in her chest at the prospect of you meeting her friends. “One eight,” She says, placing her last card on the table and revealing that she’s won the game.

“Bullshit!” Jesse and Dina exclaim together.

Ellie turns her card around to show that it is indeed an eight, and is met with a chorus of grunts. “I had a lot riding on that game.” Jesse says, gathering the deck and preparing to shuffle again.

“You bet two slices of your pizza.”

DIna rolls her eyes. “Clearly that was all he had.”

“Fuck it. New game! This time I’m betting the whole box.”

Later, after the pizza boxes and wine bottles and cards have all been cleaned away, Ellie shuffles into bed with excitement purring inside her chest as she opens your messages.

i’m back peach

Hi!

How was game night?

pretty fun

told my friends about you

Oh?

What did you say?

that i sold to a pretty girl a couple of weeks ago

& we hit it off

Lolll, I don’t remember it happening that way

uhh it happened eventually

also told them i’d go to your party tmrw

The screen goes still for a few moments after Ellie last message. Only alight with your speech bubble making disjointed appearances on the other side of the screen, fading in and out in the manner of a thready pulse.

YAY!!

I could just kiss you right now.

Ellie stares at the wall long after you’ve fallen asleep, trying fruitlessly to run the thought of you out of her mind. Still, no matter how many invisible constellations she draws with the popcorns in her ceiling, no matter how many sheep she counts or puffs she takes of her weed pen, she can’t calm her brain.

The only thing that sates her is the image of you.

Figuratively, because when Ellie finally allows herself to think of you, a slow warmth rushes over her body. It begins at the tips of her fingers and doesn’t stop until its peaked at her longest eyelash.

Literally, because she pulls up a photo of you to feed the fire burning in her heart. It’s the first picture you ever sent her—a selfie of you in a cream colored, off the shoulder sweater, your face only brightened by the glimmer of a nearby candle.

You look like a dream. Ellie’s concerned for a moment that the vision of your face may be the result of her own prolonged, feverish hallucinations.

Don’t mind my eyes. Just finished a study sesh lol. Ellie reads the texts you sent under the photo countless times. When she looks back at your eyes in the picture, they do seem to show the quaintest signs of sleepiness—soft and low and too relaxed to hold up your guard.

Ellie imagines your eyes to look that way after sex. The soft, sweet, romantic kind you have on Valentine’s Day or prom night. The kind you tell your girlfriends about a couple days later over salads. (“It was the most romantic night of my life!”) Love making.

What scares Ellie is that she doesn’t want to do that to you. At least not right now. Right now, she wants your back pressed flush against her chest as plows into you from the side. She wants to grip one hand at the junction under your knee, keeping you anchored open so that there’s nowhere to go but deeper.

Does it always feel this good?

Your previous words reverberate through her head. Ellie wonders if that’s the kind of thing you would say after sex. The kind of delirious, euphoria-drunk question you would ask after she’s coaxed a fourth or fifth orgasm out of you. Does it always feel this good, Ellie?

With a heavy sigh, Ellie closes her phone and her eyes, resolving not to think about you for the rest of the night, lest she unravel her remaining bit of sanity. She fails.

***

Ellie’s text comes just as you down your fifth green apple jell-o shot. Checking your phone, you chew and suck the thickness into a smooth dissolution until it’s melted completely in your mouth.

i’m outside peach

A smile splits your face before you even realize it. Excitement surges through you so quickly your body jolts as if you’ve gotten chills.

“Sorry,” You say after accidentally bumping into a guy wearing a simple but effective dollar sign costume. He murmurs a polite, you’re good, and continues flirting with a girl dressed as the green M&M.

The floorboards tremble under the bass of Lil Yachty’s Broccoli and the hundreds of feet moving along to the music. You make your way through the crowd, passing a huddle of girls dressed a leprechauns and one not so convincing Hulk before you make it outside.

You spot Ellie instantly. Firstly, because a few porch and string lights illuminate where she stands at the front of the house. Secondly, because she’s the only person not wearing any green.

Your eyes lock as you storm up to her, and you catch the subtle appraisal she does of your outfit. You’re wearing a green, sequined mini dress that’s hemmed just beneath the curve of your ass and strappy stilettos that curl up your calves. All your jewelry is gold—your big hooped earrings, jangling bracelets on both arms, and mess of thin chains around your neck. And though Ellie can’t see it, you swear her eyes focus in on the thong you’re wearing under your dress. It’s a soft, sheer material of pale green, trimmed with scalloped lace. Two words sit woven into the fabric over your soft mound—Lucky You.

“Now it’s my turn to pinch you,” Your voice comes out familiarly cheery, even if you are trying to reprimand her. “Where’s your green, loser?”

She’s wearing another band tee and straight-legged jeans, her hands shoved into the pockets. “Is it too late to tell you I don’t have any?”

Just the sound of her voice is enough to evaporate your frustrations. It doesn’t help that your eyes are following a trail of freckles down the bridge of her nose toward the soft bow of her upper lip. And her eyes are such a brilliant tinge of olive that you altogether stop caring just for a moment.

“No,” You clear your throat to keep the word from coming out as a whimper. “because we’re gonna get you some.”

You wrap your fingers around her wrist, gently pulling until her hand is out of her pocket and interlocked with yours. Surprisingly, you aren’t as unnerved by touching her as you thought you would be. It’s warm skin against warm skin. And while the softness of her palm encased around yours sends your pulse lurching, you don’t have it in you to be nervous at this moment.

“Where’re we going, Peach?” It’s the first time you’ve heard her say the nickname aloud, and you’re certain the feeling it gives you is akin to snorting a few lines.

“I’m gonna take you to get something green. Just stay close to me and try not to get pinched.”

You lead Ellie through the crush of people, tightening your grip on her hand as you pass through one particularly congested area of clammy, jittery bodies. You occasionally look back to survey her face, gauging her features for any signs of noticeable discomfort. However, you don’t find any. Only delight and a little bit of awe as she takes in everything around her.

One particularly rough wave of movement crushes the two of you together—your back against her front. Just as your balance begins to topple and your grip unfastens from Ellie’s hand, you feel it hitch on to your hip. Her breath is warm and smooth as she whispers into your skin, “Don’t worry,” The words run over the nape of your neck like water. “I got you.”

The two of you are so close, you can feel your ass slotting up and down over the hard steel of her belt buckle. For a second, you swear you feel Ellie tighten her hold on your hip so she can grind herself against you in turn. Just the thought that that could be happening makes you insane.

You turn back to her, nearly curling your body around hers, just so you let your lips brush against the shell of her ear. “Thank you, Ellie.”

You lock the storage closet door behind you. The sound of it is a soft, sharp click that you can’t be certain Ellie didn’t hear. Under the room’s singular lightbulb, she’s ruffling through a bin of beaded green necklaces and Party City shirts.

“Find anything?” You gently squeeze your thighs together before you make your way over to her.

“Just a bunch of shirts that say, I’m Single, Pinch Me Anyway.”

“Better than nothing,”

“True.”

You let yourself idly watch as she rifles through the bin. Her t-shirt rides just the tiniest bit up her back, so you can see the minuscule divots and twitches of muscle at the strong, svelte curve of her abdomen.

“I’m really glad you could come, Ellie.” Her head only slightly twitched toward the sound of your voice, but beside that, she doesn’t pull her eyes away from the bin. Almost as though she’s making a concerted effort not to. “For a minute, I wasn’t sure if you would.”

You stalk over to the other side of the spacious closet, sucking in a sharp breath as your back makes contact with the cold, dusty wall. You wonder if the sound of your heels clicking over the floor will arouse her curiosity, but she only manages a slight glance at you through her peripheral vision.

“C’mon, Peach, I was gonna pull through. Just had to tease you a little first.” Her voice comes out deep and smooth, a glass of whiskey you want to get drunk on any day of the week. Still, she doesn’t look your way. And that irritates you, because she’s been scraping the bottom of the bin for a good minute.

“Ellie,” you allow yourself to murmur once more. “Why won’t you look at me?”

She stops moving then, and you’re stricken with satisfaction. Her voice is a low, tortured sound. “You think I haven’t been looking at you?”

Finally, she stands up, turning her head your way. It pleases you, but only for a second. You outstretch your hand and curl your index finger in a come hither motion. So, she does. Ellie stalks toward you one careful step at a time until there are only two inches of free space between you. With your bodies so close, you’ve effectively trapped yourself against the wall.

“Do you… like my dress?” On the last three words, you voice slurs the tiniest bit. It comes out not at all how you intended. Vulnerable instead of sexy. You think that’s partly because you have to suppress a green apple flavored belch under you speech.

Ellie’s eyes travel over your dress in one steady motion, as if she’s counting the individual sequins. Your nipples stiffen under her gaze.

“Of course I do.” She says after a moment.

You nudge her leg with your foot, gently brushing over her shin a few times. “What about my shoes?”

She’s unfazed, though. She doesn’t take her eyes off yours. Her brows furrow interrogatively as she asks, “What are you doing, Peach?”

“I’m just trying to see if you like my outfit.” You lie, “I wore it for you, anyway.” Well, half lie.

Ellie entertains you for a moment, glancing down at your heeled foot as it pushes the hem of her jeans just the slightest bit over her inner ankle. “You’re beautiful,” she says, “but you know that already,” Blood rushes so furiously behind the shells of your ears that you feel you might vomit right at Ellie’s feet.

“What if I just wanted you to tell me?”

“Then I’ll tell you as many times as you want.” Ellie says, contented and resolved. You want her to tell you as many times as she can muster in one breath, between kisses, against the shell of your ear in the most intimate moments.

Want burns through you so rapidly your body feels as though it may dissolve into a heap of ash. With a shaky hand, you tug Ellie closer by the buckle of her belt and kiss her.

In those few seconds, it’s everything. Everything you’ve fantasized about, everything in this world you could ever want—it resides right here in the plushness of her mouth.

The skin of her lips is tinged with a decadent cocktail of flavors. Traces of mint, honey, and the sparsest bit of sweat. The taste sends a heady buzz down your spine that disorients your vertical. Luckily, Ellie stills you with warm, steady hands upon your hips.

Filled with a new mystical sense of exhilaration, you snake a hand around her waist, letting it sit comfortably at the slender small of her back. You pull her into you, and the movement of your lips grow sloppy as your body takes in this novel contact. Her chest pressed against yours, four legs moving as one at a messy interlock, her belt buckle’s chilled metal caressing your skin even through your dress.

It’s messy, but all the more electrifying. Just as the beginnings of a whimper are building in your throat, Ellie uses the same hands holding your hips to push you closer into the wall, away from her.

Your mouths are still so close that you can taste the warm fan of her breath. “I’m sorry,” Slowly, the pair of you untangle your limbs, Ellie initiating most of it. She lets her hands fall from your hips and puts a step of distance between you. It’s noticeable enough to make you shiver at the loss of contact, yet still small enough that just a single sufficient heave of either of your chests will push you back into the other’s orbit.

“You’re drunk,” She explains finally.

Years of premature alcohol consumption up to now had gifted you the ability of holding your liquor better than most of your peers, so you wonder what gives you away to Ellie. The strong and sickly, saccharine taste of green apple on your lips? Your less than perfect balance? The audacity you had to lock the two of you in a storage closet?

“It isn’t your fault, Ellie,” Your voice is so low it hardly forms any permeation in the atmosphere, a perfect antithesis to your shame that seems to swallow the room. “I kissed you.”

Ellie clutches her jaw, a pained expression shadowing her features, as if you’ve just socked her in it. “Still, I shouldn’t have… fuck,” A moment passes where you cannot tell what emotion Ellie is feeling. Frustration? Lust? Regret? A cornucopia of them swirl through the flecks of sepia in her eyes. “Let’s just get you home, okay?”

That word—home—doesn’t help your shot nerves. In fact, it only worsens them. The Phi Mu mansion a few blocks away feels less like home and more like a place where you live. A place with all your things, all the space, all the specially cooked meals you could ever want. And yet,

“I don’t want to go there.” Your own voice catches you off guard. No longer the still, controlled sotto voce of the past. You’re petulant. Teetering on the edge of an emotion you refuse to touch. You sound as though you are about to cry. Shit, maybe you are drunk. “Can I come to yours?” You ask so quickly that the words swallow your previous sentence entirely. Ellie’s face doesn’t even get a chance to express the initial sentiment of Where else are you gonna go?

“Okay,” She resolves, “let’s go.”

***

Ellie’s apartment is only a heap of shadows and abstract heaps of shape. She grabs you by the hand and leads you through the darkness. Even while drunk, you can feel the caution radiating off her in seismic waves.

“My room’s this way.” She pulls you along towards the right (you think), murmuring something about minding your step.

You only know that you’ve actually made it into Ellie’s room when your heels no longer click against the floor but instead putter clumsily through sumptuous carpet. She lets go of your hand and ventures deeper into the space, flicking on a lamp that floods the room with warm light.

Even while drunk, her room feels emblematic of everything cool, in the sense that it is wholly distinctive to her. While her bed is neatly made—a fluffy, tempting slate of onyx and navy blue linen—her desk seems homier, with a slew of artifacts littering the top of it. A notebook flipped open, pages tattooed in indecipherable, wiry scrawl, a laptop plastered in faded stickers, a mug of diverse pens.

An acoustic guitar sits in the corner of her room, staring at you through the gaping maw of its sound hole. “I didn’t know you played guitar.” You remarked, unstrapping your heels. When your feet are finally bare, you fight off a chill as they sink into the soft floor.

“Uh, here and there.” Ellie palms the back of her neck. Her flushed disregard piques your interest, but you just add it to the mental laundry list of things you’ll ponder on further when the sun comes up. “Bathroom’s right through there.” She points to an agape door parallel to another, which you assume is her closet. “I’ll be out here whenever you’re done.”

You aren’t shocked that Ellie is in the living room when you return from peeing. It’s a sobered, impregnable distance away that doesn’t stop you from wanting to kiss her no matter how many extra steps it will take to get there.

She left clothes for you at the foot of the bed. An old, shapeless Oasis tee that swallows your body in its fabric and a pair of boxers that are as comfortable as they are unflattering.

Ellie is setting up blankets and pillows when you join her in the newly illuminated living room. She’s gotten comfortable too, having bartered her jeans and tee for a wife-beater and flannel pajama pants. “Will your roommate be upset that I’m here?” You ask, tiptoeing further into the space.

“Nah, you’re good,” Ellie’s couch is compiled of two blankets. One, you presume, is to shield your skin from the glacial sofa leather. The other, from the air. “It’s about time I brought a girl home, anyways.”

What’s meant to be a joke only sours you for some reason you can’t put your finger on. “Right.” You sigh, feeling dejected by your own murky thoughts. You take to caressing the blankets you’ll be sleeping with tonight. Their fleecy hairs are as soft as plant soil. “Thank you for setting me up out here.”

Ellie chuckles. It’s a coquettish, nubile sound that fills your body with a fresh load of butterflies. “It’s for me, Peach.” She plops her butt onto the middle cushion and spreads her legs in the most territorial fashion, taking up as much space as possible, presumably to keep you from sitting near her. “Bed’s all yours.”

