Why’d Ellie think confiding in her best friend about her new friend would be a good idea? Why’d she think befriending you in the first place was a good idea?

You’ve infiltrated her midnight sessions like a demonic witch. 3 days of pure torture: her waking up an hour before work steaming under her blankets, drenched in sweat and brain cursed with the image of you still with a full throat, only now… it follows her to work. Fuckass Wendy’s.

No one’s caught on—except for Riley, fuck her intuition—to the too long gazes shared between you, the playful shoulder bumps when you walk by her station, and the biggest one of all…

As Riley put it, “they’re not leaving a snail trail on the tile anymore. I think you tamed ‘em a little. Good for you, friend.”

But Ellie’s not trying to tame you. You can do, talk to, fuck, who and whatever you please. She doubts she’s made that much of an impact on you in such a short amount of time, but she does notice that you’re a bit more… chill? Chilled out? Still a menace, but slightly more selective with who you enchant.

That fucking shirt is still too tight, though.

And now, she wants to dunk whoever’s accepted your muted salaciousness into her 400 degree oil tank.

Ellie’s not a jealous person… She wasn’t, but there’s a deep sense of rage that overtakes her whenever men men men compliment you. It’s murderous, borderline sadistic what she envisions in her head while she throws their cheese slices on their limp. Dick. Fries. She despises their existence, wants nothing more than for them to die, or at the very least, shut the fuck up—

“I invited them over tonight.”

“… WHAT THE FUCK—“

… Yeah. Ellie felt so guilty about rain-checking you last week, but her cat got sick. Her baby wouldn’t stop vomiting.

A head pokes out from behind the back door, “Uh, y’all break ended 7 minutes ago.”

… Clock watcher. Maybe Ellie doesn’t hate all men. Jesse’s a guardian angel sent to protect her against the incoming force that is her best friend.

“BITCH, IT’S TUESDAY, WE’RE DEAD!” Riley shouts in his direction, “THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE COMING OVER—“

“Who’s coming over? Coming here? Health inspectors?—“

“I needa pee.” Ellie’s already booking it towards the restroom, an excited Riley trucking close behind while Jesse panics about The Pope possibly eating at Wendy’s in the middle of fucking Wyoming.

“WHO’S COMING TONIGHT? HELLOOO—“

“YOU—YOU’RE FAKE AS HELL! YOU WAITED THIS LONG TO TELL ME ABOUT Y’ALL—“

“Shut up, I’m peeing, byeee, love ya, bye I needa pee, bye—“

The door shuts and locks, but she hears them yelling. A couple bangs on the door.

Just when she thought she found sanctuary…

“Hey.”

You stand by the mirror adjusting your tits in your tight ass shirt. All buttons are undone today, just her fucking luck.

“… You didn’t lock the door.”

“I wasn’t pissing.” You hold Pennifer up in your hand like a trophy, and Ellie snickers.

“Started without me?”

“Was fienin’,” With no hesitation, you offer it over, “Wanna pregame?”

She doesn’t mean to snatch it, but she’s a bit jittery. She puffs from, exhales in the opposite direction from you.

“I like when you do that.” Your tongue sounds larger in your mouth. Ellie has to puff again to keep from laughing.

“Do what. Get high on the job?” She whirs around smoke, but you ignore her.

“Tough night?” You nod towards the door that’s still being punched in by Riley.

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

“I HATE YOU, BITCH! NEXT TIME YOU WANNA SNEAK, LEMME KNOW—“

“Damn… what happened?”

“I just… I told her you were coming over tonight.” She hands Pennifer back.

Ellie’s surprised when you laugh. She half expected you to be irritated for snitching you both out to someone at work, was so prepared to ride for how trustworthy Riley is, that she wouldn’t get you both fired for workplace flirting and potential bathroom fondling.

But you don’t seem to care, just asks a simple question,

“Should I be concerned?”

She knows what you’re implying. Her head immediately shakes in denial. “I told you. Just a friend. She’s just nosy.”

“Alrighty,” you purr, and Ellie’s heart skyrockets when you take 2 steps closer. The bathroom suddenly feels like a funnel tube. Tight, closed-off, trapping, but she doesn’t leave. The door’s right there; she can’t bring herself to open it.

The pounding suddenly comes to a pause before irritated footsteps vacate the outside.

Ellie can’t stop the ache that blooms in her core or the watering of her mouth when both your hands rise to rest on your chest, the pudge poking through the gaps between your fingers. Either you're that soft, or you’re not wearing a bra.

“Buttons or no buttons?” Asked with fluttery lashes.

Ellie swallows. “One button.” For my fucking sanity, she wants to add, but you got enough ego to cover a goddamn army.

“Help me? Full hands ‘n allat.” That bottom lip juts out slightly and your lashes flutter, and it takes everything for Ellie to not press your face against this filthy ass door. Never in her life did she think she’d reach this level of depravity, but it’s been days. Days. She’s fucking starving for you.

