Untitled

The apartment is quiet when you step in—too quiet for a place that belongs to Ellie Williams.

No clinking from the kitchen. No careless hum as she shuffles through playlists or the groan of her chair dragging across the floor while she edits for hours on end. Just the sound of your own breath, the click of the door behind you, and the familiar creak of the floorboards that always betray your entrance.

It’s weird enough as it is. Usually—if not in front of her laptop—she’d barge into the threshold, socked feet skidding to a halt just to wrap her arms around you and lift you off the floor, crushing your ribs in the attempt of fusing her body with yours. But to be fair, you’re too tired to pay too much attention to the difference, too bored by a day that was so blatant.

So you just drop your keys into the little ceramic bowl by the door, kick your heels off without grace. Your legs ache, your calves tight from the elevator breaking down, your knees sore from the shoot you’ve just returned to that will probably end up being another flop and your spine is curved from being stuck in the same angle for hours.

You’re halfway through tugging your hair out of the claw clip you had pinned it with on your way home when her voice reaches you.

“Bedroom.”

Just that. Lazy, raspy, possessive. A single word, low and expectant, like she’s been waiting for you all day.

Your mouth parts. Your heartbeat stutters.

There’s a shift in the air, heavy and liquid. That dangerous tension that coils under your skin whenever she drops her voice like that, when her tone tells you this isn’t just a casual hi, babe, welcome home. This is Ellie in a mood. A very specific kind of mood.

You walk barefoot down the hallway, skin prickling as you pass the wall covered in her black-and-white prints: her favorite shots of strangers turned into beauty through her lens. But you’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re caught in her viewfinder, the way her fingers tremble ever so slightly on the shutter. Like she’s starving. Like the camera is the only thing keeping her from devouring you whole. The same look she had that time when—in the most comedic look you two could pull off— she lowered the camera and laughter died down just to bring your lips together, red gloss smearing against her mouth, rollers falling from your hair and blue eyeshadow getting smudged by the damp clinging to your lashes. The cord of the phone she had paid for ended up being useful to pin your wrist together above your head too, as it came out to be.

Maybe it’s the shift in the air surrounding you that has brought you back thinking to that very specific moment; a shift that materializes as you finally open the door.

Because Ellie’s laid out on the bed, every inch of bare skin gleaming in the low, golden light of the bedside lamp. Her legs are stretched out and lean, one bent just enough to expose and conceal. Her tattoos ripple with every breath she takes. The camera—your downfall, your undoing—is looped loosely around her neck, the lens resting between her breasts.

Your mouth goes dry as you blink. “El—”

“Strip,” she orders, her voice dropping again. “Clothes off. Leave them on the floor. Right there. Pose for me.”

You’re not used to this Ellie. Or maybe you are, but it still knocks the wind out of you every time—this commanding, sin-stained version of her. The one who doesn’t just want to see you naked. She wants to capture it, immortalize it, keep you suspended in stills that she’ll look at in the dark when you’re gone or when she needs to remember how you fall apart for her.

You hesitate not because you’re shy—not anymore, not with her—but because of the way she’s looking at you: the weight of her stare, the tension in her bare shoulders, the subtle twitch in her fingers as they tighten around the camera like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality.

“Go slow,” she murmurs,  lifting the camera, peering through the viewfinder as you eventually begin to undress.  “I wanna see all of it.”

Your shirt falls first, then your bra. The jeans pool around your ankles and leave you standing there in lace underwear and flushed skin, heart thudding like a war drum in your chest.

She clicks once, then again. The sound is louder now, sharp.

Your girlfriend shifts on the bed, knees parting, the camera tilting with her as she captures your side profile, the delicate arch of your ribcage, the way your jaw clenches when you try to stay composed.

“You know what I see?” Ellie asks, clicking again as you step forward, as you reach for the waistband of your panties. “I see someone desperate to be worshipped. Someone who needs to be looked at. Praised. Touched.”