“Are you sure?” You protest, “I’m your guest. Shouldn’t I take the couch?”

“A princess like you, sleeping on a sofa? I don’t buy it.” Her tone is challenging, as though there’s some sliver of possibility she’ll let you take the couch, only if you want it badly enough.

Still, she’s right. Given the choice any other time, you would make a beeline to the nearest available bed. The only reason you can think of for feigning modesty is that it grants you an excuse to talk to her more.

“Yeah,” You relent, though still dipping your knee into the only bit of cushion unexplored by Ellie’s legs. “good point there. You like it though, right?”

The it is unspoken, though clear as day. It’s staring her in the face, kneeing her couch, wearing her clothes. It chewed her out within moments of meeting her, and not long ago, drunkenly kissed her as though their lives depended on it.

You watch her fingers inch their way toward your knee, dither slightly in their path, and then curl into her palm in an anguished fist. “Yeah, I do.” From where you stand, a slit in her eyebrow reveals itself to you. You are unable to tell if it was sliced there electively or acquired from injury. You’re about to reach out and touch it when Ellie speaks again. “You should get some rest, Peach.”

Too tired to fight it, you acquiesce, returning to Ellie’s room with a reserved, “Good night,”

After leaving her bedroom door open so that only a slice of outside light shines through, you pee once more before plopping into bed. You bury your face into a pillow, pleasantly surprised to find Ellie’s scent all over it. The living room light never dims or turns off, but you’re too tired to care.

***

The time on your phone reads 2:37 when you wake up. Nighttime is still in full swing, as evidenced by the sounds of drunk collegiates whooping about outside. Still, your heart hammers wildly in your chest and your bladder screams at you from beneath Ellie’s duvet, eager to be relieved of its green apple jell-o content.

When you finally do pee and get your pulse to calm, you notice the sound of television humming from the small crack in the bedroom door. The thought that Ellie could still be awake both bewilders and delights you. You know won’t be able to fall back asleep until you check.

You poke your head out the door to see that Ellie is still awake and watching a Spongebob rerun. While she’s blissfully unaware of your presence, you dedicate a few moments of your stealth to observing her.

Even the way she lazes makes you blush. Ellie’s head, a warm crush of velvety auburn, is sunken into a pillow, denting its center. Her chest is looped into an even rhythm of breathing, a hypnotic up-and-down that makes you jealous of the air she breathes. One of her hands swings idly off the edge of the couch while the other rests on her belly, fingering invisible patterns into the fabric of her tee.

“Ellie,” Try as you might (though, you did not bother trying) you cannot stop yourself from calling out to her. Her eyes flit from the television to you, and you see them come to life as they do.

“Peach,” Her tone betrays that she’s both delighted and scared to see you. “what are you doing up?”

You push the door open wider, making room for the rest of your body in that liminal space between here and there. “Couldn’t sleep,” Ellie sits up on the couch, and her shirt rides up, exposing that smooth canvass of skin just above the waist of her pants. “What’s your excuse?”

“Same,” she confesses, “bad dream.”

You aren’t sure what part of this minute interaction pushes you into your next train of thought. Maybe it’s the way her gaze pins you to the threshold of the door. Maybe it’s because all those feelings that stormed through you at the party never really evanesced in the way they should have, and you aren’t sure they ever will. Especially not now. I shouldn’t have asked to come here, you think, she should have told me no.

“Come to bed with me?”

It’s a tall order, and you know that. You know Ellie will probably roll her eyes and grumble something along the lines of, go back to sleep, Peach, but just like that night in her car, you lack too much inhibition to care.

You aren’t expecting her to rise from the couch and murmur something beneath her breath like, come on then.

“That didn’t take much convincing.” You quip, thoroughly surprised by your victory, as Ellie flits past you through the doorway.

“I’m in no position to fight it.”

“What, does that mean you don’t want to?” You inquire, “Or that you won’t?”

“Little bit of both, I guess.” Ellie pauses at the foot of the bed as she appraises it. You’ve already dipped one of your knees into the foam and picked up a pillow for fluffing. “You’re on my side of the bed, by the way.”

“Oh, I—” You dither some as you knead the pillow previously dimpled by the shape of your head.

“No, it’s okay. Looks like you slept on both sides, actually.”

Ellie smiles, gesturing to the identical concavities on both pillows, the messiness of the comforter that isn’t confined to one side of the mattress.

“Sorry, I’m—”

“Hey,” It’s a single, three-letter word with not even a second syllable afforded to it. So, why does the sound of it out of her mouth command your attention like that of clicker trained animal? “what’d I tell you about all that apologizing? It’s okay. Now my pillows’ll smell like you.”

She crawls over onto the mattress until she’s maybe a few inches across from you. You wonder if she’s even trying to control herself around you anymore. You certainly are not.

“Okay, but before we go to sleep, can I apologize for one more thing?”

“No, but I know you’re gonna do it anyway.”

“The kiss earlier.” You enunciate the three words as if they alone convey the entirety of your thoughts. “I’m sorry if I made anything weird, or crossed a line, or…” Embarassment and a lack of proper wording silences you. “anything like that.”

“You didn’t cross anything. It was… nice. I enjoyed it.”

The relief that fills your chest is almost immediately vanquished. “Nice? Just nice?”

A wolfish chuckle rumbles through her chest. “Yeah, I mean, we were in a closet, and I didn’t want us to get too carried away. And you were pretty drunk, so…”

“Sooo, you hated it?”

“I did not hate it. I just think we have the potential for better.”

“Well, we aren’t in a closet now. And I’m not drunk anymore.”

“What are you trying to say, Peach?”

Doing your best to keep the plush of the mattress from knocking you off kilter, you lean over until all of your weight is rested on your hands and knees, and you crawl to her. You slink her way until your noses are nearly sharing the same stream of oxygen.

Ellie’s eyes give way to every emotion that flickers through her, a tried and true window directly into her soul. Is she really doing this, you see her think. Fuck, she is.

Your lips connect for the second time that night, with less clumsiness and somehow even more apprehension than before—both purely motivated by the fact that you want to do it right this time.

The taste of her lips is even sweeter this time, fermented and rich and bursting with every flavor of her. When she opens her mouth a little wider, so that you can connect your lips more intimately, so that some of her saliva leaks onto your tongue, you mewl into her.

Your mouths move in communication with each other, a sort of interpretive dance. You creak yours open wider so that Ellie’s tongue can pass through and land exactly where you need it—tickling the roof of your mouth, massaging your own tongue.

It feels exactly as you imagined so many times before, better even. Wet and warm and soft and just so her. She begins to pull out of your mouth, but you just suck her back in, demanding and hungry. For a moment you think you’re being too expressive, too transparent with your desires, until Ellie cups the back of your head, pulling you deeper in and invigorating the want that pools in your belly.

After a couple more beats of heady, sedated sucking, you let Ellie’s tongue retract from your mouth, prepared to pull away. When you do, your bottom lip gets stuck—no, caught—between her teeth for half a second. Just long enough to push you closer and closer off the cliff of your sanity and into the hysteria filled waters below.

“Shit,” Ellie audibly gulps. A thin rosary of saliva connects your faces, and some smears the bow of her lips. You curl the tip of your tongue and lick up the mess.

She releases the back of your skull and you sink unceremoniously into the mattress, feet tucked underneath your butt. “Better?” You ask rhetorically.

“Kiss all your dealers like that?”

“Only my favorite ones.” You jest despite the puddle of need dampening Ellie’s boxers.

The two of you fall into silence, the space of the room post-kiss only soundtracked by whistling breaths and shuffling against the comforter. A minute of this passes before Ellie speaks up. “Can I tell you a secret?”

You hum affirmatively.

“I didn’t actually have a bad dream.” She divulges, “I just…” Her hands gesticulate aimlessly about, groping for the words. “couldn’t sleep knowing you were in the other room. It was driving me fucking crazy.”

“Were you just going to sit there and go crazy all night? Or were you going to come in here and do something about it?”

“I definitely thought about it.”

“What stopped you?”

“I guess I’m just a coward, or I would have done it sooner.”

Slowly and a little timidly, your mouth forms around a question that’s plagued the deepest recesses of your psyche for a long while. “Do you really want me, Ellie?”

Ellie answers your question with a kiss. She crawls over to you so slowly that, at any moment, you could have protested, asked, what are you doing? But you didn’t want to.

Once she’s on you, though, she doesn’t stop. She kisses you like she’s angry you would even ask the question, do you want me.

Her hands cup your face in a way that doesn’t even feign gentleness. You’ll pull away from her when she wants you to, and only then. “Lay back,” Ellie barely breaks away from you, practically spitting the words into your mouth.

Still, you recline your entire body until your head hits a pillow. It feels so good to have her like this—on top of you, kissing you, hands caging you in place, hips finding a welcome place in between your spread legs.

You ache for her, and you’re far past hiding it. Your hands find a steady hold on her hips, grinding your center into hers through your respective bottoms. Desperate whines travel out of your mouth into hers as your body drinks in the friction.

“I want you, Peach,” Ellie rasps over you. Her mouth connects to your ear, tongue drawing a precise curl around the shell. “Want you here,” she says, just before she lands on your neck and begins sucking tenderly at the skin above your jugular. “and here,” she manages to utter. Shuffling beneath your shirt, she slides her hands up your waist until they reach the pulsing expanse of your chest. “here, too. Can I touch you right here?” Ellie nearly pleads, even though she already is.

“You know you can.” You shudder, bunching the shirt up until it’s pushed completely over your head. The stiff air makes your nipples draw up and harden into sensitive peaks. It isn’t helped by the fact that you can feel Ellie’s breath fanning over them, humid and painstakingly close.

Ellie doesn’t take her eyes off you as she flattens her tongue over your nipple and licks. Slowly, up and down, over and over again. A whimper breaks from your gritted teeth when she rims your areola. “Do you like it when I do that?”

You nod hard enough to wrench your head off your shoulders. All the while, your shaky fingers are hooking under the hem of her shirt and pulling it up, up, up until it’s shuffled off the top of her head.

With both your shirts discarded to a distant corner of the room, Ellie’s mouth returns to yours, capturing it in a kiss so fervent it springs a tear behind your eye. She’s got you right where she wants you, you presume: ensnared within a hazy loop of wet kisses, heaving breasts pressed together, cunts still seeking each other out through the barriers of your pants.

If Ellie were to say to you, right now, Would you kill someone for me? Hm? I’ll make you cum if you say yes, you cannot guarantee your moral compass would even register killing someone to be wrong; not when the feeling of her rutting up against you is so incredibly right.

She doesn’t bother asking if she can stick her hand into your pants. The intrusion startles you a tad initially, makes you tense up, until she tightens her grip at the junction between your shoulder and neck, murmuring into your ear a soft, “‘S okay, baby, it’s just me,”

When Ellie does make contact with the desire that’s been dripping out of you, the edge of her lips curl into a wolfish grin. “You’re gonna kill me, I fucking swear.”

She pulls her hand out of your pants, and you can immediately tell which finger touched you. It’s wet and glistening beneath the moonlight as if bestowed with a halo. Ellie sucks it into her mouth, a slight moan falling from her lips as she does.

You hustle her boxers down to your ankles until you can comfortably kick them off. Ellie’s eyes darken over the picture of you, on her bed and naked as the day you were born. “Here,” She extends her middle and ring fingers out to your face. “get these wet for me.”

You imagine it’s intentional, the way she purposely keeps them about a hair’s breadth away from your lips. She wants to see you debase yourself a little bit, to shift your face smallest inch so that you can scoop her fingers into your mouth. So, you do.

Your lips wrap around her fingers in a sort of sweet surrender, sucking past the first knuckles, you taste remnants of yourself on her skin. Oral fixation, you presume, is why the act of doing this has felt more intimate than anything else so far. Your eyes bulge with naïveté as her fingertips press into your tongue, eliciting a teary gag.

You would think that the audible signal of discomfort would sway her to stop, but it seems only to invigorate her. Ellie’s eyes darken, and a strong, breathy hum vibrates off of her. “Yeah,” she goads, only removing her fingers once all your tears have spilled down your chin. She examines the wet canvass of your face with indeterminate emotion. You’re expecting concern. Are you okay, Peach? or something like, I’ll be gentle next time. Instead, she scoffs a condescending chuckle, remarking, “you look so fucking pretty when you cry.”

Without trying, your chest heaves against a broken sob. Like sweet prey at the mercy of a barbarous predator, you feel helpless. There’s nowhere you could go without her snatching you from the air with seizing paws. The feeling toes the line of being both petrifying and the most exhilarating thing you could ever imagine.

Ellie shifts until her weight is propped entirely on her right arm. From this angle, her warm breath sears the shell of your ear. You spread your legs without her even having to ask, pressing your knees as far back as you can, even as it starts to hurt.

Ellie brings her wet fingers to your cunt, caressing the swollen head of your clit with a thinly veiled hunger. The sensation makes every muscle in your body squeeze taut. Your toes curl and you have to fight the urge to shut your thighs together. “Ellie,” You whine, hiccuping a little as your asshole begins clenching in time with the movement of her fingers.

“I’ll give you anything you want. You know that?” Ellie coos into your ear, rubbing your clit a little faster, a little firmer. Your vision grows fuzzy at the edges. “All you need to do is ask. Use your words.”

“I want you inside.” Your voice is crossed between a whimper and grit. A satisfied purrr hums through Ellie’s body, but the confession embarrasses you a little nonetheless.

She dips her middle digit lower, letting her fingertip sit at the cleft of your hole. You whine a bit at the contact, squeezing desperately around nothing, trying to suck her in. “Atta girl,” Her first knuckle passes through with unsurprising ease, though only paltrily sates the appetence that’s tearing you asunder from the inside out.

Ellie affords you a few thrusts of her finger, curling it upward in a slow, come hither motion to test the waters. That feeling—that initial phalangeal push—gently coaxes a high pitched whimper out of your slacked mouth. She hums, satisfied, though only temporarily, as she pulls out a bit just so she can stretch you around a second finger.

“Oh, shit,” Your breathless cries fall on deaf ears as Ellie pushes her to fingers in, down to the very last knuckle. The feeling of being so full of her stirs a heap of emotions within you. It’s overwhelmingly and maddeningly perfect in a way you’re only able to communicate through broken moans. “Oh, my—” You hiccup, pressing your eyes shut as she pulls almost all the way out, only to push back in in a way that kind of hurts.

Ellie curls her fingers in tantalizing unison, her pace controlled, though, a tad feral. You can feel it in the melody of soft grunts that sneak through her gritted teeth and into your ears. It doesn’t take long before her fingertips are prodding at a spot that makes you gasp. The part of it that isn’t made up of sheer pleasure is genuine shock. You had no idea anything in this world could feel so good.

“Right there?” She asks, all too smug and casual, as if she isn’t literally fingering the pulse of your most sensitive spot. Every attempt you make to speak is thwarted by her feverish, determined pursuit of your orgasm.

“C’mon,” Ellie further riles when your whimpers start to synchronize in time with the steady plunges of her fingers. “show me how well you can take it.”