Unfortunately, she has smidge of dignity, and wants you to keep yours.

So she buttons the last one, knuckles brushing against that small sliver of skin, taking in the way your pupils shake with every maneuver of her fingers. Your gaze alone could light a match. Start a forest fire. Burn this whole building to the fucking ground if you wanted.

“Thanks!” You say in your usual bushy-tailed tone, gently shoving Ellie aside to unlock and open the door. “Hi, favorite coworkers!”

The screaming stops, and Ellie’s head knocks back on the wall.

The last thing she wants to do is see her friends' faces. Riley’s hollering is enough.

“… WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON—“

Ellie’s sigh leaves her breathless.

—

“Welcome to my humble abode.”

Ellie shuts the door behind her, untangles her earplugs from around her neck to drop them, along with her keys, on the dining room table before shrugging her jacket off.

You were pretty quiet on the ride over. Made her a little nervous… A lot nervous.

“Why, thank you.” Ellie can’t hide her smile at your courtesy.

She watches your wandering eyes, moving all over her decorated walls, sloppy paint jobs, shredded up couch from kitten claws. She hopes you don’t notice the coffee stain that she could never remove.

“‘S very you.”

“I would hope so,” her feet carry her to the kitchen, “want a drink? I haaave…” She inspects her fridge. Empty, minus the to-go box, 3 beers, and 2 jugs of berry Minute Maid.

… Awkward. You’re a peckish pothead. Couldn’t even bother to get you a meal on the way home. Dumbass.

“Damn, bitch, no water?” You laugh, and Ellie huffs.

“You’re lucky I drank all my O-negative this morning. You’d be pissing yourself.”

“Sike, I’d buss it wide open for a vampire.”

She flushes before shutting the fridge and guiding you to the couch with a hand on your back.

“We matching? Or are you robbing me again?” You nudge her playfully before rummaging through your purse, and Ellie follows, pulling two jays out of her backpack.

Soon enough, your hands are stocked with Pennifer, a ziplock baggie of your own pre-rolls, and a… fucking butane lighter that your hand can barely close around.

“Goddamn—“

You cackle. “Shut up! Couldn’t find my pink one.”

“So you brought a fucking campfire?”

“If you’re gonna judge, you can spark yourself. Don’t mind m—“

Ellie snatches your lighter with an eye roll that borderline launches them to her brain, flickering the lighter on. It feels like a fucking fireplace. You’re ridiculous.

But you’re quiet. Ellie sparks the end with as much skill as you did last week.

Speaking of.

“Sorry I had to cancel a few days ago—”

“No need to be.”

“My cat got sick and it freaked me out. So. Yeah.”

“Aww, nooo,” you whine sympathetically. Even in your times of softness, that pout makes her lightheaded.

“Where's the baby? Is it okay?”

“He’s fine now. With my… dad.” She passes the jay to you. Watches you puff like a hawk, tinted chapstick smearing the edge. “I pick him up tomorrow.”

“That’s good. What’s the baby’s name?”

“Stewart.” She says stoically.

“… Is he orange?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell. He fucked this couch up.”

Ellie smiles. “You should see my room.”

“Is that an invite?”

Her heart stutters in her chest, but her gaze doesn’t falter from yours. She simply takes the joint from your grip, speaks around her puff.

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“Well.”

“Well what.” She pins.

“I want your mouth on my tits.”

“… And I want your tits in my mouth.” She speaks through a dry throat and a thrumming core, your tone set deep in her bones.

You nod your head once before unbuttoning the button she buttoned for you earlier, leaving your greasy cloth on the floor.

“Well… Lean.” Your hands gesture backwards.

And Ellie does, back pressed against her couch cushions, joint hanging from her fingers, almost as low as her eyes. Her suspicions were correct: you’re that soft and braless. You throw a leg over her lap, tits jiggling in her face.

She nearly yanks you down onto her lap when your lips curl around the joint, the orange end cresting like the sun in the morning.

“Suck on ‘em.” Smoke wafts in her face and she curses low and broken.

Your nipple beckons her lips and your hand flies to yank at her hair, pleased whines leaving your lips and vibrating down to her toes. She can barely gather the strength to rub on you like she wants; she’s too enraptured by your softness.

And your filth. That fucking mouth...

“You’re eating ‘em up like a fucking slut.” You whisper in astonishment before pressing a kiss atop her head. Ellie moans around you in response, tongue swirling messily around your areola before suctioning your nipple, drinking in your satisfied squeaks.

One of your nipples is more sensitive than the other. It's cute how loud you get when her teeth rub on them. Just an inch. Enough to get you jumping on her lap like a bunny.

They’re so heavy on her tongue, so soft in her mouth. She’s sure her jeans are staining with her slick… and yours. She can practically smell you.