The lace slides down your thighs, and she moans softly just behind the camera. That muffled, breathless sound she makes when she’s so turned on she forgets where she ends and you begin.

You’re naked, but not just in the sense of how clothes do not cling to your frame anymore, but in the sense of being finally, actually seen through the lenses of someone who actually knows the shape of your soul and the rhythm your heart beats to.

She snaps again.

And then again.

And then her voice drops to a whisper, lower than sin, silkier than anything you've ever worn. “Get on the bed.”

As you climb onto the mattress with trembling knees the air feels electric. Ellie shifts almost immediately, crouching between your legs as you lay on your back fully naked, her tattooed forearm resting against your shin as she adjusts the angle of the lens. Her pupils are blown wide, the green of her eyes swallowed up in pitch-dark want, lips are parted, chest rising too fast.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she whispers, breath ghosting across your knee. “God, how did I even end up with you.”

You’re not even sure why you whimper.  It’s not the camera, not the room, the adrenaline or the intimacy. It’s her. It’s the way she’s looking at you like you’re her masterpiece and her favorite sin rolled into one. The way she’s completely exposed and yet somehow in full control, power thrumming off of her like a current.

She shifts until she’s straddling you, one hand wrapped around her camera, the other bracing beside your head. Her mouth is right above yours, but she doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

“Spread your legs,” she murmurs. “Arch your back a little.” You do, even if you’re shaking from the sheer need to feel her hands on your skin while Ellie shifts again, sitting on her knees, pulling slowly away to get a wider angle. “Yeah, baby, just like that. Look at me.”

Click.

Click.

“Touch yourself.”

You don’t even hesitate, not when her voice sounds like that—low, commanding, the way it makes your pulse quicken the most and drop any kind of inhibition. You let your hands travel south slowly, fingertips grazing the dip of your stomach along the way, only to find yourself  already soaked as your fingers drift lower, dragging through your own slick with a breathy little moan that makes her growl. 

“Fuck, look at you,” she rasps, camera trembling in her hands. “Don’t stop. Do it again. Circle your clit just like that—fuck, baby, fuck, that’s perfect.”

You obey. You always do with her.

You rub slow, lazy spirals over your clit, just the way she likes it, keeping your other hand splayed on your lower belly like she does it when her fingers are inside you.

Your thighs are already trembling and she’s not even touching you. She’s just watching, letting the shutter go wild, capturing every little shiver, every shift of your breath, every twitch of your brows as you fall deeper into it.

“You’re already gonna come, huh?” Ellie whispers. “Haven’t even been home five minutes and you’re soaked for me. Is this what you think about when you’re on set? When you’re posing for other people? You think about me looking at you like this?”

You nod frantically, breath catching as your fingers speed up, chasing the edge because it’s right there and her voice is wrecking you, low and reverent.

“Say it,” she commands.

Your eyes flutter open. “I think about you. I always think about you. When they touch me up, when they adjust the lights—fuck, Ellie—I wish it was you. I wish it was your hands on me, your mouth, your—”

Click.

“Goddamn it,” she breathes.

She drops the camera. Just lets it fall against her chest, swinging gently from the strap like she’s forgotten it even exists. Her eyes are fixed between your legs now, wild and dark, and her jaw’s so tight you know she’s clenching her teeth to stop from doing what she wants to do.

“I was gonna wait,” she mutters, crawling up your body in a slow, stalking motion that makes you whimper. “I was gonna let you finish on your fingers and then fuck you after. But you look too good, baby. I need you.”

You don’t even have time to reply before her hands are parting your thighs wider—fingers pressing bruises into your skin—and her mouth is on you.

She doesn’t ease in, doesn’t tease. She just devours like she’s starved, like she’s been thinking about this all day while editing, while waiting.

She licks long and deep, moaning into your cunt like the taste of you is too much to handle. Her fingers dig into your hips, holding you down as you buck beneath her, gasping, crying out her name again and again because it’s too much and still not enough. Your fingers tangle in her hair, trying to pull her closer. 