You don’t even notice the fledgling spring of tears that are dampening your cheeks until Ellie licks one clean with the curve tip of her tongue, and then sears the salty flavor into your mouth in a messy kiss.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you feel the pleasure intensifying in every part of your body, marching you toward an orgasm so intense that you actually do start to cry. Soft, tensed wails borne entirely from Ellie’s fingers. “W—Wait,” you nearly choke trying to say the word. “I need a minute. Can you just—”

“No.” She says. You don’t even think she considers the possibility of stopping. All that’s visible in the deep pools of her irises is stalwart resolution.

You make an attempt to squirm away, but she curls her fingers into that you again, adding pressure to where you’re already so tender. “Ellie,” you plead, her name falling clumsily out of your mouth.

Your desperation does little to stall her. In fact, it seems to be the thing pushing her forward. “You’re gonna cum so fucking hard like this,” Ellie promises, “just trust me.”

And you do.

It only takes a couple more nudges before your orgasm erupts from your body with all the intensity of an ocean bursting through a dam. In the heat of it, your voice reaches a screaming pitch. “Don’t stop,” you command, aching to ride it out for as long as possible. “please, please don’t stop.”

Thick, limpid rivulets of cum rush out of you in warm spurts, and Ellie fucks you through every second of it.

The next couple of minutes are spent trying to catch your breath. You flit your eyes over to Ellie’s face, repeatedly tracing your gaze over her eyes and lips. “You’re so fucking perfect.” She coos into your balmy skin whilst planting messy kisses into your temple. Then, she orders, “Come here.” Slowly, with small protesting mewls from you, Ellie pulls her fingers out of your cunt so that her hands can cup your cheeks and lock you into another passionate kiss.

***

When the two of you have wrangled into a position of post-coital cuddling—you curled into her side, face tucked into her neck, with her tattooed arm wrapped around you—Ellie asks, “Do you wanna hear a joke?”

Halfway lolled into slumber, you oblige her. “Lay it on me.”

“A weasel walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Interesting. I’ve never served a weasel before. What can I get you?’” The anticipatory gleam in Ellie’s eyes tells you that she’s really proud of this one, and that makes you smile.

You sigh, “I’m ready.”

“‘Pop’ goes the weasel.”

You go from sleepily smiling to rolling your eyes in record time. “Good, right?” Ellie jests, filling the room with raucous laughter that you’re sure would wake anyone, if anyone was here to hear it. “Come on, I worked really hard on that one.”

Not even a full five minutes later, Ellie has completely passed out before you. She is, for lack of a better phrase, a picture. Chest billowing steadily around slow, deep breaths, mouth slightly agape with a ribbon of drool staining its corner, a gentle snore singing from her nose.

With your pinky finger, you connect makeshift constellations in the freckles on her collarbone until your eyelids grow weary. Just before you surrender to tiredness, you let your gaze sweep over Ellie’s face a final time. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth that is now curled into a soft smile. You hope she’s dreaming of you.

Like fellating the gardener who visits your house every two weeks to trim the shrubs and make sly peeks at the plentiful helpings of attractive young women walking through the lawn every ten minutes or so. He has hay colored hair and a pompous demeanor that more than makes up for the fact that you don’t even know his name.

You let the picture fill your mind, restlessly awaiting the lurch in your belly that notifies you you’re sufficiently turned on. But it never comes, so you knock the thought out of your head with a harsh shake.

Then, you imagine sucking the nipples of the TA from your previous semester’s philosophy course. She was a redhead with the cutest dimples you’d ever seen, and, if memory serves you right, the only interesting thing about that class. You are nearly certain this will be the thing to get you off (it surely did countless times last semester), but your body feels just as it did minutes before: frustrated, antsy, and so very sore.

If you were to put a mirror in front of your vagina and inspect it from above, you’d likely find it to look as though it had been flattened repeatedly under the wheel of an F-150. You rub a cautious finger over your clit only to find that the bud is almost numb and begging for you to give her a fucking break.

So, you do. You throw your vibrator toward the foot of the bed and yank your pants back over your hips in defeat, ignoring the sensation of your juices smearing over your inner thighs and leaking down the crack of your ass.

For a moment, you consider slamming your head against your headboard or letting your body roll off of your bed and onto the floor. Just to feel something, or maybe just because.

You’re asleep for maybe twenty five minutes before a quintet of knocks at your door wakes you. When you swing your legs over the edge of your bed, you have to kick your feet around for a second in search of your slippers.

The early morning sun is trying its damndest to peer through the thickness of your curtains. Though, just enough light shines through for you to take a glance at yourself in your floor length mirror and see the glaring wet spot staining the crotch of your pants. You grab a silk Victoria’s Secret robe and cover yourself in it just before opening the door.

It’s Kingston, the girl who lives just down the hall and has a penchant for making her early risings your problem. “I’m totally late for the gym, and I can’t find my deodorant. Do you have a spray on I can use? Pretty, pretty please?”

The words shoot out of her mouth so fast you hardly have time to process her request. You’re only nodding to make the noise stop.

You allow her in to get what she needs, and the vanilla scent tinging her skin spreads through your room like fungal spores. Her brown eyes are wholly alert, almost as if they’ve been surgically peeled back. It never fails to amaze you how awake someone can be before 6:30 in the morning.

She deodorizes her armpits before you can even make niceties and skips out of your room with a chirpy, “Thanks, see you at brunch later!” without shutting the door behind her.

A recently bought dress stares at you from the purchase of your closet door. You had completely forgotten your sorority’s brunch.

***

Your plate is covered in a hearty helping of french toast and apple slices, a dollop of yogurt, and one omelette. You’re surrounded by about seventy of your sisters, all dressed in white, all talking in place of eating.

An occasional cloud dots the sky, but other than that, the sun has a crystal clear view of Phi Mu’s All White Brunch. About thirtysomething small circular, white tables fill the sunny space of your backyard.

Your yogurt disappears after about two spoonfuls down your throat, and your apple slices don’t stand a chance for much longer. You skewer some elaborately on your fork before practically inhaling them.

Sitting to your left is a girl named Parker, whose entire vocabulary seems to be ripped straight from a social media comment section. “Ugh, I’m scared to even touch any of this,” She says at a volume that makes it unclear if she’s talking to herself or your entire table. “My back is gonna be soooo big later.”

You look down at her modest helping of potato wedges and egg salad. “I think you should just eat your food.” The small smile you lend her afterward is only to signal that you meant it in the kindest way.

To your right is Leila Hanamichi, your sorority’s president—a picture of grace as she demurely sips her grapefruit juice through a paper straw. She is having a rather animated conversation with the girl to her right, about plans for an upcoming party. Something about exchanging numbers and ‘making sure things go smoothly’. Whatever that means, you don't spend much time pondering it as you dig into your omelette.

Then, Leila turns to you.

Still stabbing into your food, you don’t notice her until she chirps, “Hi!” Your name rolls off her tongue, albeit unsurely. It doesn’t offend you. “Oooh, french toast! Delicious. I’ll have to grab some in a bit.” It’s clear she’s attempting to make friendly conversation, so you indulge.

“Oh, yeah, it is really good.” You say, despite not having had a single bite yet.

Her voice lowers to a soft whisper. “Do you think we could talk later? Before we all take pictures?” Almost as if she can hear the quickening of your heart, she follows up with, “Don’t worry, it isn’t anything bad. I just need a small favor from you.”

“Right,” you say, slowly processing her words. “okay.”

She gives you a brief squeeze on your hand. “Perfect.”

After brunch, just before you were all due to have your group photo taken, Leila led you into the empty living room of your sorority house.

“Now,” she says as she guides you into a pacing rhythm across the living room floor. “You know that Theta party that’s coming up?”

You nod with a soft hum.

“Well, it’s been a real hassle for the boys to plan, and they asked for my help. So, I’m—”

Offloading chores onto us to make their load lighter?

That’s not what she says, but it may as well be. At this point, you’d rather her be honest with her motives than sugarcoat it under the guise of purely being helpful.

“I need you to get weed for the party.”

Your poker face doesn’t kick in in enough time for Leila to miss the incredulity on your face. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll Venmo you whatever I need to. And Tucker knows a guy who sells already, so it’ll be easy peasy!”

“If he already knows someone, then why can’t he just buy it himself?”

“Midterms, y’know? He’s been really slumped, and he had to pay for Steve Aoki all by himself, so I just offered and…”

You tune her out without even trying, annoyed that you and your sisters were having to play housemaid to those guys. For a moment, you wonder which one of the Theta boys Leila must be fucking.

***

Do you sell?

???

who’s asking

Me?

do i know you?

Tucker gave me your number.

He told me you did.

ahh, ok

yeah i do

whatu need?

A zip, I think.

I’ve got cash.

cool cool

i can meet u wednesday @ 5

corner of mckinley

behind the old pizza hut

That’s pretty out of the way for me.

Do you know anywhere closer?

u want the shit or not?

Fine. Wednesday at five.

That night, you clean your room as obsessively as ever. Just so you can have control over something.

You pluck every bit of dirty laundry off the floor and separate it into hampers, Windex both mirrors—floor length and vanity—, and clear the empty bottles of water from your nightstand. You clear the rugs and vacuum until the carpet is layered in sleep lines, clean your vibrator under warm water and antibacterial soap in the bathroom, and move any shoes you might’ve kicked off in the path to your bed.

Finally, you take a lysol wipe and polish the framed photo of you and your best friend until the fine covering of dust is gone. For a moment, you lose yourself and you can hear her laugh in your ear as if she’s right next to you. You still have that? she’d say, We look so young.

“I know,” you respond.

It’s the two of you at your high school graduation. Hands around each other’s waists, matching gowns and diplomas. Your smiles light up the photo, her’s especially. 

Her eyes carry the familiar, optimistic gleam of a high school graduate—eager to take the plunge into collegiate adulthood. Only, she doesn’t know she will be dead within a month and a half. Funny how that works. How can someone be here one moment and gone the next?

You finish wiping the photo without even giving it a final look, choosing to instead drown your sorrows in a vigorous workout tape and another round of failed masturbation.

***

The parking lot by McKinley is dimly lit by a couple of blinking lamp posts. Brilliant streaks of orange and pink smear the sky in what looks like a drunken watercolor image. Ellie arrives at 5:13 to find a car is already parked there.

Her primary customers are usually frat guys, nerds who use weed to relax, or nerds who swear weed gives them super-genius brain power. She came across the occasional dad that wanted to relive his teen years and was always stunned by her prices, always commenting, ‘this better be some good skunk for what I’m paying’.

So, she’s uncharacteristically intrigued by the figure stepping out of the white BMW before she can even fully park.

The two of you exit your respective cars at the same time. Ellie, wanting this to be quick, doesn’t even bother shutting off her engine.

She’s pretty

The thought eclipses Ellie’s better judgement, but she is wholly unable to help herself. It’s true. It’s all there in the deep furrow in your brows, the slight crinkle in the bridge of your nose. The anger visible in your eyes should give way to unease, but it only incites embers of newborn curiosity within Ellie. She wants to know how she can soften them.

The headlights of her car illuminate the delicate sheen of sweat on your collarbone and forehead. You look as though you have just worked out. A likely possibility, considering the athletic tank top, jacket, and leggings you’re wearing—all of which accentuate curves Ellie feels a guilty letting her gaze linger on.

Her eyes are just beginning to draw over the bow of your lips when they part to say:

“Do they not teach punctuality at drug dealer school?”

The words are so bluntly absurd that Ellie finds trouble being offended. “What?”

You heave a world weary sigh before rolling your eyes. “You’re, like, fifteen minutes late. I thought I was walking into a sting operation or something.”

She’s surprised at how forthcoming you’re being. Most patrons don't care that she turns up late. Usually, they’re nothing but elated that she showed up at all and are itching to get whatever she has off her hands.

However bizarre your statement may be, Ellie lets it roll off her back with a mirthless laugh. “You’re real prissy for someone buying a whole zip.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for—oh, who cares.” You cut yourself off with another eye roll. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

You step closer to Ellie, fully bathing yourself in the warmth of her headlight. You’re even prettier when she can see you crystal clear.

She extends the package out to you and you take it, reaching into your pocket with your other to retrieve a modest wad of cash. When the exchange is made, your fingertips brush over the heel of her palm. It’s a familiar skin to skin that usually carries no weight, but now makes the hairs on her nape stand at attention.

Against her better judgement, she calls out, “I’m Ellie, by the way.” as you make your way back to your car.

You shoot her a, “Yeah, nice meeting you.” before you disappear behind the deep tint of your windows.

***

Theta parties suck ass—a fact you’re only just fully realizing as a clammy brother shoulders you in the back for probably the third time. You’re still somewhat tipsy from the shots you threw back at the pregame, but not enough to ignore the blatant discomfort of the atmosphere.

Frankly, you’re not even sure why you convinced yourself to come. Something about being a supportive sister and needing to get out of the place where orgasms went to die (your room).

Sufficiently annoyed, you venture from the backyard and into the house where the haze of marijuana smoke and perspiration has transformed the air into a murky abyss. It’s asphyxiating and pungent and it reminds you of Ellie.

It was unlike you to kick yourself for any reason, but you had been for two days over your interaction with her. She seemed nice for the most part, despite how viciously upset you were at her.

Truthfully, her presence intimidated you in an odd way. She was stupidly attractive, so much so that it almost made you angrier at her the moment she stepped out of her car.

A smattering of freckles covered her face. From the crown of her head to the column of her neck, right where the collar of her pitch black hoodie censored any further showings of skin. Her hair was tinged the sweetest flavor of auburn you had ever seen and framed her face perfectly.

And her eyes. You had never felt your body betray you on such a visceral level until you looked into her eyes. They were a bewitching shade of green that sent your heart lurching into your throat.

You could go on and on. Her lips that settled somewhere comfortably between a smirk and a pout. The half a second of contact you made with her hand—a barely there graze you were still reeling from a whole forty eight hours later.

Guilt swells in your chest.

You quickly weave your way through the sea of inebriated bodies until you were behind the door of nearest bathroom.

It’s not exactly the Ritz Carlton, but you’re not there to pee. You retrieve a shooter from your purse and down the thing in a few paced chugs. The guilt is promptly replaced with a delicious burn that your body is more than elated to host.

When you come out, the party’s a lot more bearable. Without even thinking, your hips sway to the rhythm of whatever song is playing, even if normally you’d find it a little repulsive. For a moment, you feel in with everyone else. Not like you’re tiptoeing along the outskirts, awaiting permission that will never be given to you.

That is, until an arm snakes along your shoulders. So confident and sure, as though it’s meant to be there. The touch is accompanied by the scent of cologne so sharp you can taste it.

You choke back a cough as you look up at the person. “This your first time at Theta?” he asks. He’s blond and confident enough in his approach that you can tell he’s been successful in it before.

“Excuse you?” You say, shrugging out from underneath him.

He’s offended as though he’s the one that’s just been unconsensually solicited by a strange drunk man. “Don’t be rude, baby.” He slurs, taking a closer step toward you. “I just wanted to show you around, that’s all.”