“Ellie, ‘m—oh fuck, I might cum—“

Her muscles act on their own accord, her joint-less hand coming down to whack your ass, mouth popping off to spit sloppy on both your tits, rubbing her mess in with her tongue.

“You’re so hot, you’re so hot, m’cumming, ohhh fuck—“

Your arm closes tight on the back of her neck, shoving her face tight against your breasts and she accepts that she’ll happily die here: under you, trapped by your scent and your skin and your yipped thanks for the nut.

You have to shove Ellie off your tits after your comedown, thighs clamping shut on her lap when her teeth nick your more sensitive nip, her mouth matching your chest in wetness.

“Fuck.” She exhales, head plummeting on the back of the couch. Tokes one last time. Blows it in your face between giving you one.

“I thought you were a fucking prude when I met you. My fault.” You exhaust through heaves and clouds. She shakes her head uncaringly, massages your tit just to watch you twitch.

“You want another one?” She asks plainly despite the throbbing between her thighs.

“… You serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure… After you show me what’s in your nightstand.”

But still, she bares herself to you; allows you to dismantle the protective shell—the barrier that stabilizes her with your sharp nails, raises her own wrists above her head to allow you more leverage, to steal from her, to stop herself from pushing you off her completely in feet of demonizing her own desires. She’ll regret this when she wakes up, she knows it, but she needs this from you just as much as you need it from her. She can feel it whenever your teeth sink into her throat; she swallows the metallic taste—yours or hers or a mixture of both, in her mouth like the blood is meant to bless her. To cleanse her of all pain. 

She devours you when your mouths smash together; raunchy slashes of tongue and saliva where it gathers at the corners of both your mouth, how you sing your desires into her mouth while you tug at the damp strands in her scalp. 

Buttons clatter to the floor when your hands wring Ellie’s Prada blouse in two, the expensive fabric dangling from her shoulders while you yank it from her body. She can’t help the glowing grin when you burn holes into the valley of her chest, right where the formerly purple bruise shines yellow. Time heals wounds. She’ll heal you; her ego will never deny it. 

“You’re so beautiful.” 

She whispers, all while you wish to burn her before feasting on the remains of her corpse. She feeds off that hatred, those flames in your eyes. Your soul rests behind them, fully exposed and boundless—only someone as conniving as your mother would think of destroying such beauty. 

“Don’t call me that. You don’t deserve to.”

“Do I get a chance to earn that privilege?” 

“Possibly. If you deliver.” 

You test her, her pride—her greatest enemy. “What do you need from me?” 

You soften, albeit slight, but your harshness wavers, and that stuns her for a moment. Another burst of fire sizzles underneath her skin when your eyes lock, vision whirlwinds with suppressed emotions. They spiral and flip and tumble, all visible through the two entryways to your subconscious, and she watches it all, fingers itching to tame, to bring you back down to where she waits for your next move. 

“I need you,” your tone remains hollow, “to do what good wives do and shut your fucking mouth.” 

Butterflies explode in her tummy. She remains silent as you undress, ragged and clumsy, yanking your dress by the shoulder straps until it rolls down your legs. You stand bare in front of her, only in your wedding ring and a chain that she realizes is hers, hands extended where they reach for her cheeks. They turn her skin crisp. 

“We could’ve been so much,” you whisper like a shameful confession, scanning over her in search of deception, another layer fallacy, but you know what she did—has done, and could do again; she doesn’t need to remind you of her errors anymore. She’s thankful you gave her the simple instruction of silence; she’s drunk, but the liquor from tonight may not be the sole reason anymore. 

“Thank you for taking me tonight.” 

Thank you thank you thank you thank you

Deluded mumbles hit her cheeks in soft, but strained breaths—a heat that suffocates, strangles with a tenderness that she hates she loves.

“Ellie?” You whimper over her mouth and she forces herself not to chase it, just nods to show you she’s listening. 

“Do to me what you do to them.” 

Horror jolts in her fingertips when they remember the pain she inflicted in the past, the anger she released onto one, three, five women at a time simply because she could. They were willing and desperate and so was she, so she swallowed their invitations and returned home with their scent on her hoping you’d hurt. Anything to show that you cared about her existence enough that her disloyalty caused you irreversible pain, even if it was disingenuous or short-lived or her own brain’s manipulation. All she had was time and she wasted it all on strangers. It’s a result of her guilt if anything—her imagination, her vice and grievance, would always display you on your back, on your stomach, scarred and bruised and bloodied like all those women she left to pleasantly weep in the middle of the night, and her heart stretches with longing. 

She feels the beginnings of your nails digging into her face when she doesn’t respond, all while you smile like a hyena as tears flood your eyes. Spit flies from your mouth and lands on hers when you beg her to, “fuck me, Ellie, please, please? Don’t you want to hurt me? I’m enough to destroy now, aren’t I?” 