“I love this” she murmurs against your clit. “The way you fall apart. The way you taste when you’re desperate. The way you fucking soak for me, baby.”

You’re sobbing now. Shaking, arching. The coil in your belly is so tight it’s about to snap. It does as you come with a cry that echoes through the room, your whole body curling inward as pleasure crashes over you.

Ellie doesn’t stop, she just keeps licking. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl,” she groans, her voice low and hoarse. “Just like that. So fucking pretty when you come.”

When you finally collapse, limp and shaking, she pulls back just enough to look at you.

You’ve never seen her like this: flushed, sweating, eyes feral and her lips slick with you. Her camera strap still taut against her collarbones.

You watch her exhaling—nostrils flaring with the sharp breath of air that curses through them— and then tearing the camera from around her neck to toss it across the bed and pin you with a look that makes your whole body ache.

“I’m not done,” she says. “Turn over. Now.”

But you don’t.

You don’t turn over, don’t flip onto your stomach like she tells you to. Instead, you pull yourself up, crawl toward her, slow and languid, the taste of your climax still in your throat, slick pooling between your thighs, and you press your mouth to hers with your fingers holding her chin firmly, like you’ve been starving for it all night.

She kisses you back immediately, violently, tongue sliding against yours, hand fisting in your hair like she needs the anchor.

She only freezes for half a second when you gently push her down with your fingers pressing against her sternum, her back against the mattress as you climb on top of her. But she melts like putty quickly, mainly because she knows what you’re doing. She knows that look in your eye—your pupils glassy with lust, your lips swollen, your whole body flushed and trembling. You’re not trying to regain control. You’re not teasing. You’re worshipping back.

“Lay back,” you whisper.

Naked and wrecked, she lets herself sink into the mattress, gaze flicking between your body and the way you reach back for the strap on the nightstand. She lets out a low, guttural sound when she sees you loop the harness around her hips when she lifts them for you, adjusting the straps like you’ve done it a hundred times. Like it belongs there. Like she belongs like this—under you.

You climb on top of her like you have the whole time in the world, like this doesn’t require any rush, not when you’re enjoying the look in her eyes so much: impatient, aching, begging without words. You grip the base of the silicone and line it up against your folds, rubbing the thick tip through your wetness to coat it, but mainly just to tease.

Her head rolls back, her fingers clench the sheets as a whimper rolls off her lip.

And—of course—she grabs the camera. You grind down slowly, the strap sliding inside inch by inch, while your jaw goes slack.

Click.

The flash catches the curve of your waist, the silhouette of you riding her, the way your thighs tremble as you sink down fully and stay there for a second, hips pressed to hers, cunt stretched and aching and so full you could cry.

“You look so goddamn good like this,” Ellie whispers hoarsely. “On top of me. Taking it like you were made for it.”

You roll your hips, slow and deep, and the breath punches out of her lungs.

“I am,” you whimper. “Made for this. Made for you.”

Click.

She’s still taking pictures, but barely. Her grip on the camera is shaking now, her mouth wet and open, her abs flexing every time your hips grind against her. The strap base is pressed snug to her clit, and you can feel the way she’s losing it, the way every thrust rocks her harder than the last, so you start to move faster, deeper.

Her moans become curses. Her hands drift from the camera—one snapping shots, the other sliding up your ribs, over your breast, gripping tight like she needs to feel what she’s seeing through the lens.

“You’re unreal,” she groans. “Fucking unreal. You don’t even know how good you look. I could die like this.”

Click.

You fuck down harder, chasing the pressure inside you, the slap of skin getting louder, wetter, the room filled with the sound of your bodies colliding and her shutter going wild.

But then she drops the camera once again, just letting it fall to the mattress and starts rolling up into your thrusts, her hands moving up to grab your face.

