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jinxvex · 3 months ago

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best fic i’ve read in so long #holyshit #wet 😍😍

━ ❝𝑷𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝑷𝒊𝒕 𝑮𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒍.❞

౨ৎ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 : 9.7k words, no use of y/n, smut with plot, internalized homophobia, butch!ellie, shy, inexperienced, and virgin!reader, religious themes, drug use, oral sex + fingering, face sitting r!receiving, violence, not proofread!

𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗧, 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗗𝗔𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗧 – 𝟭𝟵𝟳𝟬

The sun hung heavy, making everything shimmer like it was dipped in syrup. It smelled like gasoline and sun-warmed peaches. Main Street buzzed with lazy summer motion—men in rolled-up sleeves and suspenders leaning against shopfronts, kids weaving between cars on banana-seat bikes, the Baptist church’s marquee announcing a bake sale in fading letters. A payphone rang, and no one picked up. The storefront windows reflected all of it in warped glass, a dog asleep under a Chevy, teenage girls in bell-bottoms chewing gum and eyeing boys through thick lashes.

You stepped out of the general store with a paper bag hugged to your chest, the hem of your gingham dress fluttering just below your knees. Mama had stitched the dress herself—blue and white, with rick rack trim and puffed sleeves that always made you feel a little like a doll. Waves from the overnight braid clung to the nape of your neck, a few rebellious strands escaping the casual hold of the blue bow that partially swept your hair back. You blinked up at the sky, squinting at the streaks of orange clouds stretching above the telephone lines—the kind of day where even the air felt too slow to move.

You were supposed to be picking up twine. Just twine. Mama said don’t dawdle. And you meant to listen, you really did.

But the sun had kissed your cheekbones just right when you stepped outside, and your best dress fluttered around your knees like it had a mind of its own. You’d swiped a little color on your lips, dabbed something sweet at your wrists, and suddenly it felt like a shame to waste all that softness on errands and string.

The town shimmered with slow magic, and you thought—maybe just a minute. Long enough to let your shadow drift down the long road.

“Well, butter my biscuit,” she rasped, her voice winding out like an old record spinning up to speed. But even then, you didn’t look up. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” The words skimmed over you once again, swallowed by the hum of the street.

Her sunglasses sat low on her nose, just enough to peek over them. And you felt it, eventually—her gaze pressing against your back like sunlight through glass.

When you did notice her, you nearly dropped your bags. You froze mid-step, the soft rustle of your skirt the only sound you could focus on, too caught up in the wandering place inside your head to realize you’d drawn eyes—her eyes.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?”

“I just—I didn’t think—” You glanced around nervously, as if someone might catch you, might judge you for that brief, fleeting interaction. “—you were talkin’ to me.”

An easy, crooked smile spread across her freckled, kissed features, completely unbothered by your attention, as if it were expected.

She sat like she owned the street. Cream suit rumpled just right, sleeves cuffed, legs spread unapologetically wide on the sun-bleached bench outside the barbershop. Her boots were scuffed, one toe resting on the edge of a planter gone wild with ivy and weeds. A matchbook balanced on her thigh. Smoke coiled lazy from the cigarette in her hand.

She looked like something forbidden, a name you weren’t supposed to utter out loud.

The way she lounged, all broad shoulders and slack hips, like no one had ever told her to be smaller, taking up space in a way you’d been taught not to.

And God, she was handsome.

You’d never seen a girl like that.

Not pretty. Not sweet. Not the kind of beauty you could fold into a letter or press in the pages of a Bible.

It felt wrong, even standing there. The longer you looked, the more your stomach twisted. Her eyes were impossibly clear beneath those sunglasses, the color of a green sea you might fall into and never surface from.

“Oh, I’m definitely talkin’ to you.” She chuckled like you were a song she liked on the radio. She flicked ash onto the sidewalk, smirking. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. You just came ‘round that corner like some kinda angel. Had to say somethin’ before I passed out.” She hooked two fingers into the loose toothpick tie hanging open at her collar, gave it a lazy tug. Then came the sleeves, pushed up slowly, the fabric slid back to reveal ink curling up her forearm in dark, intricate spirals, too complex to catch in just a glance.

She moved like none of it mattered. Like buttons and neatness were someone else’s concern.

The chatter blurred, soft and faraway, and the street seemed to still with your heartbeat. Whether it had stuttered or was just trying to catch up, you couldn’t quite tell.

You clutched your bags tighter. Light as a whisper, a breeze stirred the air, lifting the loose strands of your hair until they caught the sun as they swayed. “I’m just pickin’ up groceries.”

The red-brunette stood, dusted off her slacks with one palm, and swaggered up to you with the kind of confidence you’d only ever seen in the movies. She walked like she was born in slow motion. People kept staring—especially the older men, brows furrowed, jaws tight in disgust. But the girl barely seemed to notice.

