⋆˙✮ R ✮⋆˙

The heavy oak door of the lecture hall clicks shut behind you. You take your seat in the front row because you know she expects you there. If I sit anywhere else, she will just stare at me until I move anyway, you think, unzipping your backpack.

Professor Abby stands at the podium, smoothing the lapels of her tailored blazer with absolute precision.

She does not look at the rest of the thirty students filling the tiered room. Her sharp eyes lock instantly onto yours.

There you are, Abby thinks, her chest tightening with a sudden, fierce rush of adrenaline. Right where you belong, looking up at me.

She returns your last essay with a sea of red ink covering the margins. Every sentence you wrote is picked apart with exhausting scrutiny.

Why does she hate me so much? you wonder, staring at the bleeding pages with a sinking heart.

I spent all weekend on this.

You do not realize that Abby is currently watching your shoulders slump from across the room.

Cry for me if you must, but you will thank me when you are the best, Abby tells herself,

masking her racing pulse behind a cold glare. I tear your work to shreds because I refuse to let anyone else find a single flaw in you.

During the lecture, she paces the floor near your desk. When another student raises his hand to answer a question, she cuts him off with a dismissive nod. She turns the question to you instead.

Please do not freeze up, please do not ruin this, you pray, your hands growing cold under her heavy gaze. You stumble over your words for a second.

Abby feels a protective panic spike in her chest. Look at me, ignore them, I will guide you through it, she thinks, her eyes narrowing as she gently coaxes the correct answer out of you.

After the dismissal bell rings, the room empties quickly. You gather your books, but she calls your name from the podium.

Great, another lecture about my failures, you think, bracing yourself. As you approach her desk, she stands up and steps directly into your personal space. She reaches out to adjust the collar of your jacket. Her fingers linger against your skin for a fraction of a second too long.

I want to lock this door and keep you here forever, Abby thinks, her heart hammering against her ribs as she forces her hand away. "Your thesis needs work," she says aloud, keeping her dangerous fixation completely hidden beneath her professional title.

you nod and leave without another word.

A few days later the rainy morning makes the limestone walls of the university look dark and oppressive.

The heavy iron gate of the basement archives groans shut behind you as you head into professor abby’s study hall & grad student research block.

You take your place at the isolated corner research table

because you know she expects you there. If I study in the main hall, she will just happen to find a reason to reassign my research assistant hours anyway, you think,

Opening your vintage leather notebook. Professor Abby stands by the rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, checking the catalog spine labels with absolute precision. She does not look at the three other graduate students working in the dim, climate-controlled room. Her sharp eyes lock instantly onto yours.

There you are, Abby thinks, her chest tightening with a sudden, fierce rush of adrenaline. Right where you belong, tucked away in the dark with me.

She slides a stack of primary source documents onto your table, each page flagged with neon red sticky notes. Every translation you completed is picked apart with exhausting scrutiny.

Why does she find fault with everything I translate? you wonder, staring at the marked-up parchment with a sinking heart. I translated those Latin manuscripts line by line. You do not realize that Abby is currently watching your fingers trace the corrections from across the aisle.

Doubt your skills if you want, but you will thank me when your publication is flawless, Abby tells herself, masking her racing pulse behind a cold glare. I dissect your translations because I refuse to let any other academic challenge a single word you write.

During the research block, she paces the floor near your desk. When another student approaches her to ask about a rare text, she dismisses him with a cold, brief answer. She redirects the conversation to your project instead.

Please do not let me mess up the historical context, please do not disappoint her, you pray, your hands growing cold under her heavy gaze. You hesitate over a specific historical date for a second. Abby feels a protective panic spike in her chest. Look at me, ignore him, I am the only source you need, she thinks, her eyes narrowing as she softly asks a leading question that coaxes the correct historical timeline out of you.

After the closing bell rings, the archive room empties quickly. You gather your folders, to leave but she calls you over

"Your citations need work," she says aloud, keeping her dangerous fixation completely hidden beneath her professional title.

You stand frozen as she steps back, the sudden distance between you feeling colder than the air in the vault. Your hand goes to your collarbone, your skin still burning where her fingers just brushed the dust from your sweater.

What is wrong with her? you think, your pulse hammering against your ribs. And what is wrong with me?

You look down at the stack of Latin manuscripts, the neon red flags looking like open wounds across your hard work. She tears you apart. She picks at every date, every translation, every comma, until you feel completely hollowed out. She makes you feel like you are failing, like you can never do anything right in her eyes. It is infuriating. It is exhausting.

You should hate her for it. You should want to transfer out of this assistantship, to pack your bags and find a professor who doesn't suffocate you with their impossible standards.

But as you clutch your folders to your chest, your eyes involuntarily track her as she walks back to her desk. Why did she look at me like that when I hesitated? It wasn’t the look of a disappointed mentor. It was.. intense. Protective. When that other student approached her, she shut him down without a second thought, completely clearing the room just to redirect the entire world back to you.

A dangerous thrill spikes through your panic. She doesn't want anyone else near this project, you realize, the realization making your knees slightly weak. She doesn't want anyone else looking at me.

You know you should find her behavior terrifying. Her heavy gaze, the way she commands your presence in the front row, the deliberate way her fingers lingered on your skin—it violates every professional boundary in existence. Yet, as you look at the bleeding red ink on your pages, you don’t feel dismissed.

You feel seen. Completely, entirely seen. No one else has ever looked at your work with such brutal, hyper-focused devotion. She is picking you apart, yes, but she is doing it with absolute precision, spending hours of her own time mapping out your mind.

You walk toward the heavy iron gate of the archives, your chest tight with a confusing mixture of dread and anticipation. You know you will stay up all night fixing those citations. You know you will ruin your sleep just to bring her a flawless page tomorrow. Not because you are afraid of her lecture, but because you secretly want to see that sharp, locked glare soften just for a second. You want to see if her fingers will linger again.

The iron gate groans open, and you step out into the rainy university morning, already waiting for the next time she pulls you into the dark.

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𝜗ৎ You and ellie use a number system so she doesn’t have to press you for details or more explanations

You hold up fingers to show your tolerance. One finger means "Do not touch me." Two means "Clothes/blankets only." Three means "Casual touch is okay."

𝜗ৎ In public or around others, Ellie adapts to your boundaries seamlessly. If you are feeling overwhelmed, you will hook your thumb into her pocket or the loop of her jeans. It allows you to initiate the exact amount of connection you can handle without her having to touch your bare skin.

𝜗ৎOn nights when nightmares wake you up and you cannot bear to be held, Ellie will give you one of her worn-in shirts. The smell of her; cedar, laundry soap, and woodsmoke. It provides the comforting illusion of her presence while your body recovers its sense of safety in isolation.

Ellie will even go as far as to leave her worn flannel shirt on the bed and sleep on the couch so you have her scent without the physical crowding.

𝜗ৎ Before Ellie ever initiates a rare physical transition (like moving past you in a narrow hallway or reaching for something near your head), she narrating her movements. like "Reaching over your left shoulder, baby" eliminates the element of surprise that triggers your survival instincts.

she never approaches you from behind. She always makes noise, like humming or clearing her throat, before entering a room.

i𝜗ৎAfter a particularly bad day of flashbacks or sensory overload, Ellie will run a hot bath for you and leave the room entirely. She ensures the bathroom is a completely private, locked sanctuary where you can wash off the feeling of the world without interruption.

If talking feels too heavy during a flashback, you text her from across the room instead of speaking.

𝜗ৎ If you are out and use the code word "Overcast," Ellie immediately drops everything and takes you home without asking questions.

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@2heartsbecoming1

⋆ Ellie who nurses you back to health after your implant surgery and admires and compliments your new chest at every opportunity.

“here baby have some more tea..” she says carefully

“ellie if i have any more tea im going to piss myself”

she laughs and lets off a bit

⋆ T!girl reader who gets hard everytime ellie does anything, like anything. holding hands? hard. ellie groans in the gym? definitely hard.