You push through the congregation of people until you’re outside. It shocks you how fast you moved in the span of only a second. But it isn't enough to just be outside with more people and music and possibilities of discomfort.

Your feet carry you what feels like miles down the street until you are completely alone on the sidewalk. You find a car parked against the curb park yourself atop the hood.

Occasionally, a gaggle of drunk girls will skip past you, moving from one party to the next. One of them will say, “You’re so pretty!” or “Ohhh, I just love your hair,” or “That’s such a cute dress. Where’s it from?”

While it does lift your spirits just a tad, you cannot help the feeling nagging at you within. The feeling that you don’t belong here, or anywhere at all. If you could shake that feeling at all, maybe you would have joined those girls at the next party.

You look down at your dress and fix its hem just a tad. It’s a white, strapless number that flows freely around the tops of your thighs. It’s a shame you had to waste it on a night like this.

A soft ahem cuts through the silence, and you snap your neck toward the noise. Behind you is Ellie, walking slowly toward the car you’re sitting on as if she’s approaching a wild tiger.

“Ellie?” It’s the first time her name has ever left your lips, and it feels wonderfully foreign rolling off the tongue. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was at the Theta party and—”

“You were at the Theta party?” You’re unable to stop yourself from interrupting her, try as you might. “Sorry, continue.”

Ellie chuckles. “Friend invited me.” She explains. “Anyway, I saw you running out and thought I’d check on you.”

“Oh,” Your lips quirk up in what’s sort of a smile. “Well, thank you, but I’m fine. Really, I am.”

At that, Ellie raises her hands in surrender before walking closer to you with a more relaxed gait than before. She sits next to you on the hood of the car at a more than respectable distance. You highlight that part because you count the inches you are apart (five) and feel the urge to scoot closer to her.

“I never got your name,” She says. You can smell her from here. A twisted mix of mahogany and vanilla. It’s deep and sweet at the same time. You look toward her, slow and cautious, trying not to drink too much of her in at once.

She’s wearing a shortsleeved black band T-shirt that showcases the subtle definitions in her freckled arms. As well as the vague, inky patterns of a tattoo that travels from her elbow to her wrist.

“Figured you could at least tell me that. Since we’re exchanging pleasantries on top of my car and stuff.”

Your sadness is quickly eclipsed by embarassment when you look down to ee that you are, in fact, siting atop the hood of Ellie’s black Chevy sedan.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” You move to get up, but her hand reaches out to stop you.

Still, though, she isn’t touching you. Her fingertips only graze the fabric of your dress. “No need,”

“Why? Are you enjoying your time with me or something?”

“Oh, yeah,” She smiles, “Lot more fun than my time at drug dealer school.”

Your forehead falls into your palm. You’re not entirely shocked she would bring that up now, but that doesn't take away the embarrassment of having said it. “I’m—” You cut yourself off, feeling as though a plain sorry is insufficient.

“It’s okay.” Her voice drops to a lower register, like she’s trying to whisper it into the shared space between you. Even though the street is virtually deserted now. “Next time we meet, I’ll be perfectly on time.”

Hope tinges your voice. “Really?” You ask, even though Leila and Tucker will have to pay your remaining tuition balance before you buy drugs for them ever again.

You whisper your name and hope Ellie catches it before it disappears into the inky black night. She does. And she repeats it, trying it out on her tongue a couple of times. The sound sends waves of warmth rolling down your body.

Ellie moves her hand away from your dress and you feel cold without it there. She runs her palms over the denim of her jeans, and you begin to think she’s ridding herself of you bit by bit. That is, until she heaves a breath and asks, “Wanna go for a drive?”

***

Ellie’s car is a separate embodiment of her. When you slide into the passenger seat, you’re bombarded with the scent of her, multiplied by about fifty. She cranks the engine to life, and an Oasis song stirs from the radio. It’s one you recognize from an episode of The OC you watched ages ago.

You jam your seatbelt into place, pull down the passenger side visor to take a quick look at yourself. Your makeup doesn’t look horrible. A little smudged around the eyes, but it adds to the spontaneity you feel. You catch Ellie’s gaze through your peripheral vision. “Sorry,” You say, folding the visor back up. “Am I touching too many things?”

“No,” Ellie says, her tone light. She puts her seatbelt on and pulls the belt so it’s pressed under back instead of against her chest. “Touch whatever you want.”

You open her glove department and peek in before turning an overhead light on and off. Then, after a second of shallow deliberation, you poke your index finger gently into Ellie’s bicep. It’s a feeble attempt at humor that makes you immediately bury your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” You say, even though Ellie’s giggling silently under her breath. “I was, like, trying to be funny, and I’m not very good at it. That’s my fault.”

Ellie heaves one more boisterous laugh as the car drives down the road. “I’m a little drunk, too,” You say, the speed of the car making your body feel light as a feather. “Sorry.”

“Stop that.” She replies.

“Stop what?”

“Apologizing for shit,” She’s a vision as she maneuvers a smooth turn with just one hand, the other finding purchase on the back of your headrest. The contact moves her just barely an inch closer to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an unbecoming sound.

“It’s okay.” Ellie’s voice breaks through your reverie. “There’s a joke book in the console. If you ever wanna be as funny as me one day.”

“Really? You haven’t made me laugh yet.” Hesitantly, you pull the little book from her center console and flip to a random page. “Why do mushrooms get invited to all the parties?”

“Hm,” Ellie hums as she comes to a stop light. The blare of red does something to her beautifully concentrated face that is almost trance-like. “I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Because they’re such fungis.”

“Oh-ho!” She chortles, a full belly laugh, as if the joke was that funny. “I hadn’t heard that one before.”

“Looks like I’m the one that’s making you laugh.”

“Hey, don’t rush greatness.”

Silence purges the air for a moment, giving way to the guilt that still lingers in your chest. You glance at her focused face, your gaze drawing over the furrow in between her brows. It feels wrong to be enjoying her so much after how cruel you were.

Your voice is a squeak over the music. “I know you told me to stop apologizing for shit,”

“Then, why does it feel like you’re about to?” Ellie says, the sentence scored with a throaty chuckle.

Despite yourself, you smile. Somehow, she manages to make the hardest thing in the world (apologizing) just a little easier.

“Because, I really am sorry about the other day. I…” have been going through a hard time for the past two years. “…was having a bad day, and I took it out on you. I’m…” You want to finish with, not usually like that, but you are unsure if that’s completely true. Instead, you just say, “…sorry.”

“Can I be honest with you?” She inquires earnestly, whilst also seeming wholly unmoved by your apology.

Whatever she is about to say, you’re not sure you’re ready to hear it. Still you hum, “Mhm.”

“I think you take yourself way too seriously.” She says it lowly and a little fearfully, as if she’s trying to convey bad news in a soft way. “It’s okay to chill every now and then.”

“I am chill sometimes!” You erupt without meaning to, moving from the comfort of your seat and fully turning to face her. “I am,” you repeat in a softer register, only after proving her point.

“No, you’re not. I mean, even in your texts, you sound like a fed.” The statement is so jarringly and absurdly sincere that you can’t even bring yourself to be offended. Instead, you laugh so hard for so long that stitches cut up your sides. Ellie continues, “Who texts someone, do you sell? Like, okay. Good morning to you too, officer.”

She’s so right, you think. You are incredibly hard on yourself. You do think about yourself much more than any twenty year old girl ought to. It’s been an issue for so long that you’ve began to see it as a fact of life.

“It’s not intentional.” You say. Leftover giggles thread through your words. “I’m a very no-nonsense sort of person.”

“Life is all about balance. I think you can fit a little nonsense in.”

“Alright, o wise one.” God, this girl was all sorts of bad for you. You’re joking with the sole purpose of making her laugh and saying things like o wise one completely unironically. “Where do you suggest I start?”

There’s a mild timidness to her voice when she asks, “You ever smoke weed?” as if she’s heavily anticipating your response. Maybe, to her, you don’t look like the type to smoke. Hell, twenty four hours ago, you probably would have thought the same of yourself, too.

Your answer, though, is short and long. Yes and no. You had definitely hit a joint in an effort to impress some stoner boys in the ninth grade. And from what you could recall two years prior, you quite enjoyed the lack of inhibition that accompanied a fifty milligram edible.

“Not really,” you end up saying to Ellie. “Why?”

“‘Cause, you’re going to tonight. And you’re gonna like it.”

There’s something about the finality in her voice that makes you explode on the inside. Her telling you what you will do and what you will like without any room for dissent invokes a swell of warmth through your body. It spikes behind your ears, in your chest, right in between your thighs where you’re beginning to need her the most.

Still, you tease, “What makes you so sure?”

“I’m the o wise one, remember?” She parakeets your words from earlier, and you swat playfully in her direction. “Just trust me. Can you do that?”

Mhm, you ache to say, I can do whatever you want me to do.

You just say yes instead.

“Atta girl.”

***

Ellie drives to the old parking lot on McKinley, where the two of you met just days ago. You conclude to yourself that this spot holds some comfortability for her; whether it be for its vacant nature of vast amount of space.

It’s different from Wednesday, though. The place is blanketed in darkness, only dimly brightened by faraway amalgamations of stars and those same twinkling lamp posts.

Ellie rolls a blunt with all the finesse and care of someone performing surgery. After sprinkling and dispersing the weed over crisp rolling paper, she appraises it for a while. You stare at it too, though you’re not sure what it is you’re supposed to be looking for.

Then, Ellie darts her tongue out to wet along the hem of the paper.

It’s a methodical motion that feels like it lasts forever. You definitely want it to. You don’t even hide the way your eyes drink in the pink muscle. So full, so wet, you want to suck it into your mouth and caress it with your own, over and over again.

“Based on our first interaction, I wouldn’t have expected you to be much of a partying type.” She hypothesizes, pulling a lighter out of her jean’s front pocket and sparking the blunt to life. Graceful tendrils of smoke fill the air like tiny dancers.

“It’s on and off,” You say, watching the gentle purse of Ellie’s lips as hits it once. “Theta parties, not really. Phi Psi is usually fun, though.”

“Yeah?” She asks even though you’re positive half of what you’re saying sounds like gibberish by now.

“Yeah. They play good music, and they serve real alcohol. If I have to try and get drunk off another beer I might kill myself.”

Ellie hums a soft, throaty chuckle, and you feel as though you have hit the lottery. But, like any gambler, it isn’t good enough to win once. You want to do it again and again and again until you touch that ever elusive state of euphoria.

Dopamine rushes through your brain so turbulently that you don’t even feel nervous when she passes the blunt to you. You put it to your lips and suck for only a second. Just long enough to keep you from falling into a coughing fit.

When you breathe it in, it spreads throughout your body real slow and warm. Like you’re sinking into a bubble bath. You blow it out, and surprisingly only cough once.

“Anyway, yeah, they’re usually a good time.” You repeat the process, subconsciously uncrossing your legs. “You should come to their next one. It’s for St. Patrick’s Day.”

Stray light from a lamp post catches a portion of Ellie’s face perfectly. One of her eyes, the smooth valley of her cheekbone, that flash of auburn at her hairline.

“See, thing is, I’m not really much of the partying type.”

The sting of rejection feels unnatural to you. “It’ll be fun, though. The theme is Nothing but Green. You could, like, sell some of your weed there. I don’t know, is that allowed?”

You go to hit the blunt a third time, but are interrupted when Ellie deals a prompt pinch to your arm. It commands your attention without being altogether painful. You let yourself imagine how it would feel for her to pinch your nipples. Would she start off more gentle than that? Would she do it harder if you asked her to?

“Don’t do that shit,” She says, summoning the blunt from your hand.

“What?”

“Puff puff, pass.” She faux demonstrates. “All the time, every time. Golden rule.”

“Got it,” You nod. “Puff puff, pass.”

You are not sure if this teaching moment embarrasses you or turns you on. Perhaps it does both at once. Maybe, the fact that you’re embarrassed turns you on. Or the fact that you’re turned on embarrasses you.

“When will it start to kick in?” You mumble, entranced by the sight of smoke leaving Ellie’s lips and dispersing into the air.

“You said you don’t really smoke, right?” You nod. “Then, probably around now.”

Ellie hits the blunt again, a longer one this time. She lets the smoke come out of her mouth and nose in some entrancing trick of magic.

“Mmm,” She hums, brows furrowing in inquisition. “Your lip gloss is all over it.”

You’re so turned on you don’t even notice how you nearly grit your teeth to the point of stubs. “I’m sorry,” You whisper. It’s all you can say.

“Don’t be.” She reassures you, her voice taking on a more authoritative tone. It’s clear she’s the teacher to your pupil. “‘S just got a little bit of your taste on it now, that’s all.”

“What do I taste like?”

The words leave your mouth before you can even assess them properly. Strangely enough, you do not care to. It’s freeing to not have to think about anything.

Ellie licks her lips—slow and pensive, the way someone would if they were in deep thought. But she isn’t. She’s just trying to get an accurate appraisal of your flavor before it dissolves in her mouth.

She tasting me, you think. I’m all over her tongue right now.

“Peaches.” She decides after a moment. “Like the kind they make in Georgia, y’know. Fresh. Sweet.” Ellie softly smacks her tongue against the roof of her mouth a couple times. A slow, deep gulp from her follows. “Pure.”

You feel anything but. There’s nothing pure about the way you feel right now, or the things you want Ellie to do to you.

Your mind is mangled by desire, but the usual bashfulness around it completely disappears under the weed’s influence. If she asked you right now (What do you wanna do?) you would answer with full sincerity (I want to sit on your lap, and grind against your thigh until I cum. Then, I want to do it again and again and again and again and…)

Arousal begins to drip out of you at a sedated pace, rendering your panties a sticky mess.

“That’s really sweet of you, Ellie.” You smile. “You’re really sweet.”

“Yeah,” You know you aren't hesitating when you feel her gaze ride over you in a slow, long once over. Individual hairs on your body point up under her stare. It smooths up your calves but pays extra care to the buttery softness of your thighs.

When your four eyes meet, Ellie knows that you know she was just ogling you. But she doesn't care. She doesn’t even afford you the politeness of looking away, flustered at having been caught. She isn’t embarrassed of wanting you. You just wish she would take you already. Instead, she just says, “You’re not too bad yourself.”

When the blunt has been smoked down to basically nothing (a roach, Ellie calls it) your limbs feel like big hackysack bags, and your heart is beating maybe twenty times per minute.

You use an inordinate amount of strength turning your body towards Ellie. She’s began fiddling with the aux on her radio, flipping back and forth through songs in search of what she deems perfect.

Despite being a little out of your sound mind, you cannot fight the desire you have for her to fuck you anyway. You hope that by the time you get out of her car, the evidence of your want has soaked through your panties and into the suede passenger seat, leaving a little piece of you behind for her.

Ellie calls your name just as she’s picked what she deems the perfect song—Mac Miller’s Skin. She relaxes in her seat, narrowing her eyes on you and whispering, “You feelin’ alright?”

“Mmmhhmm,” You hum, soft and content. “Does it always feel this good?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” The low rumble of her voice softens your chest like hot tea. “Helps when you have someone to shoot the shit with.”