“Look at me,” she demands, voice cracked and raw. “No more pictures. Just you. Just this.”

You look down at her, seeing her lips part again, hearing the hitch in her breathing. It makes you ride her faster, rougher, hands braced on her chest as you squeeze her tits, your own bouncing with each thrust. She’s so close—you can see it in the way her whole body is straining, how her thighs are trembling under yours, her clit grinding against the harness, chasing friction.

“You’re mine,” she says. You nod. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe.

It’s all it takes.

She comes with a cry, body arching off the bed, hand flying to your ass as she holds you down, grinding you against her and riding it out like it’s killing her. You feel her shaking under you, her chest heaving, her thighs locking around you like she doesn’t want you to ever leave.

You keep rolling your hips, still dragging the strap in and out of your soaked pussy, still fucking yourself on her to let her high last longer, to make her feel good as long as you can. But when her thumb reaches between you and finds your clit, you lose it too.

You come with a sob, collapsing onto her chest, face buried in her throat, breath hot and desperate against her pulse as your whole body shakes.

She holds you through it: arms tight, breathing ragged, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other still between your bodies like she’s not ready to let go yet.

Eventually, your breathing evens, your muscles stop spasming and the world slows down again. And when you finally lift your head to look at her, she’s smiling.

Soft. Drunk. In love.

“You,” she whispers, “are my favorite picture.”

hi, hello! if you've reached the end and did not read part one because you were horny (fair), this is another friendly reminder to go check it out, it's substantial + it's izzie's writing so that's enough of a reason to read it :p

pictures from pinterest

dividers made by izzie the goat <33

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 「check the bottom of my masterlist or comment to be added <3」 @machetegirl109 @valeisaslut @imliterallyjustonegirl @seasonsofchaos @les4elliewilliams @andieprincessofpower @iloveclairo2016 @rhian88 @mxchi-mxxn @sawaagyapong @angelz-void @archersbows @slutforabbyanderson @liztreez @ghostofmaxx @starrypeachezz

"... and you know what else is fucking insane?” you say, pointing an aggressively accusatory finger at your best friend from across the room—drink sloshing in your glass. “i paid for her doordash. like, several times.”

your friend doesn’t even flinch. she’s heard this one before. multiple times.

“i'd be financially fuckin' down bad, eating cup noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and i would still pay to have jersey mikes express delivered to her doorstep,” you continue, pacing now, barefoot in your kitchen with only one lash strip glued on and your outfit zipped halfway. “i think that counts as love. like real, sacrificial, biblical love.”

“you’re drunk,” she says, not looking up from her lip liner application. “and spiraling.”

“i am not spiraling,” you lie, sipping your vodka redbull with such aggressive force the glass clinks against your teeth. “i’m casually revisiting past traumas in a safe and healthy environment.”

“you’re doing the exact same drunk rant you did last weekend. word for word. only, last time, you recited her exact jersey mikes order. i tried it, by the way. it was mid”

you glare at her.

she sets down her lip gloss and stands, hands on her hips. “tonight is not about ellie fucking williams. we are not mourning. we are whoring.”

you burst into giggles, despite the statement not being that funny. maybe you were drunk.

“bitch, i'm not laughing. say it with me.”

your giggles peter out.

“say it.”

“…we’re not mourning, we’re whoring.”

“louder.”

“we’re not mourning, we’re whoring!”

“there she is,” she grins, passing you a shot of clear liquid in a tiny glass with the words 'jamaican me crazy' printed on it. “now put on your other lash, zip that dress, and let’s go get you laid.”

you down the shot with a hiss. “how much do you wanna bet someone will strap me despite meeting me for the first time tonight?"

"crossing my fingers for your sake."

you disappear into your room to finish getting ready. when you emerge, fully zipped into your little black dress—the one with the dangerously short hemline and strapless top that makes your tits look borderline illegal—your friend’s jaw drops.