⋆T!girlreader who is shorter then ellie and gets tossed around when they play fight, calls ellie to get things out of the higher shelf and gets mad whenever ellie picks you up

⋆ ellie who pushes t!girl reader out of her comfort zone :at a local thrift shop, Ellie has scouted out a high-waisted, form-fitting midi skirt for you.

You’re hesitant because of the thin material, but she nudges you into the dressing room.

When you step out, you’re nervously smoothing the fabric down over your hips and the subtle curve of your anatomy.

Ellie leans back against the opposite wall, crossing her arms. Her eyes travel slowly from your toes up to your face. "Wow," she breathes.

"Is it… is it too much?" you ask, checking yourself in the mirror.

"It’s perfect," she says, stepping closer to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. She looks at you with genuine admiration. "I love the way it fits you. You look so confident and radiant. Don't feel like you have to hide yourself, you look incredible”

⋆ ellie who takes it so slow you think you might explode when she sucks you for the first time, letting your hips jerk into her throat, groaning over you

“fu-fuck. look so fucking prettt suckin my cock”

⋆ T!Girlreader who is taller than ellie and throws her on the bed whenever she gets the chance to fuck her

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Snow crunches under your boots as you step off the bus into the sharp, familiar bite of the Jackson air. It’s been months since you were in these pine-heavy winds instead of the humid sprawl of your college campus. You thought the distance would have eased the memories, but the moment you see the town square, the old weight of the place settles right back onto your shoulders.

Then you see her.

Ellie is leaning against a wooden fence post near the station. She looks exactly like the girl who broke your heart in the Highschool gym hallway two weeks before graduation. She’s wearing that oversized denim jacket you used to steal, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. When she sees you, she doesn't smile. Instead, she rolls her eyes and treks over.

"You’re late," she says.

No hello, no I missed you. Just that familiar, defensive bite.

"I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes. I almost just drove home."

"I didn't ask you to pick me up, Ellie," you say, reaching for your duffel bag. "My dad was going to come."

"He’s busy helping Maria with the decorations," she snaps, snatching the bag from your hand before you can even protest. "Just get in the truck. It’s freezing."

The drive to your parents' place is thick with a tension that feels like a physical weight. You remember how it used to be; driving these same roads with her hand on your knee while the radio played some indie track she’d discovered. Now, she just grips the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white.

"So," she says, her voice sounding forced and casual. "How’s the city? I bet it’s full of people who think they’re way smarter than they actually are."

"It’s fine, Ellie. I’m learning a lot."

"I bet. You probably have a whole new group of friends who don't even know where Jackson is on a map." She scoffs, her eyes fixed on the road. "I saw your Instagram. That girl in the scarf. Is she your girlfriend or just some loser you met in a coffee shop?"

You sigh, leaning your head against the window. "She's just a friend."

"Right. A friend." She takes a corner a little too sharply.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. I just thought you’d have better taste than a girl who wears a scarf indoors. It looks ridiculous."

Over the next few days, Ellie becomes an unavoidable shadow. Everywhere you go, she’s there. At the market, she "happens" to be buying coffee just as you arrive. She walks over to your cart, looking at your groceries with a judgmental squint.

"Those apples are mushy," she says, pointing at your bag. "You’ve clearly forgotten how to shop for real food since you left. You just buy whatever looks shiny now?"

"They're fine, Ellie."

"They're bruised. Here." She reaches past you, her shoulder brushing yours for a second longer than necessary. She picks up a different bag and drops it into your cart. "Take these. And don't wear those shoes out tomorrow. There's a storm coming, and those fancy city boots won't hold up in real snow."

At the town bonfire the next night, she finds you again. You're standing with some old high school friends, finally feeling like you're relaxing, until you feel a presence at your elbow.

"You're standing too far from the fire," Ellie mutters, nudging you toward the heat. "You're shivering. Did you lose your sense along with your accent?"

"I don't have an accent," you laugh, though it feels strained.

"You do. You sound... different." She looks at the fire, the orange light dancing in her eyes. She looks like she wants to say something else, something softer, but then she catches herself. She scowls instead. "It’s annoying. Just like that jacket. It’s too thin."

She stays by your side for the rest of the night, complaining about the music, the smoke, and the way the town has changed, all while making sure no one else can get a word in with you. It’s a strange, desperate dance. She pulls you into petty arguments just to keep you looking at her, acting like your presence is a problem even though she hasn't left your side for three hours. until you finally go home

Early in the afternoon the next day the house is quiet, the only sound being the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant whistle of the wind against the eaves. Your parents are out picking up last-minute supplies, leaving you alone in the kitchen with a mug of tea and the soft flicker-glow of the Christmas tree lights.

A sharp, impatient knock at the door breaks the silence.

You open it to find Ellie. She’s huddled into her jacket, her nose and cheeks flushed bright pink from the cold. She isn't looking at you; instead, she’s staring intently at a small object in her palm.

"You dropped this," she says, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. She holds out her hand. Resting in her palm is your silver bracelet, the one with the tiny latch that’s always been a little temperamental. "I found it by the log where you were sitting. You really need to get the clasp fixed. It’s cheap."

"Oh. Thank you, Ellie. I didn't even realize it was gone."

You reach out to take it, but she doesn't drop it into your hand. Instead, she lingers for a second, then steps past you into the warmth of the hallway. "It’s freezing out there. At least let me put it on for you so you don't drop it again."

She sets her car keys on the side table and takes your wrist. Her fingers are icy, sending a shiver up your arm that has nothing to do with the draft from the door. You stand there in the dim light of the foyer, watching her head bend over your hand. Her ponytail is messy, a few stray hairs catching the light, and for the first time all week, the sharp, defensive lines of her shoulders have finally dropped.

"Hold still," she mutters. She’s focused, her tongue poking out slightly in the corner of her mouth, a habit she’s had since she was sixteen.

She fumbles with the tiny hook, her thumb grazing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. It’s a slow, deliberate movement. The air between you changes; the nagging and the biting comments from the bonfire seem to evaporate, replaced by the familiar scent of her pine scented detergent and the rhythm of her breathing.

"There," she whispers as the metal finally clicks into place.

She doesn't pull her hand away immediately. Her thumb traces the curve of the silver band, a lingering touch that feels like an echo of the years you spent together. For a heartbeat, she looks up, and the frustration is gone from her eyes. She just looks tired, and like she’s memorizing your face.

"Matches your sweater," she says softly, her voice losing its edge. "Even if the sweater is kind of ugly."

She lets go then, the moment fracturing as she clears her throat and looks around the room, searching for her armor again. "Anyway. Don't lose it. I'm not hunting through the dirt for you a second time."

You stand in the doorway, the draft from the closing door chilling the spot on your wrist where her fingers just were. Through the glass, you watch the red glow of her taillights disappear into the falling snow, leaving the driveway in darkness.

The silence of the house feels sudden and deafening.

Just let her go, you tell yourself, turning back toward the kitchen. It’s better this way.

But your heart is a traitor. It’s drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, still reacting to the way she looked in the dim light—the way she didn't look like a girl trying to pick a fight, but just like Ellie. You find yourself rubbing the silver bracelet, the metal still holding a ghostly trace of the warmth from her palm.

A part of you, the part that still feels eighteen and hopelessly in love, wants to drop the tea, grab your coat, and run down the driveway after her. You want to shout into the wind, to tell her that you hate the city, that you hate the scarf guy, and that every time she nags you about your boots, you just want to pull her into a kiss to make her stop talking.

Don't do it, your mind warns, sharper than any of Ellie’s insults. She’s the one who walked away. She’s the one who stayed behind while you moved on. You worked too hard to build a life without her to let a five-minute conversation in a hallway tear it all down.

You think about the coldness in her voice at graduation, the way she had looked at you like you were already a stranger. You remind yourself that the "sweet" Ellie only comes out in flashes, and the rest of the time she’s sharp edges and defensive walls.

It wouldn't work, you think, your throat tightening. It’s just the holidays. It’s just the nostalgia talking.