“Am I a good… shit shooter?” You ask, though not a hundred percent certain you’re even saying the right words.

“Not bad for your first time.”

Ellie drops you off in front of the Phi Mu house not too long after. You slink out of her car just as the clock strikes 2:53 in the morning. “Thank you, Ellie,” You say through open passenger side window. “I had fun.”

“So did I.” She says. Then, after a moment of tensed staring, “Will you text me whenever you get settled in? I don't want you bumping your head or anything.”

“Okay,” You grin. “Drive safe.”

You turn away and begin walking to the door, only looking back once you’re a few paces away from her car. Ellie watches you the whole way up.

***

You slump against your bedroom door, pushing it closed with a loud thud. The space is so dark you can’t even see your own palm in front of your face. You don’t care. You kick your boots and socks off before shoving your panties down to your ankles.

Your spine goes soft at the first brush of your fingertips against your pussy lips. You spread yourself open, exposing your clit to the stiff chill of your bedroom. A soft hiss escapes your lips as you take a finger and dip it into the cleft of your hole, collecting a gush of your slick, before lathering it over your cunt. Wetting the softness of your clit and labia minora.

“Ellie,” You whine as those first few embers of goose flesh prickle over your skin. If you focus just enough, you can still smell the deep scent of her lingering against your skin. If you close your eyes, you can imagine she’s right in front of you, egging you along.

You couldn’t even make it to the fucking bed, she’d murmur into your lips, her breath fanning over tongue. The thought of her seeing you so vulnerable makes you rub your clit in a steadier rhythm.

“No,” you mewl, “I couldn’t.” Already, you feel that pull behind your navel that tells you you’re gonna cum soon. You’ve never gotten so close so fast before and the shock of it has you whining.

Is this what you were thinking about the whole time? You nod so hard that you bump your head against the door. ‘Cause I could’ve given it to you. All you had to do was ask.

That sends you over the edge. You come apart with a sharp gasp that tears through your throat. Your teeth lock together in an attempt to stop any further sounds from escaping, but you can’t help the desperate sob that comes with the relief of your orgasm.

Don’t stop, you hear Ellie’s voice say again, and your hunger is back as though it never left. Your middle and ring fingers return to your clit like reunited lovers.

“Please,” You breathe out. You’re scared of the fire erupting inside you. You’re scared that you won’t be able to stop now that it’s started.

Answer me, Ellie says, is this what you wanted?

“Yes,” you confess in a short grunt. You didn’t care that you were too high to hold your head up straight. You didn’t care that you wouldn’t be able to fight her off even if you wanted to. You just needed her so bad it made everything else seem foolish. “I wanted it so bad.”

Yeah? Her voice is so taunting it almost feels humiliating. Wanted me to reach over and lift your dress up?

“Mhmhmhmhm,”

Wanted me to play with your pussy?

“I did, I did, I did,” You pant, moving your fingers off your clit and dipping them into your sopping hole. The stretch sates you, though you have to imagine your fingers as Ellie’s just to tame that fire burning in your gut. A prurient chorus of wet sounds fill the air.

While you fuck yourself, you grind your clit against the heel of your palm, hungry for as much stimulation as your pussy can take.

Look at how wet you are for me, Ellie taunts, and I’m not even fucking here.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you so quickly, you have to clamp down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming Ellie’s name into the pitch black air. Your cunt flutters around your fingers as you ride it out.

As you begin to come down, your knees buckle together and you tumble onto the floor. You’re totally spent by this point—toes crinkling in aftershock, legs completely liquefied, heart hammering through your ears.

The scent of carpet deodorizer makes you sneeze but keeps you from knocking out on the floor. You pat around the floor for your purse, hastily retrieving your phone to text Ellie.

All settled in :)

Your text is read, and about a minute later, telltale typing bubbles pop up on her end of the screen.

goodddd

take it easy tomorrow

***

The next couple of weeks are punctuated by texts. For days after your first rendezvous, you weren’t sure if you should be the one to text first or vice versa.

Then, you were heading to your car after the end of a midday class when your phone pinged twice.

there were peaches at the dining hall td

ate one and thought of u

You responded quickly after skipping the rest of the way to your car.

Wowww

How were they?

Five minutes pass, and your heart is on edge for all of them.

nice i guess

not as good as the real thing

From then, you don’t feel so apprehensive texting her first or at all. Coming up with the most perfectly cool-sounding thing to say does leave your stomach in knots the first couple of times, but you get over it soon enough when you read whatever she sends back.

While picking up a study book at Barnes & Noble, you convince yourself to get one of those joke books on the next aisle over. You purchase it quickly so that you have no time to regret it. When you make it to your car, you send a picture of it to Ellie.

Picked this up at the bookstore.

Gonna be just like you lols

oh yeah?

spit me smth

Why don’t melons get married?

mmmm

i don’t know

tell me

Because they cantaloupe.

lmaooo

that’s a good one

i’m proud of you

Better step your game up!

At night, when you’re in the midst of sleep, three pings would startle you awake, only to be promptly delighted when you process Ellie’s name attached to them.

u up?

sorry that sounded weird

couldn’t sleep thought i’d text u

Lol. Nothing better to do?

woahh ur awake

You woke me!

Are you alright?

yeahhh

just up thinking i guess

About what?

What you’re gonna wear to the NBG party?

very funny peach

The three words on your phone nearly burn your eyes. Your chest floods with a surge of ecstasy as you process the nickname she’s given you. You read the message about seven times over, your smile stretching bigger each time, imagining the words leaving Ellie’s mouth exactly as they’re written. You’re about to read it again when a new message springs forth.

you really want me to come?

You’re the only person I want there

***

Ellie sighs as she places her cards in the center of the coffee table.

It’s one of relief and anticipation—she can finally pick her phone back up and see what texts have materialized on your side of the screen.

“One three.” Jesse says, placing his cards down to the right of her.

Dina follows excitedly after. “Two fours.”

She can barely get the words out of her mouth before Jesse is declaring, “Bullshit,”

She scoffs and pulls the pile of cards at the table into her own deck.

While this is happening, Ellie is silently swooning over a photo you’ve just sent her—posed in front of your bedroom mirror, clad in a blush-pink athletic jacket and breathy white tennis skirt. Your eyes are just the tiniest bit softer, and Ellie swears she can see a kaleidoscope of emotion threatening to burst through your irises.

She’s not even sure if you’re trying to, but you look perfect. You always do. On the day the two of you met. On the night of the Theta party. On those Instagram stories Ellie isn’t sure if she’s supposed to heart or not (though, she always ends up doing so after an embarrassing amount of deliberation).

Fit check before my run later.

She’s about to respond when Dina’s voice sifts through the chaos of her thoughts. “Ellie,” She calls, “It’s your turn.”

Ellie diverts her attention back to her hand of cards. “One five.” She quickly lies, sliding it toward the center of the table, faced down.

She surveys the caption of words under your photo, swiftly and carefully preparing words of her own to send. love it peach, Ellie types. Then, once she’s gathered the confidence, lol run to my place.

Butterflies run fretful laps around her stomach as she awaits your response. Ellie presses her eyes closed for a moment, but only sees your smile twinkling behind the lids. She goes to worry her bottom lip between her teeth, hoping to find remnants of your taste still there, like some sort of perverted scratch and sniff.

“Three sixes.” Jesse announces, no doubt present in his voice.

“Bullshit,” says Dina, just as confident, “I’ve got all the sixes.” After a few moments of whispered counting, she offers, “Two sevens.”

When Ellie opens her eyes, three texts have appeared.

Haha, you wish

Come to the party tomorrow

Then I’ll consider.

Before she can think of a charming enough response, Dina nudges her leg under the coffee table. “Earth to Ellie!” She calls out. Ellie looks up—really looks—for the first time since before the game started to see Dina and Jesse staring back at her with annoyed albeit slightly amused faces. “Hey, we’re playing a game here.” Dina cajoles.

“Yeah, Ellie. Is it phone time or friend time?” Jesse joins, clearly equally motivated by curiosity and messing with her just for the sake of it.

Ellie breathes a soft laugh. “Sorry guys,”

“What’s got you all smiley, anyway?” Dina asks with a quirk of her brow.

“Nothing.”

“Bullllshit,” Jesse says, as confident as ever.

Ellie places her cards down, trying to conceal the lump passing through her throat. Despite being surrounded by her closest friends, she can’t help the spike in her heart rate.

“It’s just this girl I sold to a couple weeks back.” Ellie confesses.

“Oh,” Dina says, utterly delighted. Ellie doesn’t miss the look her and Jesse exchange across the table. “She nice?”

Just talking about you gets her going. A rush of heat blooms beneath her cheeks. “Yeah, she’s real sweet,” Ellie says before realizing that may not be completely true. So, she adds, “once you get to know her.”

Jesse pipes up from the other side of the table.“Is she cute?”

Dina reprimands him with a glare. “Don’t be such a pig, Jess.” Though it’s likely Jesse’s only said that to make her jealous. Her features soften as she turns her gaze back to Ellie. “But, I mean, is she?”

Ellie pulls a low whistle between her teeth, her own modest way of saying fuck yeah.

She pulls up your Instagram to show Dina and Jessie. Frankly, she couldn’t help the intimidation crawling up her back when she first looked at the page. One post, sixteen hundred followers, and a bio with only two characters—ΦM.

“Woah,” Dina blurts as she taps on the lone post. It’s a single photo of you outside a restaurant. The gown you’re wearing is a deep shade of scarlet, and your full, glossy lips are tilted upward in a coquettish sort of half smile.

Jesse claps a firm, proud hand over Ellie’s shoulder. “Sorority girl,” He says the two words as if they alone convey something much deeper. “Nice, man.”

“Yeah,” Dina chirps, “when can we meet her?”

“Woah,”

“Slow your roll, D.” Jesse says in the familiar mediating way that only he can. “You gotta let her come to us.”

“Yeah, you heard him, Mom,” Ellie smiles, though suddenly fighting the warmth that swirls in her chest at the prospect of you meeting her friends. “One eight,” She says, placing her last card on the table and revealing that she’s won the game.

“Bullshit!” Jesse and Dina exclaim together.

Ellie turns her card around to show that it is indeed an eight, and is met with a chorus of grunts. “I had a lot riding on that game.” Jesse says, gathering the deck and preparing to shuffle again.

“You bet two slices of your pizza.”

DIna rolls her eyes. “Clearly that was all he had.”

“Fuck it. New game! This time I’m betting the whole box.”

Later, after the pizza boxes and wine bottles and cards have all been cleaned away, Ellie shuffles into bed with excitement purring inside her chest as she opens your messages.

i’m back peach

Hi!

How was game night?

pretty fun

told my friends about you

Oh?

What did you say?

that i sold to a pretty girl a couple of weeks ago

& we hit it off

Lolll, I don’t remember it happening that way

uhh it happened eventually

also told them i’d go to your party tmrw

The screen goes still for a few moments after Ellie last message. Only alight with your speech bubble making disjointed appearances on the other side of the screen, fading in and out in the manner of a thready pulse.

YAY!!

I could just kiss you right now.

Ellie stares at the wall long after you’ve fallen asleep, trying fruitlessly to run the thought of you out of her mind. Still, no matter how many invisible constellations she draws with the popcorns in her ceiling, no matter how many sheep she counts or puffs she takes of her weed pen, she can’t calm her brain.

The only thing that sates her is the image of you.

Figuratively, because when Ellie finally allows herself to think of you, a slow warmth rushes over her body. It begins at the tips of her fingers and doesn’t stop until its peaked at her longest eyelash.

Literally, because she pulls up a photo of you to feed the fire burning in her heart. It’s the first picture you ever sent her—a selfie of you in a cream colored, off the shoulder sweater, your face only brightened by the glimmer of a nearby candle.

You look like a dream. Ellie’s concerned for a moment that the vision of your face may be the result of her own prolonged, feverish hallucinations.

Don’t mind my eyes. Just finished a study sesh lol. Ellie reads the texts you sent under the photo countless times. When she looks back at your eyes in the picture, they do seem to show the quaintest signs of sleepiness—soft and low and too relaxed to hold up your guard.

Ellie imagines your eyes to look that way after sex. The soft, sweet, romantic kind you have on Valentine’s Day or prom night. The kind you tell your girlfriends about a couple days later over salads. (“It was the most romantic night of my life!”) Love making.

What scares Ellie is that she doesn’t want to do that to you. At least not right now. Right now, she wants your back pressed flush against her chest as plows into you from the side. She wants to grip one hand at the junction under your knee, keeping you anchored open so that there’s nowhere to go but deeper.

Does it always feel this good?

Your previous words reverberate through her head. Ellie wonders if that’s the kind of thing you would say after sex. The kind of delirious, euphoria-drunk question you would ask after she’s coaxed a fourth or fifth orgasm out of you. Does it always feel this good, Ellie?

With a heavy sigh, Ellie closes her phone and her eyes, resolving not to think about you for the rest of the night, lest she unravel her remaining bit of sanity. She fails.

***

Ellie’s text comes just as you down your fifth green apple jell-o shot. Checking your phone, you chew and suck the thickness into a smooth dissolution until it’s melted completely in your mouth.

i’m outside peach

A smile splits your face before you even realize it. Excitement surges through you so quickly your body jolts as if you’ve gotten chills.

“Sorry,” You say after accidentally bumping into a guy wearing a simple but effective dollar sign costume. He murmurs a polite, you’re good, and continues flirting with a girl dressed as the green M&M.

The floorboards tremble under the bass of Lil Yachty’s Broccoli and the hundreds of feet moving along to the music. You make your way through the crowd, passing a huddle of girls dressed a leprechauns and one not so convincing Hulk before you make it outside.

You spot Ellie instantly. Firstly, because a few porch and string lights illuminate where she stands at the front of the house. Secondly, because she’s the only person not wearing any green.

Your eyes lock as you storm up to her, and you catch the subtle appraisal she does of your outfit. You’re wearing a green, sequined mini dress that’s hemmed just beneath the curve of your ass and strappy stilettos that curl up your calves. All your jewelry is gold—your big hooped earrings, jangling bracelets on both arms, and mess of thin chains around your neck. And though Ellie can’t see it, you swear her eyes focus in on the thong you’re wearing under your dress. It’s a soft, sheer material of pale green, trimmed with scalloped lace. Two words sit woven into the fabric over your soft mound—Lucky You.

“Now it’s my turn to pinch you,” Your voice comes out familiarly cheery, even if you are trying to reprimand her. “Where’s your green, loser?”

She’s wearing another band tee and straight-legged jeans, her hands shoved into the pockets. “Is it too late to tell you I don’t have any?”

Just the sound of her voice is enough to evaporate your frustrations. It doesn’t help that your eyes are following a trail of freckles down the bridge of her nose toward the soft bow of her upper lip. And her eyes are such a brilliant tinge of olive that you altogether stop caring just for a moment.

“No,” You clear your throat to keep the word from coming out as a whimper. “because we’re gonna get you some.”

You wrap your fingers around her wrist, gently pulling until her hand is out of her pocket and interlocked with yours. Surprisingly, you aren’t as unnerved by touching her as you thought you would be. It’s warm skin against warm skin. And while the softness of her palm encased around yours sends your pulse lurching, you don’t have it in you to be nervous at this moment.