Being drunk traps you in delirium. Since when have you craved her approval this desperately? Your efforts were always there, but never to this extent… Or maybe they were but she ignored them, tricked her own brain into believing that she was the scum beneath your heels and you’d never waste your time seeking her out. You couldn’t care this much. These are enhanced, alcohol-driven emotions that'll be meaningless the next day. She’s suddenly triggered to shield from you. 

Her stern grip on your wrists alleviates the pressure you strain on her face, fingers limp and eyes cresting with need—to feast or to punish, she can’t really tell, but she’ll accept either graciously. As long as you keep your distance. An internal, emotional gap. There’s a constant battle from within: a longing that’s locked deep in her gut whenever she looks at you. She’ll never be able to expose herself fully. She can’t. 

Ellie manages your wrists behind your back without hassle due to your pliance. You're finally still. Your breathing slows. You’re almost calm, all at her touch. 

How badly do you need me?

Never to be asked. 

“How badly do you need it?” She purrs against your face and your lashes flutter. Your bruised lips bare fangs.

“Would you like to feel?” 

Ellie’s breath shudders. She doesn’t release the tight squeeze on your wrists despite the conniving Devil on her shoulder luring her to rip you apart; it’s a desire she can barely comprehend, but she can’t shake her uncertainty. Even an invitation isn’t enough reassurance. She sees it in your eyes—hesitance, distrust; pupils whirling elsewhere, filtered with red and desire and something completely black. A familiar void, one she despises. 

“Tell me.” 

“I did,” suddenly exasperated and twitchy like an addict, even against her grip, “I fucking did already. I’m so wet, do what you like, I’ll let you—“

But Ellie won’t allow it. Your vision holds tales of pain, the same from her father’s party. Her head shakes when tears fall down your face.

“I’m not—“

“You should! You should, you will! It’s all I want, just, just please—“

Show me what it’s supposed to feel like! 

A slip up on your part, barely audible. To feel desired. To feel appreciated. To feel loved by someone—anyone willing to put in the labor to do so, and gently at that. You’ve endured enough pain to last centuries. If only Ellie knew how much you withheld. 

She’s the only one who’s settled the hurt she caused within your life, or attempted to. A sole effort from her has changed you forever. That’s all you’ve ever wanted; a guilty conscience. Someone with a soul that can mend errors.

So you beg her. You plead for her warmth like it’s your last wish. With given knees, you wail and holler for your wife to treat you like you matter for once. Merciless tugs fight against the tie in her belt, you’re shocked the leather doesn’t shred from your hands. She never stops you. Is that a sign of enjoyment? She could be pleased by your desperation. 

Your hands feel slimy when her belt loosens. She doesn’t stop you—not when her slacks start to droop but catch on her hips, not when the lace on her underwear starts to peak. She never stops you. Not when your hands study every dot that coats her waist. Unlike when rough and angered fingers would attack yours, but still, she doesn’t fight you. Is that a sign of displeasure? You freeze at the thought. 

All these signs are unfamiliar; the physical ones from you and her. How her stomach trembles from the frost of your fingers, how yours twists in response to every sigh she gives you. Your mind blanks. What do you do? Where do you put your hands now? How do you touch her without recoiling? Has she recoiled since you’ve plummeted? Does she not like this? Like you? Do you like this? 

Where have you gone? 

Thoughts interrupted by a prod. 

“What’s going on up there?” Fingers softly press against your temple. 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, and yet, you’re steady trying to find purpose. For these last moments, at least.

Warm fingers grasp your cheeks, stern. Not abrasive, but grounding. How does she always know how to stabilize enough to get a response? Ellie guides your eyes up to her. 

“Hm?” She murmurs between wobbly breaths. 

You whimper something inaudible. Is her thumb caressing your cheek? Where have you gone? 

“Can you stand?” 

Another empty sound, and Ellie sighs in defeat. Her hand drops from your face to snake beneath your armpits. She uses all her strength to get your unsteady stature off the floor before guiding you to the mattress. You give into your knee’s weakness before plummeting onto the cushiony blanket. 

“Look at me.” And your eyes find the trail of light brown peeking from beneath her panties. She snorts stupidly before redirecting your gaze to hers once more. 

“Look here. You’re not gonna talk to me?”

No energy to. Just empty wanton. Frilled desire. Why’re you so confused?

“We can go to sleep right now.”

And do nothing? Maybe she isn’t that attracted to you. 

“We can just go to sleep. It’s up to you.” 

It’s up to you. 

It’s up to you. 

Your heart gives a painful throb. For the first time ever in your life, choice lies at your feet; one where you can turn away and forget, or another where you can give in. 

Options. Autonomy. Consent. It takes a minute for your brain to register what it all means. 

You do speak. You have room to speak. Ellie allows you to without punishment. 

“Can I…?” 