“you look fucking hot."

you grin and squeal excitedly, clapping your hands. "i knooow!"

she fans herself dramatically. “if someone isn't fucking you tonight, i will."

“bitch, don't play. you know i'd eat your pussy if you just asked."

you both laugh and cheers your final drinks, grabbing your keys and rushing to meet the uber that had already been waiting outside for three minutes. settling into the leather seat of the air conditioned car, there's only one thing on your mind:

don’t think about ellie. don’t talk about ellie. definitely don’t fuck around and accidentally still be in love with ellie.

easy, right?

the bass hits before the door even swings shut behind you.

it’s all strobe lights and wall-to-wall sweat and bodies pressed together. the air smells like cheap tequila, mint vape juice, and desperation. you breathe it in like a lifeline.

your friend latches onto your wrist, already dancing before you’ve made it ten feet inside. “let's get fucking wasted,” she yells over the music, already moving to pull out one of the shooters you'd both shoved into your cleavage prior to arrival.

you nod, adjust the hem of your dress just to ruck it back up again to show some more skin, and then dive into the crowd with her.

the music pulses, low and dirty and you move like you’ve got something to prove.

somewhere between ke$ha and nicki minaj, a girl finds you.

masculine. tall. arms covered in ink. low-slung jeans and a lazy grin. you give her one look—slow, up and down—and that’s all it takes.

she’s at your side in seconds.

hands slide over your hips. you roll them back into her. her breath hitches.

perfect.

you let her touch you. let her lean in close and whisper something flirty in your ear that you're too buzzed to understand. you throw your head back and laugh like you’re finally unbothered.

like there's not an ellie williams sized hole in your chest anymore.

and then your phone buzzes in your hand.

my main bitch: she’s here. at the bar. saw her while getting drinks. my main bitch: do you want to leave???

you freeze for half a second and your blood runs cold.

then you look up—over the stranger’s shoulder, across the crowd—and there she is.

ellie fucking williams.

leaning against the bar, open button-up rolled at the sleeves, and beer in hand. eyes locked on you like she’s been staring for five minutes already.

her expression is unreadable. but her jaw’s tight and she's gripping the neck of the beer bottle so fiercely it might shatter.

you smirk.

you: nah. my main bitch hearted your message. my main bitch: PERIODDDD

then, deliberately, you guide the stranger’s hands lower. over your hips. your thighs. your ass.

song after song, you make a show of it. grinding. laughing. pretending to moan when the stranger presses you closer. as her mouth brushes your neck, your eyes flick toward the bar.

ellie's still there, still watching.

you spin. lock your arms around the stranger’s neck and sway closer to her, right into the perfect line of sight.

and that’s when ellie’s beer slams back onto the counter. you actually hear the noise of glass against wood over the heavy thumping music

you grin, breathless. “sorry,” you whisper to your dance partner. “need a drink.”

she tries to keep you there, pressing a lingering kiss just under your jaw. you smile through it, not stopping her.

because you know who’s watching.

after a wet, sucking kiss on your neck that would quickly turn into a hickey if you weren't careful, you peel yourself away and strut toward the bar, every step dripping in confidence you only half feel.

you’re not supposed to be the girl who begs anymore.

you’re the girl she comes crawling back to.

the bar is sticky and overcrowded. elbows jostle you as you slide in between a group of girls ordering green tea shots and two guys doing that gross elbow-lean-flirt thing on a server.

you don’t care. you’re glowing. flushed and smug and pleasantly buzzed.

you flag the bartender with a lazy hand and glance behind you, leaning on the edge of the bar top and waiting to feel her sidle up behind you.

you don’t have to wait long.

“seriously?”

her voice is sharp and low, right by your ear.

you don't flinch. you don’t even turn. just hum, amused.

“you're seriously gonna let some random fucking girl feel you up like that?” she asks again. she’s closer now—crowding you against the bar like she’s entitled to the space around your body.

you spin on your heel, casually, like you weren't literally waiting for her to arrive.