You force yourself to take a sip of the tea, but it tastes like nothing. You wish you could turn off the memory of her thumb brushing your wrist. You wish you didn't know exactly how her hair feels or how she smells like winter and pine. Most of all, you wish you were strong enough to not want her back, because wanting her feels like walking back into a house you know is already on fire.

You're fine, you lie to the empty room. You're leaving in two days, and then you won't have to see her for months.

But as you look down at the bracelet, you know that the two days feel like an eternity, and the bus ride away feels like a sentence you aren't sure you're ready to serve.

That night the walls of your parents' house feel like they’re closing in. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a reminder of things you left behind, and the silence only makes the memory of Ellie’s touch on your wrist louder. You pull on your heavy coat and boots, slipping out into the midnight air of Jackson.

The snow has stopped, leaving the world wrapped in a muffled stillness. You don't really decide where you're going, but your feet know the path. They know the shortcut through the pine grove and the exact slope of the hill that leads to the back of the Williams' property.

You end up at the detached garage—Ellie’s sanctuary. The lights are on, casting a warm, amber rectangle onto the snow through the side window.

Inside, Ellie is sitting on a workbench, a wrench in her hand that she hasn't moved in ten minutes. Her mind is a storm. She’s going to leave again, Ellie thinks, the thought is a dull ache in her chest. I spent all week being a jerk because I didn't know how to tell her I’m dying inside. I’m such an idiot. She probably hates me now. She probably thinks I’ve turned into some bitter townie. She stares at the door, wishing she had the courage to drive back to your house, but paralyzed by the fear that you’ll look at her with pity.

Then, the door creaks open.

You stand in the threshold, your breath fogging in the air. Ellie freezes. Her heart hammers against her ribs a frantic, desperate beat. She wants to snap at you, to ask why you’re creeping around at midnight, but the sight of you in the doorway, looking tired and beautiful, breaks the last of her defenses.

"I knew you'd come here," she says, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady. She drops the wrench; the metallic clang against the concrete floor sounds like a white flag.

"Did you?" you ask softly, closing the door behind you. The heater in the garage hums, a low, industrial purr.

Ellie steps off the bench. She looks at you, and for the first time, she doesn't hide behind a scowl. "I’ve been a nightmare all week," she blunts out.

Don't let her leave, her mind screams. Tell her.

"I was rude about your school, and your friends, and that stupid scarf... I just... I didn't know how to handle you being back."

She takes a step closer, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I made a mistake. A massive, stupid mistake. I thought if I pushed you away back then, it wouldn't hurt so much when you left. But it’s been months, and it just gets worse. I’m drowning here without you."

She reaches out, her hands grasping the lapels of your coat, pulling you toward her with a desperate strength. "Please," she whispers, her forehead dropping against your shoulder. "I’m begging you. Don't go back and forget me. I'll do anything. I’ll be better. Just... tell me it’s not too late."

The hurt you’ve been carrying for months wavers. You look down at the girl who once held your whole world in her hands, seeing the raw, terrified love she’s been trying to mask with anger.

"Ellie..."

"I love you," she says into your coat, the words a jagged confession. "I never stopped. I was just too scared to be the one who stayed behind while you grew up."

You reach up, cupping her face, forcing her to look at you. Her skin is warm now, her eyes searching yours for a sign of forgiveness. When you kiss her, it’s not like the polite, careful kisses of the city life you’ve been trying to build. It’s Jackson. It’s home. It’s fire and desperate longing, the taste of salt from her tears and the familiar, grounding heat of her body.

Ellie lets out a broken sob against your lips, her arms winding around your neck as if she’s trying to merge her soul with yours. She pulls you deeper into the shadows of the garage, toward the old sofa covered in drop cloths. Everything else; college, the bus, the distance, it fades into the background. In the quiet of the garage, under the glow of the work lights, there is only the two of you, finally finding your way back to the love that never truly let go

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The library air is cool, smelling of old paper and the faint, ozonic scent of the looming rain outside. You’re hunched over your Macroeconomics textbook, the lines of supply and demand graphs blurring together.

The table vibrates slightly. A heavy, rhythmic tread approaches—solid enough that you can feel it through the floorboards before you hear it. Then, the chair beside you groans under a new weight.

You look up and offer a tired smile. Abby is already there, settling in. She’s wearing a sleeveless navy gym shirt that barely seems capable of containing her. Her arms, thick and mapped with faint veins from a morning workout, rest on the table like two pillars of warm marble. Tall as she is even sitting down, she makes the library’s private study carrel feel like a cramped closet.

"Still on Chapter Four?" she asks. Her voice is a low, vibrating tone that seems to hum right in your chest.

"It’s a nightmare," you sigh, rubbing your eyes. "I’ve been here three hours."

Abby reaches out. It’s a slow, deliberate movement. Her hand, large, calloused, and radiating heat; lands on your shoulder. She doesn't just pat you; she squeezes, her thumb tracing the line of your collarbone. It feels like being washed over with calm.

She’s so solid, you think, the heat from her hand on your neck seeping into your skin. It’s like sitting next to a furnace.

"You’re tense," she notes, her dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity you mistake for simple academic solidarity. "You need to breathe. I told you I’d help you stay on track this semester."

"I know, and I appreciate it. Really," you say, leaning into the touch. It’s nice having someone so reliable around. Since the first week of term, Abby has been a constant. She’s in your Finance lecture, your Ethics seminar, and even your late-afternoon lab. It felt like a lucky coincidence, having a study partner who also happened to be the strongest woman you’d ever met.

"I brought you something," she says, reaching into her bag. She pulls out a thermos and sets it down. "Black, two sugars. From that place three blocks off-campus."

You blink, surprised. "That’s my favorite, but... that’s a twenty-minute walk from the athletic center. You didn't have to go all that way."

Abby’s grip on your shoulder tightens, just a fraction. A small, tight smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. "It wasn't a problem. I like making sure you have exactly what you need. It keeps you from having to wander off and get distracted."

"Distracted by what?" you ask with a light laugh.

Her eyes flick toward the entrance of the library, where Tyler from your soccer team is waving at you. You start to lift your hand to wave back, but Abby’s hand shifts from your shoulder to the back of your neck. It’s a firm, grounding weight that keeps you pinned in your seat.

"The coffee is getting cold," she says softly, her gaze returning to yours. Her eyes are unblinking, dark, and strangely focused. "Ignore him. He’s a distraction you don't need right now. Focus on me. I’m the one who’s here, aren't I?"

You take a sip of the coffee, the warmth spreading through you. You feel safe next to her, protected by the sheer physical wall of her presence. You don't notice that she hasn't taken her hand off your neck, or that her eyes haven't left your profile for a single second.

"Yeah," you murmur, turning back to your notes. "You're always here."

You take another sip of the coffee, realizing it’s the exact temperature you like—not tongue-scalding, just hot enough to wake you up. You wonder for a second how she timed the walk so perfectly, but the thought is quickly smoothed over by the comforting weight of her palm. It feels less like she’s holding you down and more like she’s tethering you to the earth, keeping the stress of the exams from making you float away.

I didn't even have to ask, you realize, glancing at the thermos. I didn't even have to tell her I was coming to the library toda

"Always," she agrees, her voice dropping to a whisper that sounds almost like a promise

She’s right, you decide, leaning back just enough so your shoulder brushes against the hard muscle of her bicep. She is the one who’s here. She’s the one who always shows up.

The pressure of her hand on your neck increases, a silent acknowledgment of your lean, and you find yourself smiling at your textbook. It’s not just academic solidarity—it’s something more intense, something that makes you feel uniquely chosen. And as the rain begins to drum against the windows, you realize you don’t mind the "cramped closet" feeling of the carrel at all. In fact, you’ve never felt more at home.

The lecture hall is freezing, the air conditioning humming with a relentless, biting chill. You start to shiver, the fine hairs on your arms standing up, but before you can even reach for your bag, something heavy and warm drapes over your shoulders.