“Where’re we going, Peach?” It’s the first time you’ve heard her say the nickname aloud, and you’re certain the feeling it gives you is akin to snorting a few lines.

“I’m gonna take you to get something green. Just stay close to me and try not to get pinched.”

You lead Ellie through the crush of people, tightening your grip on her hand as you pass through one particularly congested area of clammy, jittery bodies. You occasionally look back to survey her face, gauging her features for any signs of noticeable discomfort. However, you don’t find any. Only delight and a little bit of awe as she takes in everything around her.

One particularly rough wave of movement crushes the two of you together—your back against her front. Just as your balance begins to topple and your grip unfastens from Ellie’s hand, you feel it hitch on to your hip. Her breath is warm and smooth as she whispers into your skin, “Don’t worry,” The words run over the nape of your neck like water. “I got you.”

The two of you are so close, you can feel your ass slotting up and down over the hard steel of her belt buckle. For a second, you swear you feel Ellie tighten her hold on your hip so she can grind herself against you in turn. Just the thought that that could be happening makes you insane.

You turn back to her, nearly curling your body around hers, just so you let your lips brush against the shell of her ear. “Thank you, Ellie.”

You lock the storage closet door behind you. The sound of it is a soft, sharp click that you can’t be certain Ellie didn’t hear. Under the room’s singular lightbulb, she’s ruffling through a bin of beaded green necklaces and Party City shirts.

“Find anything?” You gently squeeze your thighs together before you make your way over to her.

“Just a bunch of shirts that say, I’m Single, Pinch Me Anyway.”

“Better than nothing,”

“True.”

You let yourself idly watch as she rifles through the bin. Her t-shirt rides just the tiniest bit up her back, so you can see the minuscule divots and twitches of muscle at the strong, svelte curve of her abdomen.

“I’m really glad you could come, Ellie.” Her head only slightly twitched toward the sound of your voice, but beside that, she doesn’t pull her eyes away from the bin. Almost as though she’s making a concerted effort not to. “For a minute, I wasn’t sure if you would.”

You stalk over to the other side of the spacious closet, sucking in a sharp breath as your back makes contact with the cold, dusty wall. You wonder if the sound of your heels clicking over the floor will arouse her curiosity, but she only manages a slight glance at you through her peripheral vision.

“C’mon, Peach, I was gonna pull through. Just had to tease you a little first.” Her voice comes out deep and smooth, a glass of whiskey you want to get drunk on any day of the week. Still, she doesn’t look your way. And that irritates you, because she’s been scraping the bottom of the bin for a good minute.

“Ellie,” you allow yourself to murmur once more. “Why won’t you look at me?”

She stops moving then, and you’re stricken with satisfaction. Her voice is a low, tortured sound. “You think I haven’t been looking at you?”

Finally, she stands up, turning her head your way. It pleases you, but only for a second. You outstretch your hand and curl your index finger in a come hither motion. So, she does. Ellie stalks toward you one careful step at a time until there are only two inches of free space between you. With your bodies so close, you’ve effectively trapped yourself against the wall.

“Do you… like my dress?” On the last three words, you voice slurs the tiniest bit. It comes out not at all how you intended. Vulnerable instead of sexy. You think that’s partly because you have to suppress a green apple flavored belch under you speech.

Ellie’s eyes travel over your dress in one steady motion, as if she’s counting the individual sequins. Your nipples stiffen under her gaze.

“Of course I do.” She says after a moment.

You nudge her leg with your foot, gently brushing over her shin a few times. “What about my shoes?”

She’s unfazed, though. She doesn’t take her eyes off yours. Her brows furrow interrogatively as she asks, “What are you doing, Peach?”

“I’m just trying to see if you like my outfit.” You lie, “I wore it for you, anyway.” Well, half lie.

Ellie entertains you for a moment, glancing down at your heeled foot as it pushes the hem of her jeans just the slightest bit over her inner ankle. “You’re beautiful,” she says, “but you know that already,” Blood rushes so furiously behind the shells of your ears that you feel you might vomit right at Ellie’s feet.

“What if I just wanted you to tell me?”

“Then I’ll tell you as many times as you want.” Ellie says, contented and resolved. You want her to tell you as many times as she can muster in one breath, between kisses, against the shell of your ear in the most intimate moments.

Want burns through you so rapidly your body feels as though it may dissolve into a heap of ash. With a shaky hand, you tug Ellie closer by the buckle of her belt and kiss her.

In those few seconds, it’s everything. Everything you’ve fantasized about, everything in this world you could ever want—it resides right here in the plushness of her mouth.

The skin of her lips is tinged with a decadent cocktail of flavors. Traces of mint, honey, and the sparsest bit of sweat. The taste sends a heady buzz down your spine that disorients your vertical. Luckily, Ellie stills you with warm, steady hands upon your hips.

Filled with a new mystical sense of exhilaration, you snake a hand around her waist, letting it sit comfortably at the slender small of her back. You pull her into you, and the movement of your lips grow sloppy as your body takes in this novel contact. Her chest pressed against yours, four legs moving as one at a messy interlock, her belt buckle’s chilled metal caressing your skin even through your dress.

It’s messy, but all the more electrifying. Just as the beginnings of a whimper are building in your throat, Ellie uses the same hands holding your hips to push you closer into the wall, away from her.

Your mouths are still so close that you can taste the warm fan of her breath. “I’m sorry,” Slowly, the pair of you untangle your limbs, Ellie initiating most of it. She lets her hands fall from your hips and puts a step of distance between you. It’s noticeable enough to make you shiver at the loss of contact, yet still small enough that just a single sufficient heave of either of your chests will push you back into the other’s orbit.

“You’re drunk,” She explains finally.

Years of premature alcohol consumption up to now had gifted you the ability of holding your liquor better than most of your peers, so you wonder what gives you away to Ellie. The strong and sickly, saccharine taste of green apple on your lips? Your less than perfect balance? The audacity you had to lock the two of you in a storage closet?

“It isn’t your fault, Ellie,” Your voice is so low it hardly forms any permeation in the atmosphere, a perfect antithesis to your shame that seems to swallow the room. “I kissed you.”

Ellie clutches her jaw, a pained expression shadowing her features, as if you’ve just socked her in it. “Still, I shouldn’t have… fuck,” A moment passes where you cannot tell what emotion Ellie is feeling. Frustration? Lust? Regret? A cornucopia of them swirl through the flecks of sepia in her eyes. “Let’s just get you home, okay?”

That word—home—doesn’t help your shot nerves. In fact, it only worsens them. The Phi Mu mansion a few blocks away feels less like home and more like a place where you live. A place with all your things, all the space, all the specially cooked meals you could ever want. And yet,

“I don’t want to go there.” Your own voice catches you off guard. No longer the still, controlled sotto voce of the past. You’re petulant. Teetering on the edge of an emotion you refuse to touch. You sound as though you are about to cry. Shit, maybe you are drunk. “Can I come to yours?” You ask so quickly that the words swallow your previous sentence entirely. Ellie’s face doesn’t even get a chance to express the initial sentiment of Where else are you gonna go?

“Okay,” She resolves, “let’s go.”

***

Ellie’s apartment is only a heap of shadows and abstract heaps of shape. She grabs you by the hand and leads you through the darkness. Even while drunk, you can feel the caution radiating off her in seismic waves.

“My room’s this way.” She pulls you along towards the right (you think), murmuring something about minding your step.

You only know that you’ve actually made it into Ellie’s room when your heels no longer click against the floor but instead putter clumsily through sumptuous carpet. She lets go of your hand and ventures deeper into the space, flicking on a lamp that floods the room with warm light.

Even while drunk, her room feels emblematic of everything cool, in the sense that it is wholly distinctive to her. While her bed is neatly made—a fluffy, tempting slate of onyx and navy blue linen—her desk seems homier, with a slew of artifacts littering the top of it. A notebook flipped open, pages tattooed in indecipherable, wiry scrawl, a laptop plastered in faded stickers, a mug of diverse pens.

An acoustic guitar sits in the corner of her room, staring at you through the gaping maw of its sound hole. “I didn’t know you played guitar.” You remarked, unstrapping your heels. When your feet are finally bare, you fight off a chill as they sink into the soft floor.

“Uh, here and there.” Ellie palms the back of her neck. Her flushed disregard piques your interest, but you just add it to the mental laundry list of things you’ll ponder on further when the sun comes up. “Bathroom’s right through there.” She points to an agape door parallel to another, which you assume is her closet. “I’ll be out here whenever you’re done.”

You aren’t shocked that Ellie is in the living room when you return from peeing. It’s a sobered, impregnable distance away that doesn’t stop you from wanting to kiss her no matter how many extra steps it will take to get there.

She left clothes for you at the foot of the bed. An old, shapeless Oasis tee that swallows your body in its fabric and a pair of boxers that are as comfortable as they are unflattering.

Ellie is setting up blankets and pillows when you join her in the newly illuminated living room. She’s gotten comfortable too, having bartered her jeans and tee for a wife-beater and flannel pajama pants. “Will your roommate be upset that I’m here?” You ask, tiptoeing further into the space.

“Nah, you’re good,” Ellie’s couch is compiled of two blankets. One, you presume, is to shield your skin from the glacial sofa leather. The other, from the air. “It’s about time I brought a girl home, anyways.”

What’s meant to be a joke only sours you for some reason you can’t put your finger on. “Right.” You sigh, feeling dejected by your own murky thoughts. You take to caressing the blankets you’ll be sleeping with tonight. Their fleecy hairs are as soft as plant soil. “Thank you for setting me up out here.”

Ellie chuckles. It’s a coquettish, nubile sound that fills your body with a fresh load of butterflies. “It’s for me, Peach.” She plops her butt onto the middle cushion and spreads her legs in the most territorial fashion, taking up as much space as possible, presumably to keep you from sitting near her. “Bed’s all yours.”

“Are you sure?” You protest, “I’m your guest. Shouldn’t I take the couch?”

“A princess like you, sleeping on a sofa? I don’t buy it.” Her tone is challenging, as though there’s some sliver of possibility she’ll let you take the couch, only if you want it badly enough.

Still, she’s right. Given the choice any other time, you would make a beeline to the nearest available bed. The only reason you can think of for feigning modesty is that it grants you an excuse to talk to her more.

“Yeah,” You relent, though still dipping your knee into the only bit of cushion unexplored by Ellie’s legs. “good point there. You like it though, right?”

The it is unspoken, though clear as day. It’s staring her in the face, kneeing her couch, wearing her clothes. It chewed her out within moments of meeting her, and not long ago, drunkenly kissed her as though their lives depended on it.

You watch her fingers inch their way toward your knee, dither slightly in their path, and then curl into her palm in an anguished fist. “Yeah, I do.” From where you stand, a slit in her eyebrow reveals itself to you. You are unable to tell if it was sliced there electively or acquired from injury. You’re about to reach out and touch it when Ellie speaks again. “You should get some rest, Peach.”

Too tired to fight it, you acquiesce, returning to Ellie’s room with a reserved, “Good night,”

After leaving her bedroom door open so that only a slice of outside light shines through, you pee once more before plopping into bed. You bury your face into a pillow, pleasantly surprised to find Ellie’s scent all over it. The living room light never dims or turns off, but you’re too tired to care.

***

The time on your phone reads 2:37 when you wake up. Nighttime is still in full swing, as evidenced by the sounds of drunk collegiates whooping about outside. Still, your heart hammers wildly in your chest and your bladder screams at you from beneath Ellie’s duvet, eager to be relieved of its green apple jell-o content.

When you finally do pee and get your pulse to calm, you notice the sound of television humming from the small crack in the bedroom door. The thought that Ellie could still be awake both bewilders and delights you. You know won’t be able to fall back asleep until you check.

You poke your head out the door to see that Ellie is still awake and watching a Spongebob rerun. While she’s blissfully unaware of your presence, you dedicate a few moments of your stealth to observing her.

Even the way she lazes makes you blush. Ellie’s head, a warm crush of velvety auburn, is sunken into a pillow, denting its center. Her chest is looped into an even rhythm of breathing, a hypnotic up-and-down that makes you jealous of the air she breathes. One of her hands swings idly off the edge of the couch while the other rests on her belly, fingering invisible patterns into the fabric of her tee.

“Ellie,” Try as you might (though, you did not bother trying) you cannot stop yourself from calling out to her. Her eyes flit from the television to you, and you see them come to life as they do.

“Peach,” Her tone betrays that she’s both delighted and scared to see you. “what are you doing up?”

You push the door open wider, making room for the rest of your body in that liminal space between here and there. “Couldn’t sleep,” Ellie sits up on the couch, and her shirt rides up, exposing that smooth canvass of skin just above the waist of her pants. “What’s your excuse?”

“Same,” she confesses, “bad dream.”

You aren’t sure what part of this minute interaction pushes you into your next train of thought. Maybe it’s the way her gaze pins you to the threshold of the door. Maybe it’s because all those feelings that stormed through you at the party never really evanesced in the way they should have, and you aren’t sure they ever will. Especially not now. I shouldn’t have asked to come here, you think, she should have told me no.

“Come to bed with me?”

It’s a tall order, and you know that. You know Ellie will probably roll her eyes and grumble something along the lines of, go back to sleep, Peach, but just like that night in her car, you lack too much inhibition to care.

You aren’t expecting her to rise from the couch and murmur something beneath her breath like, come on then.

“That didn’t take much convincing.” You quip, thoroughly surprised by your victory, as Ellie flits past you through the doorway.

“I’m in no position to fight it.”

“What, does that mean you don’t want to?” You inquire, “Or that you won’t?”

“Little bit of both, I guess.” Ellie pauses at the foot of the bed as she appraises it. You’ve already dipped one of your knees into the foam and picked up a pillow for fluffing. “You’re on my side of the bed, by the way.”

“Oh, I—” You dither some as you knead the pillow previously dimpled by the shape of your head.

“No, it’s okay. Looks like you slept on both sides, actually.”

Ellie smiles, gesturing to the identical concavities on both pillows, the messiness of the comforter that isn’t confined to one side of the mattress.

“Sorry, I’m—”

“Hey,” It’s a single, three-letter word with not even a second syllable afforded to it. So, why does the sound of it out of her mouth command your attention like that of clicker trained animal? “what’d I tell you about all that apologizing? It’s okay. Now my pillows’ll smell like you.”

She crawls over onto the mattress until she’s maybe a few inches across from you. You wonder if she’s even trying to control herself around you anymore. You certainly are not.

“Okay, but before we go to sleep, can I apologize for one more thing?”

“No, but I know you’re gonna do it anyway.”

“The kiss earlier.” You enunciate the three words as if they alone convey the entirety of your thoughts. “I’m sorry if I made anything weird, or crossed a line, or…” Embarassment and a lack of proper wording silences you. “anything like that.”

“You didn’t cross anything. It was… nice. I enjoyed it.”

The relief that fills your chest is almost immediately vanquished. “Nice? Just nice?”

