backwaterdoll

[backwaterdoll]

oh myyyy 😭😭

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cadillac tears

preacher’s daughter!reader x older!ellie

cw: preacher’s!daughter!reader, older!ellie, drunk confessions, tender angst, hurt/comfort, reader is a mess, ellie is so patient.

a/n: inspired by ethel cain’s ‘fuck me eyes’

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ellie’s boots hit the pavement with a slow, steady rhythm. the kind of walk you only take when you’ve got no choice but to. her truck was still stuck in the shop - alternator or belt or something else she couldn’t afford to fix till friday. she didn’t mind walking, not really. the meeting with joel had run long, and the sun was starting to dip, bleeding gold and orange over the sleepy edges of town. cicadas loud in the grass, heat still clinging to her neck like a warning.

she was halfway down willow avenue when she heard it - the guttural purr of an engine that didn’t belong on these streets. way too smooth, too clean. then the screech of tires. a flash of chrome and candy apple red.

ellie barely had time to step back before the cadillac veered too far onto the shoulder. her breath caught in her throat as gravel kicked up, and for a second, she saw the front end of that shiny thing coming right for her.

the car slammed to a crooked stop a foot from her boots.

“oh my god,” came a slurred voice from inside. “oh my god. i almost killed you. i-fuck, i’m so-i can pay for that. whatever that costs. i can pay for it.”

ellie blinked. the driver’s door creaked open and you stumbled out, heels uneven against the slope, one arm catching yourself against the frame. your eyes were wide, frantic. face flushed and glistening. hair stuck to your temple like you’d been crying already, or maybe sweating through whatever you’d been running from.

and then it hit her.

you.

you.

the preacher’s daughter. the town’s golden girl. ribbons and sunday dresses. charity luncheons and pressed white linens. she’d seen you a hundred times at the market, at town events, always tucked beneath your father’s arm like a badge. clean and proper and quiet.

you were not clean right now.

your lipstick was smudged like a sin. perfume thick and sweet and dizzying in the warm night air. and your eyes; those big, blue, water-slicked eyes, searching ellie’s face like you were begging for forgiveness. or mercy.

or something worse.

“you drunk?” ellie asked, voice low, steady.

you looked down. laughed, bitter and choked. “just a little.”

you swayed again, and ellie caught your elbow before you could fall. your skin was burning. your fingers curled in her jacket like a reflex.

“fuck,” you whispered. “my dad’s gonna kill me.”

ellie held you there for a second. watched your mascara blink into your cheek. watched you bite the inside of your lip like you were trying not to cry, even though you were already halfway there.

“c’mon,” she muttered. “give me your keys.”

“what?”

“you’re not driving. give me your keys.”

your mouth opened to argue, but you must’ve seen something in her face that shut you up. maybe it was the way her hand didn’t leave your arm. maybe it was the fact that she didn’t seem mad, just… tired. like she’d seen this before. like she got it.

you handed them over without another word.

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ellie didn’t say much as she drove. the cadillac felt wrong under her hands. too smooth. too soft. the leather seats stuck to her thighs and your glitter lip balm was rolling back and forth in the cupholder. the radio was low, some old song about heartbreak and rivers.

you sat curled in the passenger seat like a kicked dog. arms wrapped around yourself. your cheek pressed to the window. the eyeliner smeared under your eyes made you look younger somehow. undone.

ellie snuck glances every few minutes. the hem of your dress hiked halfway up your thigh. your shoes kicked off and left abandoned on the floorboard. your head lulled to the side when you realised she was looking.

“you’re not gonna tell anyone, right?” you asked.

“no.”

“not even joel?”

“joel doesn’t need to know.”

you nodded. silence settled in again, heavy like humidity.

“…i hate him, you know.”

ellie glanced over.

“my dad. he says i’m a light in god’s hand. says i have a ‘purpose.’” your voice wobbled around the words. “i feel like i’m rotting. like everything inside me is fucking rotten.”

ellie didn’t say anything. just let the confession hang in the air between you. you didn’t seem to care. or maybe you needed someone to hear it.

“they all think i’m this… good girl. town angel. but i’m not. i’m not, i’m not, i’m not.”

you were crying now. silently. like it was muscle memory.

ellie pulled into her driveway and killed the engine. she didn’t look at you right away. just sat with it for a second. then:

“c’mon.”

you looked at her.

“you’re staying here tonight. no way i’m letting you go back to him like this.”

you swallowed, and for a second she thought you might argue again. instead, you nodded. small. fragile.