A painful curiosity that bloomed within you some time ago, what it would be like to be the one that leads for once. An aching terror overwhelms you like it always does. Too much power. What if you hurt like you’ve been hurt? You’d die before harming another, but would you? Ellie fell victim to your aggression in the car: an uncontrollable outburst, but still, she could infuriate you again, and what will you do? 

Would you become your biggest fear?

“What, babe?” 

Gentle inquisitions. They calm and wrack you all the same. Your words weigh heavy and thick in your throat. How do you ask for what you envision? What do you say? You take her warm hand and place it on your shoulder. It lays gracefully; her nails don’t puncture skin or pin you to stillness. This is a start. You haven’t sunk yet. 

Tell me or I leave. 

She whispers like it’s painful. Compassion clouds her vision from beneath the alleviated craving for you. She doesn’t mean it. 

Don’t hurt me. You croak weakly. The implication thankfully falls on deaf ears. I’ll never forgive you. 

Wouldn’t dream of it, Ellie wants to say, but can she? She doesn’t have to imagine what’s already been done. She broke the pact that twines you two together immediately after promising you devotion. Every mistake she has made stares back at her now; all her faults are now worn by you, this time without grace. She feels monstrous. 

Her chest lurches when you, unexpectedly but slowly, turn your head to mouth at her wrist. Despite your hesitancy, the cushion of your lips and the jittery exhales of your breath launch goosebumps up her arm. 

You take her other hand and hold it. 

You just hold where it rests by your knee, the squeeze of your palm light. 

No other efforts are made by you. You don’t pull and twist her in every direction, manipulate her body in ways you want. You’re hardly touching her, so why do her knees crumble, stature only kept up by the strength of her dignity?

She allows you to nuzzle her hand and pinch at the skin of her forearm, following each line in her skin with your fingertips. 

She’s unsure of the time that passes, hypnotized by your gestures. 

“I’m your wife.” You say hushedly.

“You are my wife.” Ellie’s response is dazed, and your grin is menacing. 

“You’re my wife, Ellie.” 

She wheezes when she lands on top of you, yanked by the hand you grasp, bodies melded. Ellie's heart flies to the pit of her stomach before coming to rest in her throat at your heat. 

“You’re my wife! I have a wife!” You’re cackling, and Ellie can't stop her incredulous grin. 

“You’re an idiot.” She huffs, and you squeeze her closer by the neck. To your surprise, she hugs you back with just as much abrasion. Kisses litter across her face, lips passing over the blooming bruise on her cheek to make her wince. She only nuzzles closer. She’s never this affectionate towards you. 

Ellie’s selfish. This shouldn’t be happening. She doesn’t deserve this sudden contentment but she can’t stop—you or herself. Is this all she’s capable of? Taking what she hasn’t earned? 

Tonight’s the final night. No more thievery. She’s tired of playing the villain. 

You choke a gasp when she melds your lips together, soft and protruding. Her eyes are blissfully shut while yours aren’t, wild and shaken and filled with desire that only emboldens your anxiety. 

“Tell me—tell me what I can do to make it better.” 

And the moment of serenity is lost, body locked tight from below, eyes overcast. That blockade, that wall that never seems to come down despite your own efforts. All her attention is on you. You’re not sure if you like or hate it. 

“Just, just kiss me —“

Hurriedly and hollowly, you whisper, and Ellie follows with tender intent. 

This isn’t what you imagined. She’s kissing you too softly. Too timid and patient. This isn’t your Ellie but it’s the Ellie you’ve dreamt of for the duration of your marriage. The version you’ve idolized has finally erupted from the cages of fire with feathery wings attached to her back to rest on top of you—you should be happy, you should be proud that your prayers of love have come to fruition. 

Why aren’t you? Why do you suddenly crave her violence, to suffer in her? 

Hatred makes you angry, and anger gets you off. You crave that recklessness in your wife, the one that handles you like glass she longs to see crack. 

Ellie slacks her jaw in a moan when your nails dig into her scalp and fingers coil in her hair. Her head lifts and neck cranes with the grip of your hand, and you smile. 

How pathetic is your wife? How pathetic can you make your wife? She blinks like a lovestruck kitten. 

“Look at you.” Awe laces in your timbre and Ellie shudders atop you, “my wife is so pretty.” You snicker when her hips move into yours before her brain can register it. Vehemently, the once endearing term gets spat up at her. 

“Remember what you told me earlier?” 

“I said a lot of shit, didn’t I?” She snips sarcastically. She knows. You know. 

“One thing in particular stuck out.” 

“Enlighten me, then.” 

“You’re a desperate whore.” 

Instead of rebutting, she laughs, dark and wilted.

“Join the club. It’s fun over here.” 

The reason she always finds herself in trouble; reckless and unapologetic, “that mouth is—“

She interrupts playfully. “Really fucking talented—“ 

Lust flares beneath fields of green when Ellie lands on her back, gaze piercing through the skin of your face, your torso, the lowest parts of you before traveling back up. 