A wolfish chuckle rumbles through her chest. “Yeah, I mean, we were in a closet, and I didn’t want us to get too carried away. And you were pretty drunk, so…”

“Sooo, you hated it?”

“I did not hate it. I just think we have the potential for better.”

“Well, we aren’t in a closet now. And I’m not drunk anymore.”

“What are you trying to say, Peach?”

Doing your best to keep the plush of the mattress from knocking you off kilter, you lean over until all of your weight is rested on your hands and knees, and you crawl to her. You slink her way until your noses are nearly sharing the same stream of oxygen.

Ellie’s eyes give way to every emotion that flickers through her, a tried and true window directly into her soul. Is she really doing this, you see her think. Fuck, she is.

Your lips connect for the second time that night, with less clumsiness and somehow even more apprehension than before—both purely motivated by the fact that you want to do it right this time.

The taste of her lips is even sweeter this time, fermented and rich and bursting with every flavor of her. When she opens her mouth a little wider, so that you can connect your lips more intimately, so that some of her saliva leaks onto your tongue, you mewl into her.

Your mouths move in communication with each other, a sort of interpretive dance. You creak yours open wider so that Ellie’s tongue can pass through and land exactly where you need it—tickling the roof of your mouth, massaging your own tongue.

It feels exactly as you imagined so many times before, better even. Wet and warm and soft and just so her. She begins to pull out of your mouth, but you just suck her back in, demanding and hungry. For a moment you think you’re being too expressive, too transparent with your desires, until Ellie cups the back of your head, pulling you deeper in and invigorating the want that pools in your belly.

After a couple more beats of heady, sedated sucking, you let Ellie’s tongue retract from your mouth, prepared to pull away. When you do, your bottom lip gets stuck—no, caught—between her teeth for half a second. Just long enough to push you closer and closer off the cliff of your sanity and into the hysteria filled waters below.

“Shit,” Ellie audibly gulps. A thin rosary of saliva connects your faces, and some smears the bow of her lips. You curl the tip of your tongue and lick up the mess.

She releases the back of your skull and you sink unceremoniously into the mattress, feet tucked underneath your butt. “Better?” You ask rhetorically.

“Kiss all your dealers like that?”

“Only my favorite ones.” You jest despite the puddle of need dampening Ellie’s boxers.

The two of you fall into silence, the space of the room post-kiss only soundtracked by whistling breaths and shuffling against the comforter. A minute of this passes before Ellie speaks up. “Can I tell you a secret?”

You hum affirmatively.

“I didn’t actually have a bad dream.” She divulges, “I just…” Her hands gesticulate aimlessly about, groping for the words. “couldn’t sleep knowing you were in the other room. It was driving me fucking crazy.”

“Were you just going to sit there and go crazy all night? Or were you going to come in here and do something about it?”

“I definitely thought about it.”

“What stopped you?”

“I guess I’m just a coward, or I would have done it sooner.”

Slowly and a little timidly, your mouth forms around a question that’s plagued the deepest recesses of your psyche for a long while. “Do you really want me, Ellie?”

Ellie answers your question with a kiss. She crawls over to you so slowly that, at any moment, you could have protested, asked, what are you doing? But you didn’t want to.

Once she’s on you, though, she doesn’t stop. She kisses you like she’s angry you would even ask the question, do you want me.

Her hands cup your face in a way that doesn’t even feign gentleness. You’ll pull away from her when she wants you to, and only then. “Lay back,” Ellie barely breaks away from you, practically spitting the words into your mouth.

Still, you recline your entire body until your head hits a pillow. It feels so good to have her like this—on top of you, kissing you, hands caging you in place, hips finding a welcome place in between your spread legs.

You ache for her, and you’re far past hiding it. Your hands find a steady hold on her hips, grinding your center into hers through your respective bottoms. Desperate whines travel out of your mouth into hers as your body drinks in the friction.

“I want you, Peach,” Ellie rasps over you. Her mouth connects to your ear, tongue drawing a precise curl around the shell. “Want you here,” she says, just before she lands on your neck and begins sucking tenderly at the skin above your jugular. “and here,” she manages to utter. Shuffling beneath your shirt, she slides her hands up your waist until they reach the pulsing expanse of your chest. “here, too. Can I touch you right here?” Ellie nearly pleads, even though she already is.

“You know you can.” You shudder, bunching the shirt up until it’s pushed completely over your head. The stiff air makes your nipples draw up and harden into sensitive peaks. It isn’t helped by the fact that you can feel Ellie’s breath fanning over them, humid and painstakingly close.

Ellie doesn’t take her eyes off you as she flattens her tongue over your nipple and licks. Slowly, up and down, over and over again. A whimper breaks from your gritted teeth when she rims your areola. “Do you like it when I do that?”

You nod hard enough to wrench your head off your shoulders. All the while, your shaky fingers are hooking under the hem of her shirt and pulling it up, up, up until it’s shuffled off the top of her head.

With both your shirts discarded to a distant corner of the room, Ellie’s mouth returns to yours, capturing it in a kiss so fervent it springs a tear behind your eye. She’s got you right where she wants you, you presume: ensnared within a hazy loop of wet kisses, heaving breasts pressed together, cunts still seeking each other out through the barriers of your pants.

If Ellie were to say to you, right now, Would you kill someone for me? Hm? I’ll make you cum if you say yes, you cannot guarantee your moral compass would even register killing someone to be wrong; not when the feeling of her rutting up against you is so incredibly right.

She doesn’t bother asking if she can stick her hand into your pants. The intrusion startles you a tad initially, makes you tense up, until she tightens her grip at the junction between your shoulder and neck, murmuring into your ear a soft, “‘S okay, baby, it’s just me,”

When Ellie does make contact with the desire that’s been dripping out of you, the edge of her lips curl into a wolfish grin. “You’re gonna kill me, I fucking swear.”

She pulls her hand out of your pants, and you can immediately tell which finger touched you. It’s wet and glistening beneath the moonlight as if bestowed with a halo. Ellie sucks it into her mouth, a slight moan falling from her lips as she does.

You hustle her boxers down to your ankles until you can comfortably kick them off. Ellie’s eyes darken over the picture of you, on her bed and naked as the day you were born. “Here,” She extends her middle and ring fingers out to your face. “get these wet for me.”

You imagine it’s intentional, the way she purposely keeps them about a hair’s breadth away from your lips. She wants to see you debase yourself a little bit, to shift your face smallest inch so that you can scoop her fingers into your mouth. So, you do.

Your lips wrap around her fingers in a sort of sweet surrender, sucking past the first knuckles, you taste remnants of yourself on her skin. Oral fixation, you presume, is why the act of doing this has felt more intimate than anything else so far. Your eyes bulge with naïveté as her fingertips press into your tongue, eliciting a teary gag.

You would think that the audible signal of discomfort would sway her to stop, but it seems only to invigorate her. Ellie’s eyes darken, and a strong, breathy hum vibrates off of her. “Yeah,” she goads, only removing her fingers once all your tears have spilled down your chin. She examines the wet canvass of your face with indeterminate emotion. You’re expecting concern. Are you okay, Peach? or something like, I’ll be gentle next time. Instead, she scoffs a condescending chuckle, remarking, “you look so fucking pretty when you cry.”

Without trying, your chest heaves against a broken sob. Like sweet prey at the mercy of a barbarous predator, you feel helpless. There’s nowhere you could go without her snatching you from the air with seizing paws. The feeling toes the line of being both petrifying and the most exhilarating thing you could ever imagine.

Ellie shifts until her weight is propped entirely on her right arm. From this angle, her warm breath sears the shell of your ear. You spread your legs without her even having to ask, pressing your knees as far back as you can, even as it starts to hurt.

Ellie brings her wet fingers to your cunt, caressing the swollen head of your clit with a thinly veiled hunger. The sensation makes every muscle in your body squeeze taut. Your toes curl and you have to fight the urge to shut your thighs together. “Ellie,” You whine, hiccuping a little as your asshole begins clenching in time with the movement of her fingers.

“I’ll give you anything you want. You know that?” Ellie coos into your ear, rubbing your clit a little faster, a little firmer. Your vision grows fuzzy at the edges. “All you need to do is ask. Use your words.”

“I want you inside.” Your voice is crossed between a whimper and grit. A satisfied purrr hums through Ellie’s body, but the confession embarrasses you a little nonetheless.

She dips her middle digit lower, letting her fingertip sit at the cleft of your hole. You whine a bit at the contact, squeezing desperately around nothing, trying to suck her in. “Atta girl,” Her first knuckle passes through with unsurprising ease, though only paltrily sates the appetence that’s tearing you asunder from the inside out.

Ellie affords you a few thrusts of her finger, curling it upward in a slow, come hither motion to test the waters. That feeling—that initial phalangeal push—gently coaxes a high pitched whimper out of your slacked mouth. She hums, satisfied, though only temporarily, as she pulls out a bit just so she can stretch you around a second finger.

“Oh, shit,” Your breathless cries fall on deaf ears as Ellie pushes her to fingers in, down to the very last knuckle. The feeling of being so full of her stirs a heap of emotions within you. It’s overwhelmingly and maddeningly perfect in a way you’re only able to communicate through broken moans. “Oh, my—” You hiccup, pressing your eyes shut as she pulls almost all the way out, only to push back in in a way that kind of hurts.

Ellie curls her fingers in tantalizing unison, her pace controlled, though, a tad feral. You can feel it in the melody of soft grunts that sneak through her gritted teeth and into your ears. It doesn’t take long before her fingertips are prodding at a spot that makes you gasp. The part of it that isn’t made up of sheer pleasure is genuine shock. You had no idea anything in this world could feel so good.

“Right there?” She asks, all too smug and casual, as if she isn’t literally fingering the pulse of your most sensitive spot. Every attempt you make to speak is thwarted by her feverish, determined pursuit of your orgasm.

“C’mon,” Ellie further riles when your whimpers start to synchronize in time with the steady plunges of her fingers. “show me how well you can take it.”

You don’t even notice the fledgling spring of tears that are dampening your cheeks until Ellie licks one clean with the curve tip of her tongue, and then sears the salty flavor into your mouth in a messy kiss.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you feel the pleasure intensifying in every part of your body, marching you toward an orgasm so intense that you actually do start to cry. Soft, tensed wails borne entirely from Ellie’s fingers. “W—Wait,” you nearly choke trying to say the word. “I need a minute. Can you just—”

“No.” She says. You don’t even think she considers the possibility of stopping. All that’s visible in the deep pools of her irises is stalwart resolution.

You make an attempt to squirm away, but she curls her fingers into that you again, adding pressure to where you’re already so tender. “Ellie,” you plead, her name falling clumsily out of your mouth.

Your desperation does little to stall her. In fact, it seems to be the thing pushing her forward. “You’re gonna cum so fucking hard like this,” Ellie promises, “just trust me.”

And you do.

It only takes a couple more nudges before your orgasm erupts from your body with all the intensity of an ocean bursting through a dam. In the heat of it, your voice reaches a screaming pitch. “Don’t stop,” you command, aching to ride it out for as long as possible. “please, please don’t stop.”

Thick, limpid rivulets of cum rush out of you in warm spurts, and Ellie fucks you through every second of it.

The next couple of minutes are spent trying to catch your breath. You flit your eyes over to Ellie’s face, repeatedly tracing your gaze over her eyes and lips. “You’re so fucking perfect.” She coos into your balmy skin whilst planting messy kisses into your temple. Then, she orders, “Come here.” Slowly, with small protesting mewls from you, Ellie pulls her fingers out of your cunt so that her hands can cup your cheeks and lock you into another passionate kiss.

***

When the two of you have wrangled into a position of post-coital cuddling—you curled into her side, face tucked into her neck, with her tattooed arm wrapped around you—Ellie asks, “Do you wanna hear a joke?”

Halfway lolled into slumber, you oblige her. “Lay it on me.”

“A weasel walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Interesting. I’ve never served a weasel before. What can I get you?’” The anticipatory gleam in Ellie’s eyes tells you that she’s really proud of this one, and that makes you smile.

You sigh, “I’m ready.”

“‘Pop’ goes the weasel.”

You go from sleepily smiling to rolling your eyes in record time. “Good, right?” Ellie jests, filling the room with raucous laughter that you’re sure would wake anyone, if anyone was here to hear it. “Come on, I worked really hard on that one.”

Not even a full five minutes later, Ellie has completely passed out before you. She is, for lack of a better phrase, a picture. Chest billowing steadily around slow, deep breaths, mouth slightly agape with a ribbon of drool staining its corner, a gentle snore singing from her nose.

With your pinky finger, you connect makeshift constellations in the freckles on her collarbone until your eyelids grow weary. Just before you surrender to tiredness, you let your gaze sweep over Ellie’s face a final time. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth that is now curled into a soft smile. You hope she’s dreaming of you.

it’s his pet names that linger instead— sounding all soft and familiar, worn warm from use. the ones he returns to without thinking, like second nature. schatzi. simply sweet. ever so precious. the word curls from his mouth with an ease that feels almost absentminded, yet never careless. and liebling, his favorite, his darling. it’s usually spoken quieter, closer, like it belongs to you and him alone.

those are the few words you come to know. not by translation, but how they’re given. by the way his voice lowers around them, the way they brush against your skin like something tangible.

mixed by blood, eren's heritage lives in the small details about him more than anything else; his cadence, his features, his mannerisms. he doesn't necessarily talk about it. his tongues, german and turkish, live elsewhere. like in fleeting moments on the phone with his family, voice softened with a familiarity different from the kind he shows you.

it's admirable, how effortlessly he slips into the rhythm of home when catching up with his mother and father. you hear it only then, in fragments and tones, something distant. you try to glimpse into that part of him, but he leaves it unshared. 

it isn't that your boyfriend withholds any aspects of his life, or his culture, from you. rather, he lets untranslatable words fall as they come, shaped more by his feeling than intentionality. there's a certain intimacy in that. he thinks that you don't have to understand every syllable to feel the weight of it.

because with him, it's about how it lingers in the space between you long after the words have fallen away.

you know eren doesn’t make much use of deutsch in his everyday life, no. it remains tucked away as the one thing he doesn't reach for, but something that exists all the same. and maybe, that's what makes it all the more enticing, when it surfaces in the moments his control finally begins to slip.

it’s in those instances, when his breath grows uneven and composure frays at the edges, that something from deep within him begins to rise unbidden. words he doesn't consciously choose, tones he typically wouldn't shape, leaving him in a low, broken lilt. there's nothing intentional about it, just the rawness of instinct when the sensation is so overwhelming that he can't help himself any longer.

and in that unraveling, there's something disarmingly sensual. not just the act itself, or the hot slide of his hands when he touches you, but a side of him that can't be hidden away, revealed only when he's too far gone to hold it back.