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you sat on ellie’s couch, wrapped in a fleece blanket with a mug of water pressed between your hands. your mascara had bled down your cheeks. you looked like a painting someone had cried on.

“you wanna shower?” ellie asked, voice softer now.

“i don’t wanna be alone.”

the admission cracked something open in ellie’s chest.

she sat down beside you. didn’t say anything. didn’t touch you.

you leaned your head on her shoulder anyway.

you were quiet for a long time. the tv was on low. ellie could feel your breath steadying. you smelled like peaches and sweat and vodka.

“you looked at me like you knew me,” you murmured.

“what?”

“back when i almost hit you. you looked at me like you already knew what kind of girl i was.”

ellie looked down at you.

“no,” she said. “i looked at you like i wanted to.”

your breath hitched. you pulled back, slow, blinking up at her.

your eyes - still glassy, still ruined - locked onto hers.

fuck me eyes, they’d call them in some cheap song.

but they didn’t know the whole story.

they never saw you like this. wrecked and wide open and afraid of your own shadow. they never saw you gripping the hem of someone else’s t-shirt just to keep from falling apart. they never saw you wiping your fuck me eyes on the sleeve of a woman you’d barely spoken to before tonight.

they never saw the part where ellie pulled you close, tucked you under her chin, and said, “you’re okay. you’re safe. just sleep, alright?”

and she did.

god, she did.

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[backwaterdoll]

when she calls me her princess i melt into a puddle i start floating

[backwaterdoll]

my comfort food is my gfs 🐱

[backwaterdoll]

i go all shades of red, babe i love you the best

[backwaterdoll]

goodnight 🩷

[backwaterdoll]

my babies

[backwaterdoll]

top!ellie canon last night made me jump for joy

[backwaterdoll]

freaking out

[backwaterdoll]

reveal, i love her🤍

[backwaterdoll]

don’t let any man tell you it’s wrong to need that femme strap ladies

[backwaterdoll]

so happy to be a freaked out lesbian with a wife who loves me

[backwaterdoll]

praying to a strangers dogs in the parking lot

[backwaterdoll]

Where are the lesbian Ethel Cain fans

[backwaterdoll]

look what my girlfriend got me, i can’t wait to paint her 🤍

[backwaterdoll]

so you just tell me which way i’m driving, interstate or the highway

[backwaterdoll]

screams

DID YOU SEE kyle gallner said he loves your music

yes we chatted for a bit, i love him, he’s so cool

[backwaterdoll]

if they ever ban this app i’m going psycho on somebody because i can’t live without these💔💔

requesting fluffy period sex with Jackson Ellie!!

i’ve been thinking about this for ages lol but just imagine Ellie hearing that orgasms can help period cramps, maybe she randomly reads it in an old trashy magazine or she overhears two other girls talking about it while in town. anyway, she wants to help her gf of course, wants to make you feel better. you’re apprehensive at first and a little shy/embarrassed but Ellie’s like “do u really think i care about a little blood?” because obviously that girl does NOT care abt blood. maybe she even likes it a little…

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄. ★

note from author: you know i will use any excuse to write jackson!ellie + period sex. especially fluffy sex. with a hint of freak. make sure to hit that like button and subscribe. for more gay sex. drabble length. wrote this in a day (and on my period) so excuse the simpler style. oral + fingering (if you have a problem, keep it to yourself. nobody gaf). not a lot of plot. 18+ interactions please. mdni. wc: 1k. join the discord!

To think, that you were brought a dream.

In the hands of a girl.

You must be blacking in and out. It rushes over your skin: the exhilaration, the sensation, the indent of fingers squeezing your bra-padded breasts, the sweat sticking to her lilac bedsheets. She traverses you like written text. Wrists, shoulders, hips, thighs, the beginnings to a place you feel the need to hide. When the shape of her head intrudes itself there, her intrepid fingers—they follow, and spread the pages for a translation tender and filling. Something she can't put down; you scoot your hips away, and she pulls you right back in.

She reads you.

You feel sedate lengths of softness tread through the channels under your abdomen, where it cramps—and the pain fleets. You forget all about it, until a finger eases inside, and you yelp with all the breath hitched in your throat. “Wait, Ellie!” You shut the heart of your thighs, enclosing her wrist. The ever-so soft junction.

She cocks her head. “What's the matter, babe?”

“You'll get blood on your fingers.”