It’s Abby’s varsity jacket. It’s massive, smelling of her distinct scent bergamot and the metallic tang of the weight room, and it’s still radiating the heat from her body. You sink into the fleece lining, feeling the sheer weight of the fabric.

How did she know? you think, glancing sideways.

Abby doesn't look at you. She’s staring straight ahead at the professor, her jaw set, her frame taking up nearly two seats' worth of space. Her arm is resting on the back of your chair, not touching you, but hovering like a physical barrier between you and the rest of the row.

She’s always five seconds ahead of me, you realize.

You think back to this morning. You’d woken up to a text from her: “Don’t take the stairs in the North wing. The tile is slick from the rain. Use the elevator. I’ll be waiting at the doors.” At the time, you’d just thought she was being helpful. Now, looking at the solid wall of her shoulder next to you, you realize she’d probably gone to the North wing herself just to check the floors.

You think about your phone. It’s been so quiet lately. No annoying group chats, no random DMs from people you barely know, no invitations to parties you didn't want to attend anyway. It’s peaceful. You’d told Abby last month that you were feeling "socially drained," and like magic, the world had simply... backed off.

She did that, you realize, a small shiver running through you that has nothing to do with the cold. I don't know how, but she cleared the noise.

You watch her hand on the desk. Her knuckles are bruised from the heavy bag, her fingers thick and powerful. You remember how those same fingers had carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear earlier, her touch so deliberate it felt like she was marking a territory.

Most people would be scared, a voice whispers in the back of your head. Most people would call this "too much."

But as you pull her jacket tighter around you, feeling the safety of her looming presence, you realize you don’t want "less." You like the way she tracks your location. You like that she knows your coffee order better than you do. You like the way the air in the room shifts when she walks in, signaling to everyone else that you are strictly, permanently off-limits.

You find yourself leaning your head just a fraction of an inch closer to her arm. You feel the heat radiating off her, a silent, constant promise of protection.

Let her be obsessed, you think, closing your eyes for a brief second. Let her take over.

The feeling of being "owned" should be terrifying, but instead, it feels like the first time in your life you can actually sit back and breathe. Because as long as Abby is there; tall, buff, and utterly focused on you—nothing in the world can touch you without her permission. And she doesn't give permission to anyone.

A hand suddenly covers yours on the desk. It’s Abby’s. She doesn't look away from the lecture, but her thumb begins to stroke your skin in a slow, possessive circle.

Yeah, you think, your heart fluttering with a dark, sweet sort of relief. I could get used to this.

The bass from the basement party thumps through the floorboards, a rhythmic vibration you can feel in your teeth. The air is thick with the scent of cheap beer, sweat, and the sharp bite of winter outside the open window. You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a red plastic cup, when the crowd suddenly parts as if a physical force has cleared the way.

It’s Abby.

The room is spinning just enough to make the floor feel like it's tilting, but every time you stumble, Abby’s arm is there—a solid, unyielding beam of oak that catches you before you can even realize you’re falling.

She’s so big, you think, your head lolling slightly toward her shoulder. Like a mountain Cat that decided to follow me home.

She isn't dressed like anyone else here. While most people are in flimsy party tops or flannels, she’s in a black compression shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination regarding her physique. Her shoulders are broad enough to frame the entire kitchen doorway, and the heavy, powerful muscles of her back ripple as she moves. Even in the dim, pulsing light of the party, her stature makes her look like a titan carved from granite.

"You're not drinking that," she says, her voice cutting through the roar of a pop anthem. It’s not a question.

"It’s just a mix," you say, laughing a little. "Everyone’s drinking it."

She doesn't laugh back. She walks right into your personal space, her presence so massive and solid that the noise of the party seems to fade into the background. She takes the cup from your hand—her fingers are huge, calloused from the gym, and warm—and pours the contents into the sink without looking away from you.

"I don't know who mixed that," she says. "And if I didn't see it poured, you're not touching it."

Before you can protest, she reaches into the small cooler she brought with her—a cooler she’s been carrying as if it weighs nothing—and pulls out a glass bottle of expensive sparkling water. She cracks the top and hands it to you. "Drink this. I know what’s in it."

You watch her pour your old drink away, and your only thought is how lucky you are that she’s looking out for you. You’re too tired to check for yourself, too buzzed to be careful, and having her towering frame act as a literal shield between you and the crowded room feels like a luxury you don’t want to give up.

"Abby, you're being a little intense," you murmur, though you find yourself taking the bottle anyway.

Her hand doesn't pull back after handing you the drink. Instead, she rests her palm flat against the counter behind you, effectively boxing you in. Her bicep, thick and hard as a tree limb, is inches from your face. She leans down, her dark eyes locking onto yours with a focus that makes your heart skip.

"It's a dangerous room," she says softly. "A lot of people here don't have your best interests at heart. I do."

The bass of the party is a muffled roar, but your focus is entirely on the hand she has wrapped around your waist. Her grip is tight—so tight your ribs feel the pressure—but in your hazy state, it doesn't feel restrictive. It feels like being wrapped in a heavy, expensive weighted blanket. You find yourself leaning your full weight into her, trusting that those massive shoulders can carry both of you if they have to.

Abby knows best, you tell yourself, a giddy, numb smile spreading across your face.

A guy from your Sociology class, Marcus, spots you and starts to head over. "Hey! I didn't think you'd—"

He stops dead three feet away. Abby hasn't moved, hasn't even looked at him, but her body language has shifted. She stands a little taller, her chest expanding, her posture becoming an impenetrable wall. She simply turns her head a fraction, a cold, predatory look in her eyes that says Marcus is a bug she is currently deciding whether or not to crush.

Marcus pales, mumbles something about finding the bathroom, and vanishes back into the crowd.

"What was that about?" you ask, confused.

Abby turns back to you, her expression instantly softening into that familiar, protective mask. She reaches up, her large hand cupping your jaw, her thumb brushing over your cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "Nothing. He just realized he was in the wrong place."

Why would I want to talk to Marcus anyway? you wonder, watching him scurry off. He’s small. He’s loud. He doesn't have hands that feel like they could keep the whole world steady.

She leans in, her scent—clean, metallic, and powerful—overwhelming the party’s grime. "Stay close to me tonight. The crowd is getting rowdy, and I don't want anyone bumping into you."

When she cups your jaw, her palm feels like a warm, leather glove, covering so much of your face that you feel small—delightfully small. You like the way her dark eyes look at you, like you're the only person in the house, the only person on campus. It’s a dizzying, addictive feeling to be the sole focus of someone that powerful.

I’m hers, the thought drifts through your mind, soft and blurred around the edges like a dream. She’s keeping me. And I think... I think I’m okay with being kept.

She doesn't wait for an answer. She just hooks a thumb into your belt loop and leads you toward the quieter corner of the living room, her body shielding you from every passing stranger as if you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

As she hooks her thumb into your belt loop and begins to steer you through the crowd, you don't even try to guide yourself. You just close your eyes for a second, letting her massive strength dictate exactly where you go, happy to be the prize tucked safely under her wing.

The humid, heavy air of the campus gym at 10:00 PM usually feels oppressive, but tonight, it feels like a sanctuary. The rows of iron and steel are mostly empty, save for the rhythmic clank-hiss of the cable machines. You’re sitting on a weight bench, your head in your hands, feeling the crushing weight of Finals Week and falling out with your roommates.

A shadow, vast and familiar, stretches across the rubber floor, swallowing your own.

"You're overthinking again," Abby’s voice rumbles. It’s a deep, resonant sound that vibrates in the floorboards beneath your sneakers.

You look up. She looks like a literal giant in the dim overhead lighting. She’s just finished a set of heavy squats; her body is glistening with a light sheen of sweat, and the sheer volume of her muscles—the terrifying breadth of her shoulders and the thickness of her thighs—makes the gym equipment around her look like children’s toys.

"I'm just tired, Abby. Everything feels like it's falling apart."

She doesn't offer empty platitudes. Instead, she steps into your space. She stands between your knees, her presence a literal wall that shuts out the rest of the gym, the rest of the world, and all your problems. She reaches down, her massive, calloused hands sliding under your armpits to lift you off the bench as if you weigh nothing at all.