“ellie,” you say with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “long time no see.”

she looks pissed—jealousy and indignation fighting for control across her face. her gaze drops for a second—to your lips, your chest, your legs—before she forces herself to look back up.

“do you have to be so—”

“so what?” you interrupt, eyes wide. “so hot? unbothered? so not-giving-a-fuck-about-you-anymore?"

she scoffs. “you’re drunk.”

“and, clearly, you’re still in love with me,” you counter, voice sugar-sweet. “so i guess we all have our crosses to bear.”

the bartender hands you your drink and you turn back around, taking a long sip.

ellie doesn’t move. "you know i love that dress on you,” she mutters. “wore it for me?"

“nope. wore it to get fucked.”

“that why you let her touch you like that?”

you smile into your drink. “that’s the beauty of dumping me, ellie. i can do whatever i want. with whoever i want. wherever i want.”

you give her a mocking look of sympathy. "anyway,” you say. “enjoy your drink.”

and just like that, you step away.

you’re halfway to the bathroom later, having consumed two more drinks and a shot your friend had gotten some random old guy to buy for you two, when she finds you again.

the hallway is dim, quieter than the rest of the club. you catch your reflection in the mirror across from the bathroom door, lipgloss still mostly intact.

she’s behind you before you can blink. you see her in the mirror first—eyes practically glowing in the low light.

“couldn’t stay away, huh?” you say, not turning around.

“why her?” she rasps.

you raise an eyebrow. “she’s hot. into me and has only shown me attention the entire night. unlike the shit you loved to pull.”

ellie steps forward—too close—and you can feel the warmth radiating off her. “you let her put her hands all over you.”

“yup.”

“in my dress."

“yours?"

“and for what?"

you finally turn, slowly, a challenge in your gaze. “like i said, i wore it to get fucked."

ellie’s breath catches. her jaw tightens like she’s trying not to say something she’ll regret.

“jesus,” she mutters, backing you against the wall.

you tilt your head, goading her. “jealous?”

her laugh is breathless. bitter. “of course i fucking am."

you freeze. you didn't expect her to actually admit it so openly and, for once, you don’t have a comeback.

she steps in again, now barely inches from your face. “i saw you tonight, and i thought i could handle it. thought i could just ignore it, but then you were dancing with her and—shit. i wanted to fucking kill her for touching you like that."

“should’ve thought of that before you broke up with me,” you whisper, voice tight.

she groans, low and desperate. “you don’t get it.”

“actually, i do,” you snap suddenly. “i got it every night you didn’t show up for me. every text you left on read. every random girl you flirted with for fun. every time i begged you to just talk to me and you couldn’t be bothered. i got it, ellie. loud and fucking clear.”

she’s silent.

you can see it in her eyes now—the grief. the guilt.

and still—the want.

then she whispers, “you said you wore the dress to get fucked, right?"

you blink. once. twice. then nod, unsure.

"well at least let me be the one to fuck you."

and then it’s happening.

she grabs your waist, hard. you’re pulled flush against her and her mouth crashes into yours.

you kiss her back and it's messy. desperate. all teeth and hands and weeks of tension finally snapping like a rubber band.

her hands roam while your nails dig into her shoulders. her thigh slides between your legs and you gasp against her mouth, one hand flying to grip the back of her neck.

“you’re still mine,” she growls, voice wrecked. “tell me you’re not.”

“fuck you,” you whisper. “you don’t get to claim me.”

she grins, eyes dark. “then stop kissing me like you want me to.”

you yank her closer.

“i fucking hate you,” you say, and it’s so full of heat and ache that it barely sounds convincing.

she kisses you again. slower, this time. lingering. teeth dragging your bottom lip. a hand sliding up your bare thigh, pushing the hem of your dress up.