Her mouth drops around swallowed syllables when your open palm squeezes across her throat. She chokes an unfamiliar sound, high and wheezy — foreign to the deep brushes of her tone. 

What an embarrassing time to freeze up. Your breath wracks when you examine how prepared Ellie is for you to rob her of pleasure, still entangled beneath her pants when she should mirror you, naked and vulnerable to match her submission. 

“What, baby? Te—“ she chokes when your hand closes harder on her, “tell me. Lemme show you how good I can be.” 

“Talk to me, honey—tell me what’s wrong—“

“What next? What do I do now?” 

“Whatever you like, ‘m here, just use me,” Ellie implores.

“I don’t know what I like.” 

“We can try anything, just—fuck, just give me something to work with. You still wet?” 

That isn't the problem. It never has been. It’s where your mind wanders, the looming shadow that dominates the most sensitive parts of you. Your head blanks when two fingers slip between your legs. You’re not surprised, but Ellie seems to be when you display the nectar that glues your fingers together. Her expression is comical and thirsty. 

“Good. Good, baby. Still wanna do this? You still here with me?” 

You are. Shockingly, you’re here. 

“Can I touch you?”

Yes. With skepticism. Your head bobs.

Her brow arches, “You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

Soft but calloused fingertips dig into the meat of your hips before she whispers, follow my hands, just move on top of me. Your hands encase her forearms for leverage. 

Electricity zips through your body when Ellie ushers you forward, the most sensitive part snagging on the lace incisions of her panties, the frost of her undone zipper. Darkness ascends your vision, eyes shut tightly out of acute satisfaction, out of fear. Attempts of disregarding your bewilderment only intensify it. Your body’s reacting how it should, though. You think you like it?

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. 

Your wife speaks to you so tenderly yet none of it registers; she talks a lot and for once it doesn’t enrage you. Her voice is quite grounding. Your chest pounds with the steady thrum in your stomach. 

Look at me. 

You shouldn’t. Why do you? 

Ellie’s flushed beneath you, hair erratic and chest bruised with you. Lightly blotched with others. Makes you want to strangle her.

“Still good?” The sensuality in her tone doesn’t make you cower. Instead, your breath shudders around a floaty sound. You try to mask the eagerness in your nod. 

“Then keep going. However you want to, do what feels good.” 

It feels good now. Will the pleasure last? Your body tries to convince your mind that it’s finally safe to indulge in every hidden delusion that you’ve envisioned with your wife. Why wouldn’t it; your body is selfish. Ellie gets you wet and you think it’s the same for her. You’re not sure. You haven’t touched yet. 

Should you? 

Right as you’re building the courage to ask, Ellie moves you just right, a bit too skilled the way your pussy drags on top of hers, and your tummy squeezes a high noise from your throat. 

Yeah? She mumbles so darkly—so encouragingly; she wants you louder. She secretly loves knowing that she makes your brain fuzzy. You manage to say her name through jumbled cries, all while your core squeezes into an undoable knot. Your wife lets you have it. She doesn’t switch positions so that you feel better for her, doesn’t throw you on your back to take what she needs, doesn’t humiliate you until you cry and attempt to shove her off. 

She just watches. Silently. Patiently. Eagerly anticipating the shattering of your strained barrier. 

“Did you think about me when you fucked them?” 

Everytime. All the time. She thinks, her admission coming out in moans when your pace quickens.  

“Are you thinking about them right now?” You spit, and her head shakes with vehemence. 

“Fuck no.” 

Should Ellie declare that she’d rather be publicly executed than see any of them over you? A laugh chokes around a groan. Neither of you know who it belongs to. 

“Where do you keep that pretty toy?” 

“W-Which one?” 

“Oh?” Ellie’s fangs flash when a new warmth spreads over her waist; her own desires mix with the stickiness of yours. “You know which one.” 

“‘M close—“ you think. You think. 

“Then cum.” 

“I—fuck, I can’t—“

“What do you need?” 

“More, inside me, please—“

Ellie raises you just enough for her fingers to wiggle between your bodies, lines of slick connecting you to her stomach, curl already set when you hold her wrist to ease her in. She shudders at your warmth, teeth grit and neck strained to watch you. 

“You’re so soft.” She mutters thoughtlessly. Gasping when you squeeze down on her. Your teeth guard a laugh. 

Neither of you move. 

Your sudden stillness locks Ellie in place, muscles trembling from her restraint where she rests inside, scared to scare you. 

She doesn’t like the look you give; lost, shrouded in darkness. Her stomach sinks. 

“I’m pulling out—“

“No—just, just wait.” 

She listens against her better judgement, watching every minor expression with cautiousness. The twists of your lips, how you shovel above in attempts to adjust to the feel of her knuckle deep. 