She doesn't let go once you’re standing. She pulls you flush against her. It’s like being pressed against a warm, breathing fortress. Her chest is broad and solid, and you can hear the slow, powerful thud of her heart.

"Let it fall apart," she whispers into your hair, her large arms wrapping around you and locking at the small of your back. "Let them all leave. Let the grades slip. It doesn't matter."

Usually, you might find her intensity stifling, but tonight, you lean into it. You bury your face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of chalk, iron, and her citrus perfume. You let your own arms wrap around her waist, though they barely meet on the other side of her powerful core.

"You're the only one who stays," you murmur against her skin.

You feel her chest expand as she takes a deep, satisfied breath. Her grip tightens—a possessive, crushing squeeze that would be painful if it didn't feel so much like safety.

"Because you're mine," she says, her voice dropping to a growl of absolute certainty. "I've cleared everything else out so there's only room for me. Don't you see? You don't have to worry about the world anymore. I’m the only world you need to worry about."

She pulls back just enough to cup your face. Her hands are so big they practically mask your entire jawline, her thumbs stroking your cheekbones. There’s a look in her eyes—dark, hungry, and fiercely protective—that tells you she would burn the campus down just to keep you in this corner with her.

"I have your favorite meal waiting in my car," she says, her gaze scanning your face as if memorizing every pore. "And I’ve moved your essentials into my place. You’re staying with me tonight. And tomorrow. And as long as I say."

Instead of fear, you feel a strange, intoxicating relief. You don't have to make decisions anymore. You don't have to be strong. Abby has enough strength for both of you.

"Okay," you whisper.

A slow, triumphant smile spreads across her face—the look of a conqueror who has finally secured their prize. She leans down and kisses your forehead, her lips lingering.

"Good. Now let’s go. I don't like the way the night shift janitor looks at you. We’re leaving."

She hooks her arm firmly around your shoulders, pulling you into her side so tightly that your feet nearly lift off the ground, and marches you toward the exit.

now you know you’re hers, and you wouldn’t want it any other way

perma taglist

- I feel like T!Ellie would want a lot of stoned sex, shes over you delivering slow deep strokes that steal your breath, and you're mouth is on her neck suckling gently.

"f-fuck" she moans out as she gently thrusts up into you,

"Love this fuckin’ pussy so much baby" she moves gently down to kiss your chest, your breasts, you moan into the kiss.

Ellie thrusts up into you faster and moans louder as she feels you tighten around her cock.

you moan out as you feel yourself getting closer, the weed amplifying your arousal.

"I'm gonna cum-" she moans out, her cock twitches as she cums in your pussy releasing thick ropes, the warm, comforting feeling makes your own orgasm crash through you as you writhe and grind on her.

she chuckles as you fall onto her chest

-T!Ellie who only lets you ride her if you beg and beg, if you’re really good she’ll hold a vibe to you and make fun of you while you fall apart on her

I'm thinking of T!Ellie who lasts in bed for HOURSSS you cant get her off.

You can last for several rounds in bed, but Ellie was just a beast in bed, not even stopping even when you're overstimulated or she's shooting nothing when she cums.

Ellie, who's shy about it at first when you two started dating. She absolutely thought that you'd find it weird, or that it might turn you off, but she was happy once she knew that you were comfortable about that fact.

T!Ellie, who finds herself turned on at the simplest things.. Holding her hand? there’s a tent in her pants imagining your hand around her. Your head is in her lap during movie nights? you can already feel her cock straining against your cheek. Dancing to music in your room? Ellie can't help but stare.

T!Ellie loves to have you cockwarm her, it's basically her favorite activity.

Shell have you sit on her while she plays video games or does homework, ignoring your whines and pleas for hours

“Just a few more minutes baby, feel so good around me” you pout but don't protest, and she lets a few grinds slide. Until she slams up into you unexpectedly and takes you wherever you're sitting to your delight.

T!ellie, who still doesn't stop until you're squirting all over her cock. She needs it more then anything, needs to see you fall apart, your legs shake. She loves staining your sheets, making your legs shake. she won't stop until you're crying out from overstimulation or you're squirting all over the sheets.

T!ellie who has moments without dysphoria where you’re there

The bathroom is warm and humid. You’re washing her back, your soapy hands moving in slow circles. As she turns around to face you, the water slicking down her skin, she doesn't shy away or cover herself. She trusts the way your eyes linger on her curves and her cock with the same easy affection you have for the rest of her. There’s no dysmorphia here, only the quiet, heavy heat of the shower and the way she leans her forehead against yours, feeling completely safe in her skin

perma taglist

The silence in the  apartment you and ellie shared wasn’t the cozy kind you usually shared; it was jagged. For weeks, a weight had been sitting in your chest—a mixture of academic burnout and a deep-seated burnout with life—and you had nowhere to put it but on Ellie.

You were curled on the sofa, staring at a blank laptop screen, when you heard the front door click. Ellie walked in, smelling of rain and the motor oil from the garage where she’d been pulling double shifts to cover the rent while you "focused."

"Hey," she said, her voice hopeful but cautious. She dropped a small brown paper bag on the coffee table. "I stopped by that bakery you like. They had those lemon tarts left."

You didn't look up. "I’m not hungry, Ellie."

"Oh. Well, maybe for later?" She lingered, her hand hovering near your shoulder, wanting to touch you but sensing the invisible electric fence you’d wired around yourself. "How was your day? Did you get that intro written?"

"I don't want to talk about the paper," you snapped, finally cutting your eyes toward her. Your tone was sharper than it needed to be, dripping with a cold irritation that made her flinch. "I’ve been staring at it for six hours. The last thing I need is a play-by-play interrogation the second you walk through the door."

Ellie withdrew her hand, her fingers curling into a fist. "I wasn't interrogating you. I was just asking."

"Well, don't," you muttered, turning back to the screen.

You were being a brat. You knew it. You were being avoidant, cold, and frankly, a terrible partner. But the more she tried to be the "good" one—the patient, doting provider—the more you wanted to claw at the walls. You hated the way she looked at you with those puppy-dog eyes, trying to fix a mood that felt unfixable.

"Fine," Ellie said, her voice tight. "I'll go get a shower."

The evening was a series of avoided glances. You moved to the bedroom to avoid her in the living room; when she came to bed, you rolled over, facing the wall, pulling the duvet into a tight cocoon that didn't include her. You felt her weight settle on the mattress, felt the heat of her body just inches away, but you remained a statue.

"Are we even gonna talk?" she whispered into the dark.

"I'm tired, Ellie. Go to sleep."

There was a long pause. You expected her to snap back—she had a temper, after all—but instead, you heard a shaky, wet intake of breath.

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm working my ass off so you can stay home. I’m trying to give you space, I'm trying to be what you need... but you look at me like you hate me. If you want me to leave, just say it. Don't just... freeze me out."

The "bitchy" armor you’d been wearing cracked. Hearing her sound so small and defeated—the girl who could take on the world, reduced to tears because you wouldn't look at her—sent a surge of guilt through you that felt like physical pain.

You turned over slowly. In the dim light, you could see the glint of tears on her cheeks. She looked exhausted, her hair damp from the shower, her shoulders slumped.

"El," you breathed, the word catching in your throat.

"I can't do the 'silent treatment' anymore," she choked out, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "It’s worse than fighting. It’s like I'm not even here."

You reached out, your fingers trembling as you touched her arm. This time, you didn't pull away. You slid across the gap in the bed, collapsing into her space, burying your face in the crook of her neck.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed, the dam finally breaking. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I’ve been so mean to you. I don't know why I'm doing it."

Ellie didn't hesitate. Her arms wrapped around you with a desperate strength, pulling you flush against her. She didn't lecture you, and she didn't tell you it was okay—because it hadn't been—but she held you.

"You’re just drowning, baby," she murmured, her chin resting on the top of your head as you wept into her shirt. "You’re drowning and you’re trying to pull me under so you have something to hold onto. I get it."