“let me make you hate me a little more,” she murmurs, voice hot and heavy against your mouth.

you don’t stop her when she takes your hand, tugging your dress hem down roughly in a fruitless attempt to cover you up.

you don’t stop her when she pulls you out the door of the club, straight into one of the overpriced taxis that camp out on nights like these for easy money.

you don't stop when she takes your phone, typing in your password—of course she remembers it—shooting off an apologetic text to your friend explaining that she'll zelle her for an uber home. she quietly flicks your ringer to vibrate only after the instant barrage of messages you receive back telling you to stay far away from that trifling cunt.

and you definitely don’t stop her when she kisses you into the old fabric of the backseat of the cab like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she stops touching you.

when the taxi driver snaps his fingers to get your attention, motions to the familiar sight of ellie's apartment building outside the car, your dress is riding up indecently high, lip gloss smudged from where she bit you. you’re still panting, subtly.

you don't even make it past the front door before she’s on you.

you slam into the wall of her apartment, her mouth already on yours, hot and frantic. she’s pulling at the dress, dragging the hem up your thighs again, teeth grazing your jaw.

“tell me to stop,” she pants.

“don’t you fucking dare.”

her hands find your ass, squeeze hard. you gasp.

“you were fucking showing off in this thing,” she growls against your neck, kissing down it. “knew i’d be watching. knew exactly what you were doing.”

you laugh, a little dazed from her onslaught of kisses. “and you still fell for it.”

“i’d fall for you every time.” her voice cracks a little. the room spins as you try to ignore the heart wrenching tenderness in her voice. then the backs of your calves are hitting the edge of her bed.

the dress comes off in one swift motion and, of course, you’re not wearing a bra. her breath catches audibly.

“i've really fucking missed these, that's for sure,” she mutters, eyes glued to your chest.

you grin, cocky. squeeze your shoulders in and arch your back just a little more, putting on a show.

“fuckin' mine,” she murmurs, right before her mouth wraps around your nipple.

you whimper, threading your fingers into her hair and pulling as she moans. "shit. that's—ah. that feels so good."

her teeth graze, tongue soothing right after and you press firmly on the crown of her head, pushing her into you.

you're already so soaked your thighs are sticky by the time her hand slips down your stomach.

“you still like it when i do this?” she whispers, fingers sliding between your legs, dragging through your slick with quick flicks.

you can’t even answer. just nod, desperate, bucking your hips in time with the motion.

she slips two fingers in slowly and deliberately and groans like she’s the one being touched.

“fuuuck, baby,” she mutters. “so wet for me. thought you hated me?”

“i do,” you lie through your moan. "i really fucking do."

she pumps into you faster, curling just right. her thumb circles your clit lazily.

“then why’s your pussy so fucking needy for me, huh?”

you whimper. “ellie—”

“missed hearing that.” she kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. “missed you. missed this. missed how you fall apart for me.”

you’re gasping now, grinding down on her fingers. her palm’s flush against you, pressure just right...

then she pulls her fingers out—and taps them against your lips.

“suck.”

you do, instinctively and obediently. her eyes flutter shut.

“god, you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

she kisses you again, messier this time, licking into your mouth to taste for herself. her hand trails back down, this time her mouth following.

you immediately grab her hair when she drops between your legs. "ahhh— fuck. ellie!"

she doesn’t tease. her tongue is firm, practiced, and possessive.

your thighs tremble and your back arches so hard it cracks. you cry out, legs thrown over her shoulders, hands fisting the sheets. "saymyname," she mumbles into you. "say my fuckin' name, baby."

when you finally come, it’s like the two syllables have been practically strangled out of your throat. she licks your through it with long, thorough swipes of her tongue, humming her assent.

then kisses her way back up your body and flops beside you, chest heaving.

for a minute, neither of you speak.

then, quietly:

“…still hate me?”

you turn your head to look at her.

she looks stupidly hopeful.

you sigh, brushing messy auburn hair out of her face.

“ask me again in the morning.”

your phone buzzes again from somewhere on the floor:

my main bitch: at least tell me if you got strapped like you wanted 😩