"scheisse!"

it slips out of him without warning. his mind’s so muddled by the way your dewy walls squeeze his cock that he doesn’t even think to translate. he’s drawn fully into the hilt of your gushing pussy, his presence heavy both in-and-outside of you. he's got you splayed out on your back, displayed ever so beautifully, soft textured hair fanning out on the pillows, like that of a halo. how fitting, for his precious angel. 

eren has you tucked under the breadth of him and slovenly folded into missionary, your body immovably pressed beneath the heat and heaviness of his imposing frame. his attention narrows on you, you, you, until nothing else seems to exist outside of it.

your trembling leg is held in his left palm, secured at the pit of your knee as he guides it up against your shoulder as a means to fucks deeper into you. his other hand rests hot upon your waist, grip tightening whenever you react, kneading at warm brown flesh whenever you clamp down on him. he's unrelenting with how he draws out, plows in, does it again, again, again. dense clapping resounds in hollow echoes throughout the dim-lit bedroom of his paradis-city penthouse.

"e—ren! eren, erennn,” his name falls fractured from your lips, each syllable hitching as it leaves you. he hears it, and something in him shifts. a slow, unmistakable reaction that pulls at the corner of his mouth before it fully settles into a smile. it spreads wide, brazen and sharp in a way that looks as feral as he feels; all teeth, cutting sharp and boyish across his face, features drawn tight with ardor.

pleasure has already taken hold of him; face flushed, sweat gathering and rolling in narrow paths down his skin. his dark manbun sits slightly undone at the base of his head, loose strands slipping free to cling to his temples and the nape of his neck, his tattooed body damp with the same heat that coats him. his brows, thick and dark, knit tightly together, while his bright-teal eyes stay intense and wild, fixed on you with a look that doesn’t waver. you’re his maker and weakness alike, the only thing holding his focus together as he unravels for you.

"komm schon, engel," eren dips low, his large frame folding over yours, shoulders rounding as he closes the space between you, brushing the plush of your lips with his own. "hngh, wha—?" you whine against his mouth, needing of clarity. his breath is warm and close when he murmurs, earnest for a taste of your lips, "küss mich."

you don’t fully comprehend him, but eren closes the gap regardless, until there’s nowhere left for your voice to go but into him. his large hand lifts up, cups your jaw nice and steady, tilts you upwards just enough to meet him as he presses his lips to yours. firm at first, then deeper, more claiming than it is gentle. when he pulls back, it’s only by a breath’s width, enough for the curve of his smile to linger against your mouth. 

his hips take to a slow roll, grinding into yours so sweetly. the rounded end of his hard cock nudges the inner pudge of your softest spots, with the lean ridge of his pelvis brushing over the sensitive peak of your clit. the both of you hold no inhibitions, breaths pouring into each other's mouths in uneven waves, panting and moaning with not a sound refrained.

him and you, you and him, him in you. all sense becomes lost in a heated slew of sloppy strokes and the wettest kisses. he's making such a mess of you; stealing your breath, bruising your flesh, fucking stirring your insides.

for eren, countless sensations begin to merge. your velveteen walls are clamping down, tight, on his pulsing dick, dripping and sobbing all over the length of it. then there's the way you cling to him, just ferocious. the powder-white arch of your fresh nails do well at drawing fiery marks down the broad plane of his tatted back. his olive skin is warm and damp under your palms, glowing sheen with a film of sweat. 

your breath brushes against the reddening shell of his pierced ear, sounds uneven and soft in a way that makes him grow impossibly harder. eren responds in kind, groans amplified, his hold at your waist tightening just enough to keep you anchored to the you-shaped dip in his king sized mattress. you're so pretty, so perfect; behaving so well that all he wants to do is just give you more. 

so he does. 

"shh, lass mich einfach . . stillhalten." eren’s hands span down your shaking thighs, dancing around around your calf until they close around both of your ankles. his fingers wrap fully, thumbs rubbing circles while the rest of his grip adjusts you without effort. he translates what he knows you didn't catch, "don't move." 

eren shapes the physical space between you, and he continues to bend you at angles until the right silhouette is captured. he brings your knees toward your shoulders, folding the form until thighs press firmly against the core of your tummy. shifting his weight low, he transitions into a deep squat, strong thighs flexed as he assumes the position of sitting on his haunches, all without pulling out of you.

with the new vantage, he drives forward and plunges into the tightness of you with sudden, intense momentum that draws the sharpest, most involuntary cry from your lungs— a sound that brings a knowing smile to his face. eren frees self-satisfied laughter, for he always manages to pry out the very reaction he sought to provoke. he finds your body familiar. so easy to mold, too easy to play with.

"ffuuuck! p-please, papaaa, please—"

his response comes rippling out as an unintended growl, sourced from the depths of his chest, and the bass of it makes you clench helplessly around him. with every surge, every thrust forward, he loses another piece of his restraint. an especially taut squeeze of your soaked pussy is all it takes for his snark to dissolve into total surrender.

"fuck . . du bist so eng," his words grow reckless to match just how you undo him. he rambles on about just how tight you are, freeing terribly desperate praise and german incoherencies. he's too far gone to realize he'd even switched languages. frankly, eren doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, and you sure as hell don’t either. it’s hard to follow when he’s digging you out like that; hips slamming down, the fat of his balls clapping against the seam of your ass with every thrust.

more foreign words tumble from his lips— dark, guttural, yet somehow melodic, leaving you in a haze of both lust and confusion. despite it, your body understands the intent perfectly. the way you arch into him, cunt swallowing every known inch of his dick whole, slick walls clamping around him like a desperate vice, tells him everything he needs to know. 

eren finally seems to be returning to himself, eyes clearing as he grows aware; and with that, comes the teasing. another predatory smirk pulls at his mouth as he realizes just how cockdrunk he’s made you, sensitive even down to the veins that drag within you. and so, he draws out the friction, slows his pace to an agonizing crawl, buries himself into you with impossible depth.

each heavy thrust knocks at your cervix and prods at the very limit of you, blunt and demanding, as if he’s trying to leave his mark on your very soul. he's so all-consuming that the heady scent of his skin and the licking heat of his salt-slicked body fills your lungs. you’re crying, you think, unsure as to when it started. all you know is you’re breathing him in, tasting the raw, primal edge of him with every gasp and tear you choke on. 

"aww, poor baby,” he croons, tone darkened with condescend, “macht dich das an, schatzi?" he murmurs, the grunted slew of german humming against your skin. he’s asking if it turns you on— the suddenly rough shift into his mother tongue, and though the meaning of his words escape your mind, you can only nod helplessly, teeth sinking into the swell of your spit-streaked lip as a flush burns across your chest.

"feels good, yeah? i'm fucking you so deep, aren't i? mm, c'mon, angel . . . talk to me, talk to daddy." he eases more of his weight onto your pressed frame, feeding you deep, languid strokes so slow you can hear the wetness sloshing.

"yeahhh, it's good, er-en . . hnn, feelssogood, d-daddyyy," his name tears out of you in a pulled shudder, the syllables breaking over one another. it’s the type of sound that invites his wolfish grin, curled with a special kind of satisfaction. his smile is purely predatory when he gets to hitching your leg up higher, rocking into you faster. the lewdness of unfiltered noise begins to swell throughout the room.

before long, you're both trembling over the pace he’s taken; his fingers twitching along your pushed-up thighs, while you're left grappling for purchase along his bulging, corded biceps, your fingers digging into the sinuous centipede inked across his firm rounded muscle. frantically, you cling to one another as the world outside seems to fade away.

eren leans in, ink-dark strands escaping his hairtie, feathering your neck, and cascading over his shoulder to curtain your faces. overzealous, he captures your lips with his own once more, silencing your soft sounds with a deep kiss that tastes as saccharine as love itself, wettened by the salted twinge of adrenaline. his moans tumble out of him helplessly once you get to licking at his tongue. he juts it out for you to suckle on.

the tension brews to a fever pitch. you’re close, and so is he.

"komm und hol mich," he wants—no, needs you to cum for him, pleads in breathless sounds so gritty that you can feel them pass through your bones. those bright-teal eyes, glassed over with brimming tears of pleasure, desperately lock onto yours. his touch is just as urgent.

eren brings the calloused pad of his thumb to your clit, each deliberate rub a targeted press that sends fresh jolts of heat spiraling through your tummy, makes your hips buck up into the onslaught. his breath comes out in ragged puffs as his fleshy, kiss-bruised lips meet your ear, grazing the shell, words unfamiliar yet sweet all the same. “komm auf meinen schwanz, bitte.” the vulnerable rawness of his voice is a love language all in its own. something in you knows to follow his command, even if the meaning is a mystery. 

that building pressure low in your gut begins to coil, tightening into a concentrated knot that demands release. it’s a heavy, mercurial ache that pulses in sync with his movements, making your vision swim as you reach the precipice. your every nerve-ending screams for the sweet, sweet release that only his next deliberate strike can provide.

as for eren, his focus is simply fractured; hands moving with a restlessness that betrays how close he is to the edge. he lifts his free hand to knead and possess the soft weight of your right breast, his grip firm and demanding, before his fingers lift to heedlessly lace around your neck, as a means to keep you pinned in the middle of the storm of his movements. 

that same grasp trails away from pressing your artery, slinks down, and squeezes a big, greedy handful of ass into one palm alone. he delivers one smack— two, three. the fourth leaves red in its wake, blooming faint along warm-brown flesh. he merely smiles when you mewl at him. 

the combination he grants you is far too much, too fucking frantic; the stinging heat of his palm against your skin and the possessive weight of his hand at your throat leaves you feeling hazy and unmoored, your thoughts dissolving into a thoughtless, honeyed fog.

a few more of those slowed, plunging thrusts, paired with how nicely he toys with your puffy clit, is what finally shatters the dam and sends rolling waves of your orgasm to crash right through you. it washes over, heavy and thick, the feeling purely electric as it zips through the base of your spine all the way down to your tightly curled toes. your quivering legs lock around his lean waist as he fucks you through the height of it, dark-chestnut hair swinging over hunched shoulders.

"don't you let go yet— m'not done." eren rasps against your agape lips, voice a broken wreck. he taps your soft cheek in two firm pats when your eyes begin to flutter shut, peers at you through hooded eyes, forcing bitten words out through grit teeth, "look at me, schatzi," his fingers tangle into the soft, dense curls of your hair to tilt your head his way. "you came so fuckin' hard, tell me you felt that—shit! mm, p-please, baby . . tell me you’re mine."

you manage to open your mouth, try for an answer, but every brutal impact of his hips knocks the air from your chest, splintering your voice into meaningless little sounds. the rhythm of his pounding, loud and heavy, turns shaky and imprecise as he utterly loses the battle for control. you can see the strain in the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his breath hitching as he teeters on the edge. 

eren frames your face with a sudden tenderness, his large hands encompassing either side of your head as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth itself. he pulls you in until your foreheads touch, eyes locking in a feral, heavy-lidded stare that teases at his release. you babble out his name with every sloppy knock of his hips.

your inner walls clamp down in a steady, involuntary pulse around him, and the friction becomes too much for him to bear. then comes a guttural sound, ripping straight from his chest, followed by a smaller, vulnerable whimper that echoes out, almost like a plea:

"scheisse, ich komme— fffuuuck!"

he jolts forward with an almost animalistic force, burying himself to the very hilt as the first warm, heavy spurts of his release spill free from his cockhead and into your awaiting womb. you feel him throbbing deep within your silken walls, the pulsing erratic as he stuffs your cunt with thick loads of his cum; emptying himself, filling you.

a hushed stillness sets over eren's thirtieth-floor apartment. all movement drifts to a weighty pause; until, eren eventually collapses his full weight onto you with a long, shuddering sigh. the solid, unyielding mass of him drives a soft huff out from your throat, pinning you into the charcoal sheets in a way that feels strangely grounding.

his inked forearms bind around you like vines, pulling your bodies flush-tight until there’s no room left between you. in turn, you drape your arms over the broad expanse of his back, your thumbs tracing soothing circles over the angry, reddened lines of the skin you tore. 

"ugh— rennie, you're heavy."

"mmn." is his heedless response. you both lie there in a tangled, breathless heap of afterglow, your lungs working for shallow air as the adrenaline begins to recede. after threading through the dark, damp silk of his long hair, weaving and undoing braids in the same sitting, your arms finally loosen their hold around his nape. eren nuzzles his face into the soft swell of your breasts, the tip of his nose grazing the sensitive bone of your sternum as he seeks out your warmth.

a small, balmy laugh escapes you, the sound light and surreal against the dense, syrup-thick atmosphere. the air is heavy, saturated with the salt-sharp scent of skin, the musk of his cologne, the lingering sugar of your arab perfume, and the sweet, pungent tang of your collective release— a sensory memento of every orgasm you just shared.

"damn . .” the silence breaks around his voice, low and winded, “didn't think y’had a kink for that."

"hmm," you blink slow, the wisps of your curled lashes fluttering. "for what?"

"uh-uh, don't play dumb now," eren noses your jugular, tickling your neck with a nudge so fleeting you can’t help but break, a shy giggle bubbling up and out into the open. "could've just told me you wanted me to switch languages, princess."

“i didn't even know it was something i’d enjoy that much," you bite down on a drowsy laugh, manicured fingers lifting to idly twirl a stray, dark lock of his hair. you’re secretly glad his hair-tie snapped under the pressure.

"i like the way your brain just . . . shorts out when you hear it. makes you so . . ." a kiss, breaking the pattern of speech, is pressed to your upturned lips, so pink and soft.

“—much more," another, then a suckle to your jaw, "—responsive." there's a gravel-like texture to the sound of his teasing. "i don't think i've ever heard you get that loud before, baby.” eren hums aloud onto your skin, a low rumble of pure satisfaction that thrums low in his throat and vibrates against your chest.

he shifts his weight just enough to pepper wet, uncoordinated kisses along the sensitive expanse of your throat, his every movement sluggish with pleasure. 

“verdammt gut,” he murmurs against your skin, testing the effect he has over you, simply wishing to witness how tightly you’d pulse around him in response. sure enough, he smiles to himself when you do, walls clamping down where he remains stuffed inside you. a whispered moan falls from you, eyes screwed impossibly tight. 

his lips latch to your pulse as he mouths praises you don’t need to translate to understand. the meaning sounds as sweet as his kisses taste. “du bist so gut, liebling.” even though his brain's misted over with lust, and his dick is still warmly nestled deep inside you, he can’t help but nip playful marks into your flesh. you find yourself cooing at his affections, your fingers tangling in the deep-brown spill of his hair as you shallowly rock your hips onto his softening cock. 

he mumbles more foreign little nothings into the damp, sweat-slicked crook of your neck, the tone so tender it feels like a physical caress. 

“ich liebe dich so sehr, angel . . .” he breathes, the confession soft and embracing against your skin. it’s meaning is devotional, so unmistakable; he loves you, he loves you, he loves you. 

the ardency of the past hour's lovemaking seems to evaporate, leaving only the two of you sinking in the cooling sheets. from the crevice of your chest to his broadened one, your hearts beat heavy against one another in a synced tempo.

with one last, lingering kiss to your collarbone, eren lets his heavy eyelids fall shut. the silence that follows isn't empty. instead, it’s full and warm, smelling of salt, sandalwood, and the raw fragrancy of his adoration.

the darkness of the room feels like a protective veil. in the stillness, with his warmth still grounding you and his scent filling your lungs, you finally let your own eyes close, drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep cradled in the arms of the man who loves you more than he has the words to say.

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