She began to rock you gently, her hand stroking down your back in long, soothing lines. The avoidant chill was gone, replaced by the raw, aching heat of a reconciliation that was long overdue.

"I don't hate you," you whispered against her skin. "I'm just... I'm a mess."

"You're my mess," Ellie countered, her voice firmer now. She pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, her thumbs catching your tears. "But don't you ever tell me to stop asking about your day again. I don't care if it was shitty. I want to hear about it. I want all of it, not just the parts where you're 'perfect.'"

She leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Now, let’s get you some of those tarts. You need some sugar in you before you get mean again."

You ate some of the tarts Ellie brought you and by that time it was late, you both went to bed, and as you closed your eyes you felt the cold weight of burnout on you. The call of bad decisions to distract you, you slept terribly.

The sun was too bright. It cut through the gap in the curtains, stinging your eyes and forcing you to squint as you slowly regained consciousness. For a second, the heavy, sour taste of yesterday’s bitterness lingered in your mouth, but then you felt it—the weight of Ellie’s arm draped over your waist, anchoring you.

She wasn't asleep. As soon as you shifted, the grip tightened slightly.

"Morning," she murmured, her voice thick and gravelly from sleep. She didn't let go; instead, she hauled herself up, propping herself on an elbow to look down at you. The hurt from the night before was mostly gone, replaced by a vigilant, searching tenderness. "How’s your head? Still feel like the world is ending?"

You shook your head, feeling a flush of shame. "I feel like an idiot."

"Hey," she chided, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your nose. "None of that. We talked. It's done. Today is a reset."

She didn't give you a chance to spiral. Ellie was out of bed in a flash, but she didn't leave the room. She moved with a purpose, gathering your discarded clothes from the floor and tossing you a clean, oversized sweater of hers. She was back on the edge of the mattress a moment later with a glass of water and two aspirin.

"Drink," she commanded, that protective edge back in her voice, but this time it felt like a lifeline instead of a cage.

While you sat up, feeling a bit fragile and raw, Ellie set to work. She didn't ask what you wanted; she simply knew. She brought a tray into the bedroom—the lemon tarts from the night before, sliced neatly, and a steaming mug of coffee doctored exactly how you liked it.

"You're staying in bed," she said, her tone brook no argument. She pulled the laptop off the nightstand and tucked it away in her desk drawer, locking it with a soft click. "The paper doesn't exist today. The 'social sciences' don't exist. It's just you, me, and these tarts."

She crawled back into bed beside you, sitting cross-legged and pulling your feet into her lap. She began to massage them, her thumbs pressing into your arches with a strength that grounded you.

"I'm gonna be a hovering pain in the ass today," she warned, a small, lopsided smirk playing on her lips. "I’m gonna make you eat, I’m gonna make you watch that shitty reality show you like, and I’m probably gonna kiss you every ten minutes until you remember you actually like me."

You looked at her—really looked at her—and the last of the avoidant fog cleared. You reached out, taking a bite of the tart she offered, the citrus sharp and sweet.

"I always like you, El," you whispered. "I'm just bad at showing it sometimes."

"Then I'll just have to be twice as good at it to make up the difference," she said, leaning in to steal a taste of the lemon from your lips.

The peace of the morning was shattered by the sharp, persistent buzz of your phone on the nightstand. You tried to reach for it, but Ellie’s hand was faster. She grabbed the device, her eyes narrowing as she saw the name "Jax" flash on the screen.

Jax was the one who always tried to drag you to the warehouse parties Ellie hated—the one who encouraged you to "ditch the leash" whenever you were feeling trapped.

"Don't," you murmured, your voice still groggy.

Ellie didn't listen. She didn't just silence it; she answered. She didn't put it to her ear, instead holding it out like it was something toxic, her thumb hovering over the speakerphone.

"Yo, where the hell are you?" Jax’s voice exploded into the quiet room, loud and jarring. "The group's heading to the quarry. Don't tell me you're still locked up in that depressing-ass apartment. Seriously, tell your bodyguard to get a life and come get high with people who actually know how to have fun."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Ellie’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek. She didn't look at the phone; she looked directly at you, her eyes dark and dangerously calm.

"She’s not coming," Ellie said, her voice a low, cold vibration that would have sent a hunter running for cover.

There was a stunned silence on the other end. "Wait, is that—? Put her on, man. I wasn't talking to you."

"I don't care who you were talking to," Ellie rasped, leaning closer to the phone, her possessive intensity flaring up like a struck match. "She’s resting. And if you call this phone again, or even think about showing up here to 'rescue' her, you’re gonna find out exactly how much of a life I have. Stay away from her. Do you understand me?"

"Whatever, crazy—" Jax started, but Ellie cut him off by ending the call with a final, violent tap.

She tossed the phone onto the far end of the mattress and turned back to you. The anger was still there, vibrating under her skin, but when she looked at you, it softened into a fierce, desperate sort of protection. She crawled over, pinning you gently against the pillows with the weight of her body, her hands framing your face.

"Is that who you want?" she whispered, her forehead pressing against yours. "People who think I’m 'holding you back' just because I actually care if you're breathing?"

She didn't wait for an answer, her thumbs tracing the line of your jaw with a frantic heat. "You're not going anywhere near them. I’m keeping you right here until you’re back to yourself. You hear me? Just me."

The library was the one place Ellie didn't  hover. 

Her own finals were in the architecture wing, leaving you alone in the quiet, dusty stacks of the social sciences floor. You were surrounded by open textbooks, finally feeling the tether loosen, until a shadow fell across your notes.

A girl was standing there. She looked tired, with sharp features and eyes that scanned the room nervously before settling on you. She looked nothing like Ellie—she was smaller, her movements twitchy

"You’re the one she’s with now," the girl said. It wasn't a question. "I’m Cat. I was... before you."

You felt a spike of defensiveness. You didn't pull away; you straightened your posture, mirroring Ellie’s pride.

 "I know who you are. Ellie mentioned you once. She said you couldn't handle things."

Cat let out a dry, hollow laugh, pulling a chair out and sitting without asking. "Is that what she called it? Not being able to handle things?" She leaned in, her voice a frantic whisper. "Listen to me. I saw you at the library last week. I saw the way she was holding your belt loop. The way she stares at the back of your head like she’s memorizing your skull."

"She’s protective," you countered, your voice steady. "The world is a mess, Cat. She just wants me safe."

"That’s how it starts," Sarah hissed. "First, she’s protecting you from the guys at parties. Then she’s 'protecting' you from your friends because they’re 'bad influences.' Then she’s protecting you from your own family. She’ll make the world outside that apartment look so terrifying that you’ll thank her for locking the door. She doesn't love you like a person—she loves you like a secret she’s afraid to lose."

You looked down at your hands. You thought about the door clicking shut the night before. You thought about the rush of heat you felt when she told you nobody gets to look at you but me. Sarah saw it as a threat; you felt it like a warm, heavy blanket. Maybe this “Cat” DID have bad friends and family.. Ellie wasn't wrong. 

"You're wrong," you said, your voice dropping to that low, certain tone you’d picked up from Ellie. "She doesn't lock the door to keep me in. She locks it to keep you—and everyone else—out."

Sarah stared at you, her expression shifting from pity to genuine fear. "Oh god. You’re already leaning into it. You’re helping her build the cage."

“Maybe I like the cage, Cat” defensive and  outright irritated, you snap and her eyes widen.

Before she could respond, the heavy glass doors at the end of the aisle swung open. The air in the room seemed to drop five degrees. Ellie was there. She wasn't running, but her stride was predatory, her flannel billowing behind her as she moved toward the table.

Cat scrambled to her feet, her chair screeching against the linoleum. Ellie didn't even look at her. Her eyes were locked on you, scanning your face for any sign of emotion

"Is there a problem here?" Ellie asked, her voice a low vibration that made the hair on your arms stand up. She stepped between you and Cat, her hand immediately finding the back of your neck, her thumb anchoring you to her hip.