She read about it in a grayed-out, faded Cosmo; it roped in the young generations, for generations, concerning them with relationships and the sex life of women—menstruation. It fucking sucks, but it sure doesn't have to; she can soothe you right here on the bed you're burrowed up in.

The Jackson local library has an answer for everything.

Ellie promised that after a serenade on her guitar, a hundred kisses, and a whisper of strawberry wine, she would help you out. Tongue and hands.

The practiced grooves on her face snap when she laughs, and she slides up your crotch to have a more face-to-face, respectable consolation. Don't get her wrong: muzzling something incoherent into the plush of your thighs is exciting—and it lets those embarrassing, inhibition-numbing sentiments trickle out until she gets as red as her hair—but she wants you to hear her this time. Cold fingertips melt into your waist.

Your skin is on fire.

“Do you really think I care about a little blood?” She questions, with a voice cornered and hoarse and teasing, tracing mindless circles into your belly. Your reason isn't reason enough to Ellie, it seems.

You glance around for something to convice her. “Well—I don't want to get blood on..”

Ellie disregards you with a head shake and reburies her shoulders under the open perspective of you. Arms entangle you again. “Mh-mm, don't worry about that.” And she, being clever with her peach lips, kisses you here, there, in those self-same distracting places that make you trance out and miss a couple beats, then tense up when she invites her tongue, slips it down and..

Die. For a breath.

Strands of her hair crumple under your grip. Catch under your fingernails.

“Fuck, right there.. right there, Ellie.”

It felt more alight than usual; thick, hot, catalytic presses with her tongue pushing your folds and pinching that bud of nerves—you almost tug her down harder. She can tell you wanted to. It elicits an affirming, quickened pace of her tongue and squeeze of your thighs. Her eyes are fluttered shut, and she looks like a quiet, satisfied heaven.

Her thumb enters below her mouth.

She pulls back—like a vampiric portrait—and cleans her lips, and you bear down for it to return. The thumb inside stills you with a slow pumping.

“See, babe?”

Ellie slides out that thumb. Sucks it, lips pulling over the tip, for you. Humming at your taste like she's about to come herself.

“I don't care. I fuckin' love it.”

Not a second ticks, where you get to process the overwhelming tingle up your nape—or the numbing sound of your heart pounding, and Ellie is already stuffing her face right where it was. She takes you without question. Spreading your thighs apart, she lines up her wet tongue with your wetter entrance and laps your clit, making the swollen bud catch, drag and flick into place: an addicting loop. It feels so perfect against her heart-shaped mouth. Soon, you forget that cramps were the thing that initiated this and delight pours from your throat.

You catch her groping herself to the sound.

She managed a clean job. Blood stains the swell of her chin, to the tip of her nose in lithe blotches, but you knew that would happen. Of course, with her pressing her entire mouth against your hole to wag her face in your mess—you had laughed through a moan when she did—who could guess differently?

It's Ellie: so, of course.

She was smiling when your cries of release came crashing. You shuddered, rode it out on her mouth, and the corner of her lips just curled into your heat.

Fucking idiot.

When you glance down, the little ligatures of humiliation poke at you again; you begin to close your legs. But the indents on your hips from her hold grow deeper. It inches you back open.

She steals the opportuinity to slot herself in that space.

Ellie swipes hair from your face with the backs of her fingers, lingering. “You did so fuckin' good, babe. That's all you needed, huh? I know, I know. You can thank me later,” she boasts. But all you can focus on is her jean-covered thigh against you.

Quiet as the room, you gasp, but it still prompts her to look in the same spot and nudge off you.

She scoffs. “Psh—it'll come right out. Nothin' to sweat over.”

She is too nonchalant for your heart.

You shift in your pool of sudation, rolling out little grunts. Her touch coheres your movements. “Where did you even learn this from?”

“Uh,” she sounds, gaping open mouth. Ellie would nick herself in the knee if you figured how devoted to you she is in passing time. It takes up more than that, if were being honest. She feels better when you perceive her as your genius and generous girlfriend—so she'll keep it that way. “Just, kinda.. thought that I should do it. Yeah.”

You would refute if you were half as awake as you were before Ellie sapped your whole stamina bank out. Thanks, babe.

“Totally.”

“Mhm, I'm the best.” Sarcasm manages to seep through regardless, even when she tries. You laugh at it.

Ellie blacked out within the hour—before you could—sound asleep in the repository your sprawling lap provides, halfway down the bed in an entanglement. You followed in syrup-like tandem—but not without your fingers in her scalp, and a whisper of words. Sleep fought you for this moment.

“You're the best, idiot.”