“Ellie.” 

“Yeah, honey.” 

“I don’t like it.” 

Your face cringes in discomfort when she pulls out. There’s whirring in your chest: of unease. Expectancy. When clouds and deep blue and feathers blossom in your vision, you know. This is where you hurt. 

“I thought I would—“ You sound ashamed and Ellie’s heart cracks, “Don’t explain. You’re fine.” 

“I don’t like this.” 

There’s a lift in you. Not a light one; premeditated right before a lengthy fall. 

“Okay, babe.” 

Only then does your facade of strength crack. “I-I don’t—Ellie, I don’t—“

“Shhh, we’re done, it’s okay—” 

But it’s not okay. You’re not okay and he knew it for years and didn’t care, your mother didn’t care—no one cared when you hid under your bed frame, when you wet the bed in the middle of the night, when you threw tantrums about showering unclothed. All signs met with emotionless walls. No sympathy. From a mother, of all people, the only one that was meant to save you, protect you from all harm. But she wished it on you the second you were born. The second she met him, with full pockets and filth. Her one true match. 

Little you is screaming, and your wife hardly has enough strength to catch you when you plummet. 

It all flashes before you—Ellie sitting you up, grabbing your face, talking talking talking, but your ears are stuffy. A familiar routine: crying and begging for who knows what, but you can’t stop, all while Ellie holds you through it. 

Birds birds birds birds birds birds birds birds

Feathers feel like arms compressed tight around your back while you cry for your dad. 

The sun is on the brink of rising, specks of daylight creeping between the blinds of the bathroom. The birds’ golden hour. 

Ellie’s probably somewhere in the house bored, uninterested, disappointed by how the night unfolded. How could such heat go ice cold in a matter of seconds? Her desire probably weakens every time she interacts with you. 

But you couldn’t do it. Whatever came over you at the club or bar or sex ring is long gone, your body a husk for your inner child, raised by terror. Intimacy breaks you like no other. Or maybe you’re still too drunk. You hardly remember what happened over the past week. Tonight will probably be another win for your trailing memory. You hope it is. 

All you can think about—feel, is loss. Alcohol never does you any good. This is your final vow to never drink again. 

“You’re gonna prune.” 

Being naked around any other person—your maids, your stylists, your mother when she pokes at your appearance in disappointment and envy—makes your stomach lurch, but you never feel like that with Ellie. You’re not sure why; you should, she’s still her. Someone who was forced into your life, another example of your mother’s need for control, but the instinct to hide from her is never there.

“I’m sure that’d please you.” 

“What makes you say that?”

“Your obsession with, and I quote, old, wrinkly MILFS.” 

“… Gotta point,” She huffs. Her timbre takes a second to wrack your ears, a gentle bristle when she asks, “You okay?” 

Are you? 

Lying has become a habit of protection—lying would be good in this scenario; Ellie hasn’t commented on your sudden aloofness and yet you feel exposed to the bone under her scrutiny. Your years long training of being docile, mastering submission, always answering with yes, of course, I will, words meant to pacify the enemy, your future partner, him… why haven’t you used any of it? Just lie.

Water surrounds you, but your throat shuts with its own paranoia of your response. 

“Ellie?”

She hums her own. 

“Will you hold me? Like you did before.” 

When you finally grasp the courage to look at her, her eyes aren’t where they should be.

Not gazing over your bare chest, drinking in your natural seduction, but locked onto your face, hunting for something in your eyes that she can't find, a cast of disappointment overshadowing when she finally surrenders. That same look from the dinner party, from before you disappeared in the bathroom; the look of worry, of curiosity, of pain. 

Does she cower just as often as you? 

“… Sure.” She whispers before swallowing her shock, just as you’ve done yours. 

Ellie’s seen you undressed more than you’ve seen her; that must explain her hesitance, you think. Her gaze never shies from yours and she watches closely, albeit too close, popping every button of her sweaty, booze-drenched shirt while she gauges you. Your brain swirls with curiosity; what exactly is she seeking? 

She shrugs the cloth from her shoulders and you shove down the instinct to gawk at her bare skin. She mumbles so lowly that you miss it, you ask her to repeat it. 

“Good?” 

Timidity radiates off her and hits you; her emotions flammable, and your skin ignites with warmth. You barely nod for her to continue. She seems dissatisfied by your gesture but she doesn’t push. 

Ellie checks in with every layer of clothing that lands on the bathroom floor; every decorative ring and necklace is slung uncaringly before the shower door opens. Smoke dispels from between the glass. She’s cautious when she teases a foot past the foundation of the shower, silently asking for permission to enter, but you’re already making space for her; one meek step after another until the water cascades from her hair to her neck, the night washing away. 

Before her arms entrap you, you ask,“why not that one?” 

“Hm?” 