"No problem," you murmured, looking up at Ellie. You didn't look at Cat’s terrified face. Instead, you reached up and took Ellie’s free hand, interlacing your fingers tightly. "She was just leaving."

Ellie’s gaze finally flicked to Cat a cold, dismissive glance that suggested Sarah was barely a ghost. "Leave. Now."

The cat didn't wait. She grabbed her bag and bolted. As she disappeared, Ellie turned back to you, her hands now framing your face, her thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a frantic, possessive intensity.

"What did she say to you?" Ellie hissed, her forehead pressing against yours. "Did she try to get in your head? Did she try to take you away?"

You leaned into her palms, closing your eyes and breathing in that familiar, earthy scent. Cat’s warning was ringing in your ears, but the heat of Ellie’s grip felt so much more real than the "freedom" Cat was offering.

"She tried," you whispered, a small, dark smile touching your lips as you pulled Ellie’s face closer. "But I told her I’m exactly where I want to be” you bite your lip” Lock the door when we get home, El. I don't 

want to hear anyone else's voice but yours."

The walk back to the apartment was faster than usual, Ellie’s hand never leaving the small of your back, her fingers digging slightly into your skin through your shirt. She didn't speak, but you could feel the tension radiating off her—a coiled spring of redirected adrenaline and protective fury that was slowly melting into something much more focused on you.

The moment the apartment door shut, Ellie didn't just lock it; she threw the deadbolt with a finality that echoed through the small space.

She turned her back to the wood, and pulled you into her space by the waist. Her eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide as she searched your expression. "You chose me," she breathed, her voice a low, jagged rasp. "Even after everything she said. You chose this."

"I told you," you whispered, reaching up to thread your fingers through her hair, tilting her head back so she had to look at you. "I’m not her, Ellie. I don't want the world. I want this."

A shiver ran through Ellie, and the hard, defensive line of her shoulders finally broke. She let out a soft, shaky exhale and buried her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply as if she were trying to pull your very being into her lungs. Her hands slid from your waist, moving upward under the hem of your shirt, her palms hot and possessive against your bare skin.

"Good," she murmured against your pulse, her lips brushing the sensitive skin there. "Because I don't think I could let you go now even if you begged."

She hoisted you up suddenly, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist as she carried you toward the bedroom. She set you down on the edge of the unmade bed but didn't move away. Instead, she knelt between your knees, her hands resting heavily on your thighs, anchoring you.

"You were so perfect today," she said, her gaze intense, worshipful, and terrifyingly focused. "The way you looked at her. The way you held my hand. You made sure she knew exactly who you belong to."

 Ellie crawled up the bed to pull you into her arms, wrapping the oversized flannel around both of you like a cocoon, the rest of the world—Sarah, the school, the guys at the deli—faded into a grey, unimportant blur.

"Stay right here," Ellie commanded softly, pulling the covers over you both. "Just us. Forever."

And as you tucked your head under her chin, listening to the steady, possessive beat of her heart, you realized Sarah was right. It was a cage. But as Ellie’s arms tightened around you, you decided it was the only place you ever wanted to live.

Slowly ellie began to kiss your neck then your jaw and mouth and you were whining for her touch immediately, A

“Yea baby? Want me to touch you? In this pretty skirt.”

You nod furiously. 

“Let me reward you then princess”

 Slipping your panties off under your skirt ellie trails kisses up your inner thighs biting and licking 

“Ellieee-” you whine “pleasee?” 

“Hmm okay baby” she pretends to contemplate it before licking a long line up the middle of your core, moaning, ellie digs in “so sweet” her voice is muffled. Hips jerking you cry out when she inserts one long finger in you “cmon baby you can take it”

Quick enough to embarrass even you your orgasm approaches “els-” your legs shake and ellie smirks into you before adding another finger, your back arches wildly as you moan at the sensation, thrusting them quickly she hits a spot that makes you see stars, and you cum. “That's a good girl baby just like that.”

After getting you cleaned up you ask ellie if she wants to do something- 

Ellie smiles,  “Let me take you to a party tonight, my good girl.” 

You nod excitedly.

The air in the cramped basement apartment was thick with the scent of cheap beer and even cheaper cologne. You shifted on the worn sofa, feeling the heat of the crowd pressing in.

"Then let’s get you some air," Ellie replied, her voice dropping an octave. She didn’t pull away; instead, she tucked her fingers into the belt loops of your jeans, steering you toward the balcony with a slow, deliberate gravity.

As you moved through the crowded living room, her body remained a constant, warm pressure against your side. You found yourself shifting closer, your hip bumping into hers with every step, subconsciously seeking out the friction. When a classmate tried to flag you down to talk about the midterm, you didn't stop. You simply leaned your head back against Ellie’s shoulder, letting her handle the dismissal with a sharp, protective tilt of her head.

The cool night air hit your skin as you stepped outside, but the chill didn't reach you. Ellie had you backed against the railing in seconds, her hands sliding from your waist to cup your face. The "claim" wasn't subtle anymore—it was everything.

"Better?" she asked, though she didn't move back to give you space.

"Much," you whispered. You reached up, your hands hovering before settling firmly on her forearms, pulling her even closer until there wasn't a breath of space left between you. You weren't just enduring her proximity; you were hungry for it. You tilted your chin up, inviting the weight of her gaze. "You’re being very attentive tonight, El."

"Am I?" She hummed, her thumb returning to that spot behind your ear, sending a fresh shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Maybe I just don't like the way they look at what’s mine."

Instead of the protest you might have offered yesterday, you felt a dark, steady hum of satisfaction. You leaned into her touch, closing your eyes and letting your forehead rest against hers. "Then keep holding on," you murmured, your voice steady. "I'm not going anywhere."

The heavy bass of the music inside the house muffled into a rhythmic thrum as the party spilled out onto the patio. A slow, hazy track began to play—something with a deep, lingering beat that seemed to match the low vibration of Ellie’s voice.

Ellie didn't ask. She simply caught your hand, her palm rough and warm, and drew you into the center of the shadows where the string lights didn't quite reach. You went willingly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the song.

She pulled you in flush against her, one hand splaying flat against the small of your back while the other stayed locked with yours, tucked against her chest. You didn't keep the polite distance you usually did. Instead, you draped your free arm over her shoulder, your fingers curling into the soft, worn fabric of her flannel.

"You're staring,"

 Ellie murmured, her eyes dark and fixed on your mouth as she began to sway.

"Hard not to," you breathed, leaning in until your nose brushed the side of her neck.

She let out a low, satisfied sound, her grip tightening until you were swaying as one person. Every time her thigh brushed between yours, or her chest rose against your own, you leaned further into the contact. You felt the possessive weight of her presence, and for the first time, you didn't just accept it—you anchored yourself to it. You shifted your weight, stepping even deeper into her space, letting your eyes flutter shut as you memorized the way she felt.

Ellie’s chin hooked over your shoulder, her breath hot against your ear. 

“Let me go home and worship you”

she whispered, her hand sliding down to rest firmly on your hip, anchoring you to her. 

“Youre so beautiful tonight”

You didn't pull away or look back at the glass doors. Instead, you tucked your face into the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin and the cool night air. "All for you els, lets go " you agreed, your voice muffled but certain.

The walk back to the dorms was quiet until you hit the corner of 4th and Main. The streetlights flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows across the pavement.

"Almost there," Ellie muttered, her hand still anchored firmly to yours. Her grip hadn't loosened once since leaving the party.

A group of guys was loitering outside the 24-hour deli, their laughter loud and jagged in the midnight silence. As you passed, one of them—a guy in a varsity jacket—whistled low and sharp.

"Hey, sweetheart," he called out, his eyes raking over you with a grin that made your skin crawl. "Why did you head home so early? The night’s just getting started."

You felt Ellie freeze. It wasn't a slow halt; it was a sudden, violent stillness.

"Just ignore them," you whispered, pulling on her arm. "Ellie, let’s just go."

But Ellie didn't move. She turned slowly, her face a mask of cold, sharp angles. The boy’s grin faltered as he took in the look in her eyes—it wasn't anger, it was something much more predatory.

"What did you call her?" Ellie’s voice was dangerously calm, echoing off the brick walls.

"Just a compliment, babe, don't get your—"

Ellie took two steps toward him, pulling you along like an afterthought. She stepped into his personal space, her height and the sheer intensity of her presence making the group go quiet. "She isn't 'sweetheart.' She isn't 'babe.' She’s the person you’re going to look away from right now if you want to keep that mouth of yours."

The guy opened his mouth to retort, but his friends, catching the vibe, grabbed his sleeves and pulled him back. Ellie didn't blink until they’d scrambled inside the deli.

She didn't say a word the rest of the way. When you finally reached the apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before she had you pinned against it. The suddenness of it made your breath catch in your throat.

"I told you," she hissed, her hands framing your head on the wood. Her chest was heaving, her eyes dark with a mix of fury and something that looked a lot like hunger. "I told you people are disgusting. They think they can just speak to you."

She leaned in, her nose brushing yours, her voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. "Inside these walls, you’re safe. Nobody gets to look at you here but me."

Your knees felt weak, but it wasn't from fear—it was the overwhelming rush of being someone’s entire world. Instead of pulling away, you let your head drop back against the door, your eyes fluttering shut as you exhaled a shaky breath.

"I know," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I know they are."

You reached up, your fingers trembling slightly as you gripped the front of her flannel, pulling her closer until there wasn't a breath of space left between you. The safety of the locked door behind you and the heat of Ellie in front of you created a cocoon that made the rest of the world feel irrelevant.

Ellie’s expression softened, the intensity in her gaze shifting from a sharp focus to something deeper and more grounded. She leaned her forehead against yours, her breathing syncing with your own. The weight of her presence was a constant, steadying force, grounding you in the quiet of the room.

"I've got you," she murmured, her hands moving from the door to rest gently on your shoulders. "No one else is getting near this door tonight. It’s just us."

She took a small step back, though she didn't break the connection, her hand finding yours and squeezing tight. There was a fierce kind of loyalty in the way she looked at you, a silent promise that the world outside would stay outside. You leaned into her side as she began to move away from the door, the tension finally starting to bleed out of your muscles.

The room felt smaller now, intimate and private, as she guided you toward the small living area. Every movement was deliberate, marked by a quiet understanding that neither of you wanted to be anywhere else.

When Ellie sat down and patted her lap you climbed in with no hesitation and when her lips met yours, you didn’t hesitate, she deepened the kiss taking you by the back of your neck and angling your head. 

she gives a small playful bite to your lip and you moan allowing her tongue to explore your mouth thoroughly, when she pulls your hips into a soft grind on her crotch you gasp at the bulge you weren’t expecting 

“Think you’re ready to try this baby?”

you bite your lip but nod your head vigorously and she rolls your hips again.

Picking you up while standing in one impressive move, your legs licking around her torso, Ellie takes you to your shared bed and tosses you there. 

“So pretty, i could admire you all day long” 

crawling over you she slides your shirt up leaving kisses and marks as she goes your body lighting on fire at her attention. arching and moaning

 ellie growls 

“stay still and let me appreciate what’s mine baby”

Running her hands up your ribs tracing lines she takes off your shirt and bra, unclipping as she goes and you shiver at the brush of air over your nipples. 

“So pretty, baby”

Starting to lose control, Ellie runs her hands up your thighs pulling your pants and underwear off so you lay bare for her on the ground. Ellie growls in approval.

“E-ellssss” you whine and she snaps, diving into your thighs your back arches at her skilled tongue. 

“Ellie!”

“Hush or I'm done.” no room for argument so you whine quietly while she flicks her tongue and sucks your clit.

She was gripping your hips  holding you down as you tried to buck  your hips and arch your back, so sensitive.

"Please els! it's too much, I cant- ah"

"You can, baby, you've got not choice. Take it for me like the good girl you are."

Ellie drives her tongue back in eating like she's starved until you're seeing stars, until that knot in your stomach is tightening, and your legs are closing - Ellie stops.

You look up at her and she smiles

 “Come un do my jeans baby”  she rasps her pupils blown with desire.

Ellie watches hungrily as you undo her belt and then her button until her strap presses against her boxers, you look up..

“Cmon baby, take it out now..” and you do the pretty pink strap is big, huge even and as you try to suck aimlessly your eyes water.

“Let me help you baby” ellie takes your head in her hands and guides your mouth in short strokes 

Ellie watches hungrily so hungrily you think she might eat you now. 

Quicker than you expect Ellie is flipping you over  “ready baby?” she asks. She was greedy, so greedy, she couldn't hold it anymore “want me to take what's mine princess?” you nod your head as Ellie thrusts forward and you jerk yelping.

“Just relax for a minute baby it'll get better” she takes short slow strokes exploring and letting you get used to it 

“Fuck cant fuckin hold back” shes murmurring 

“so dont’ you say trying to encourage her

And Ellie slams the length home, crying out your moan and the pain the burning stretch dissolves into burning white hot pleasure. The viberator in the strap making her vision go white with pleasure 

the combined feeling of her fucking you deep and hard with the pinch of the stretch overwhelming you drove you crazy, making your eyes roll back into your head. "Ellie! oh my god" you moaned, already cock-drunk

"Do you like that? how mommy fucks you so deep and so good?" Ellie growled into your ear, making tingles shoot down your spine and right into your clit

 "yes- yes, fuck- i love it" you whimpered, almost going cross-eyed with each filthy thrust of her thick cock.

El-ellie I'm gonna cum! You whine your legs shaking as she thrusts into you harder “go on princess fuckin cum” that coil snaps low in your stomach and your hot cum squirts onto ellies leggs and cock 

Ellie moans deeply “fuckin cuming on my cock like a slut” but her pace doesnt slow.

“E-els please i cant-”

“Keep going for me princess hm?” Ellie murmurs, running her hands across your soft skin as  her thrusts never let up “Give me one more.”

Your first orgasm rolls into a second as ellie smacks you ass hard, with your orgasm she goes too moaning deep and rough , shuddering over you 

“all mine now” she murmurs, picking you up to take care of you. 

A heavy, drifting exhaustion began to settle in on you, making yourlimbs feel like lead. As the intensity of the day faded, a deep fatigue that had been hovering at the edges of the room finally took hold. Skin felt overly sensitive, and a slight chill started to creep in.

Ellie noticed the shift instantly. The playful energy vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused concern. She didn't let anyone move an inch without help.

"Whoa, easy," she murmured, her voice dropping into a low, grounding tone. She helped adjust the pillows, ensuring a comfortable position. "You're feeling a bit cold. Let's get you settled properly."

She was incredibly gentle, moving with slow and deliberate care. She kept a close eye on the situation, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead to check the temperature with a worried hum. After a moment, she fetched a pair of thick wool socks and a favorite, worn-out hoodie. The fabric was soft and familiar, offering a sense of physical relief.

"Under the covers. Now," she encouraged softly.

As the blankets were pulled up, Ellie tucked the edges in tightly to create a warm cocoon. She disappeared for a moment and returned with a heavy ceramic mug of tea, the steam smelling of honey and lemon. She sat on the edge of the bed, offering support while ensuring the tea was finished.

"Drink," she whispered. "Small sips. Everything is under control."

When the mug was empty, she slid into the space nearby, offering a steady, grounding presence. She didn't try to initiate anything further; instead, she simply stayed close, her palms radiating a steady heat. She began to stroke hair slowly, her fingers moving with infinite patience.

"Just rest," she breathed, her presence a comfort. "The door’s locked, the world is quiet, and there is nowhere else to be. The only focus right now is getting better."

The heaviness of the fever started to lift as sleep approached, anchored by the sheer weight of her presence. She remained fierce in her protection, she put all her energy into being a shield against the exhaustion and soreness.

"Everything is fine," she murmured, watching as sleep finally took over. "Rest now."

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