You point to the dainty chain that gleams from around her bruised throat. It’s simple; rose gold with a small sphere in the middle. “Why’d you leave it on.” 

“Does it matter?” 

“I should be asking you that.” 

“It’s… it was my mom’s.” Ellie goes rigid, tone indifferent, but you tolerate it. Whenever her mother is brought up, she reacts similarly. You understand in a way; her own manner of shutting down. To each their own. “I wear it whenever I leave the house.”

“It’s pretty.” 

“Thanks.” 

Her brow arches, “did you have fun?” 

“You asked me that already.” 

“I’m asking again.” 

“… Yes, I had fun. Thank you.” 

Her light laugh leaves you befuddled. 

“What?” 

“Under different circumstances, you would’ve been pissing yourself about your mom—“

“I hate my mother.” 

Tears build in your eyes at your declaration but you don’t mind. In fact, you welcome them. You don’t have many moments where you’re allowed to break without judgement. Ellie allows you to have that, at least, and you’re grateful. 

“You never answered her call, did you?” 

“Does that bother you?”

“No. I’m just surprised her super secret allegiance hasn't kicked in our doors.” 

In times of distress, you wished to be like Ellie; incredibly serene—as much as she could be—with her doomed fate. No situation passes without her taking cracks at it. Your own body is your demise; so accepting to doom itself in other ways, ones that lead with impulsivity. Ones with one end. 

“I think I’m done.” 

“With?” 

“Ellie… I think I’m done.” 

It takes her a minute, a silent and confused one before it hits her. There’s a darkness that overcast the forest in her eyes at your insinuation; inklings of fear dominate her vision—from the certainty of your tone, maybe. You needed one last memory, one last semblance of joy to take with you when your soul makes its departure—she made that happen for you despite your tumultuous relationship. 

You just need one more thing. Is it selfish to expect her to provide it? 

Ellie’s at a loss; mouth circling around words that remain unsaid. You almost laugh. Until she asks,

“What’s the plan?”

“What.”

“You're not the only one that’s…” She shrugs. Suicidal. It’s not taboo in your world, it seems; death will never be taboo, it’s freedom. “I’m curious. What’s your method? I always wondered what it would feel like to run into oncoming traffic.”

Despite the darkness, you smile like you’re reminiscing. Like you felt the impact of a car before. “My dad loved to drive by this bridge…”

“I think it’d be nice, the feeling of falling, and then just… nothing after. Just quiet.” 

Ellie takes in your rambles, holds them close while that blackness overtakes your pupils. She’s come to accept how much she despises your sorrow. 

“He would’ve never let this happen to me…” 

Memories of your father come and go, but oddly, that bridge that stands over that man-made lake in the middle of the city remains at the forefront whenever you think of him. He would take you on drives and speak to you with softness after your mother screamed at you about whatever she felt fit in the moment. You’ve accepted that he’s guiding you there—to him. He misses you, he needs to see you again. 

“And my mom would’ve never let this happen to me…” Your wife whispers alongside you. She’s the only one that understands. 

“When are you… leaving?” Ellie lightly treads with her choice of words; it’s endearing how uncomfortable death makes her. You believed she embodied sin some time ago, but now… she wears hollowness incredibly well. 

“I’m not sure yet.”

“… Are you sure about it?”

“Yes.”

She sighs, the air weighted. “What’s one thing you want before you go?” 

Your brain knows. Your body knows. Your heart knows. Your grin is immediate—the image of colors, sunsets and rises, the plush of feathers and the caress of winds. 

All you’ve ever wanted since you were a kid. 

“A bird, Ellie. I want a bird.”

“And?” Desperate hands latch onto your shoulders, ripped from your sanctuary. Trapped in reality. She lightens your grasp when you shrink. 

“That’s all.” 

Said with such assurance that Ellie flinches. A strange sensation washes over her in piercing heat, painful. Jealousy, remembering the countless times on the edge of a cliff, a building, eyeing a chair with rope in her hand, but otherwise, left unharmed. Physically at least. Unfortunately, she breathed the same on the walk back to solitude. Or prison. 

You aren’t a coward like she was. She despises the feeling of envy—she isn’t prone to it, but you’re so sure about the one thing, the only thing, she couldn’t have. Not an inkling of doubt of your true desire. 

Freedom. 

She just stands and stares with an incurable ache in her chest. You embody both a tranquil pond and a hurricane, and Ellie’s caught in both currents. 

Her hands slide down your arms like water, steaming, urgent to heal, only to rise again, to rest of your neck before grasping your cheeks. This time, it’s you who initiates, who pulls her closer, who kisses first: delicate melds of your mouth that hold no motive other than to breathe. Relearned instinct that fills your lungs with her air, one that brings comfort. 

Her arms feel like blankets, chest like soft grass in the Spring. Just an eager body in desperate search for rest. 

Are you in love with your wife? 

... Is she in love with you?