“Mind if I carry that for you?” She nodded toward the paper bags clutched to your chest.

You held the bags a little tighter as a woman passed—hair wound tight in curlers beneath a net, polyester skirt rustling sharp with starch. She didn’t slow, didn’t speak, just cast a glance like she could smell the sin from a mile off.

It landed hard within you, and suddenly, all you could picture was the sharp sting of your mother’s disappointment, or the hushed whispers of the ladies from church if they ever found out you’d dared even glance at a woman like her.

You shifted on your heels, the weight of it all making your shoes feel too small.

“It’s not heavy,” you blunted out too quickly, voice a little too light.

“I know. I just like the excuse.” She grinned around the cigarette. “To walk you a while.”

A wave of warmth climbed your nape, and your tongue felt like it had grown too large for your mouth, adhering to the palate. “I don’t—um… I don’t usually walk with people.”

She laughed, “Didn’t think you did.” There was a beat. She looked down, eyes flicking to your hands, bare and tense around the crinkling paper.

The smoke feathered from her lips as she voiced her observation. “No ring... which implies no husband?”

You shook your head, lips pressing in a bloodless line. “No, ma’am.”

“Good,” she stated, “Would’ve made this a little awkward.”

You struggled to find the right words—an excuse, something to make her leave—but she was already bridging the distance, her voice softening to a velvety whisper. “Truth is…” A crooked smile played on her lips even before the words were out, “I don’t usually flirt with pretty girls in broad daylight either.” A pause hung in the air, “But here we are.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The woman’s smile turned smug at your reaction. She stepped back a pace, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under her boot without looking. Then held out her hand to you, palm up like she was offering to dance right there in the middle of the sidewalk. “C’mon. I’ll be a gentleman.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking around. A man sweeping the barbershop steps muttered something under his breath.

You knew how people looked at girls like her.

Girls who wore pants too well, who swaggered instead of simpered.

Girls who smiled at other girls like it meant something.

But then she winked at you. Like you were safe with her. Like she was daring you to stop caring who might be watching.

Your fingers trembled as you placed your bags in her hands.

“There we go,” she brought her hand close enough for her knuckles to intentionally graze yours. “You got a name, sweet thing?”

“Mhm.”

She cocked her head, accompanied by the upward flick of her scarred eyebrow. “Well?”

You swallowed hard and whispered it, barely a breath. It wasn’t meant to be heard, but somehow, she caught it anyway. Rolled it around her tongue like she wanted to taste it. And maybe she was already imagining tasting you.

“Well, ain’t that sweet,” she drawled, “You got a name like a lullaby.”

Your knees went soft. It felt like being kissed without ever being touched.

Her words read like a script no boy had ever dared recite, and her eyes held a lingering focus that didn’t glance past you but through you. Not like the fleeting glances you’d grown accustomed to from boys.

You tried to reel yourself back in, grasping for something safe. You thought about boys—their easy smiles, their clumsy hands, the way they used to say your name.

But it didn’t help. The warmth in your chest refused to settle because a compliment from a woman sings in your blood in a way a thousand boyish smiles never did.

You didn’t know what to make of the erratic flutter behind your ribs, or the way your eyes kept drifting to her mouth like they had a mind of their own.

“Wh-what’s your name?”

She smiled, like the question pleased her. “Ellie.”

“Ellie,” her name escaped your lips as soft as a prayer like it had been waiting on your tongue all your life, half-whispered, half-sighed.

She stepped in a little closer, just enough for you to catch the scent of cologne and cigarettes clinging to her collar. “I like the way you say my name,” she crooned. “Real pretty.”

Your heart was galloping in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, what to do. You weren’t used to feeling like this—all fluttery and breathless in the best possible way.

You walked beside her, barely breathing, trying not to smile too wide. Ellie filled the air around her, filled you. She talked so easy, teasing and bold, like she didn’t care who heard her.

“You always wear blue?” she asked, eyes dipping down to your dress.

“I—well, yeah. I like it.”

“Looks real nice with your eyes.”

“You talk awful funny.”

“Funny?” she grinned. “You mean smooth.”

You looked at her. “I mean like you wanna get in trouble.”

That made her laugh, loud and full. “Maybe I do.”

Your mouth opened and closed. You had no idea what to say to that either.

“You’re blushin’, darlin’.”

“Am not.” You couldn’t quite meet her eyes, the warmth of your skin betrayed you.

“Mm.” Her gaze lingered. “Looks good on you. Like a peach just startin’ to ripen.”

You could feel the flush crawl up your neck, like shame and sugar melting together, and you swore you were about to sink straight into the concrete.

“Where’s your car, sugar?” The paper grocery bags crinkled in her arms as their weight shifted, bottles of wine clinking softly against each other beneath rustling folds.

You pointed, wordless, and started walking with her toward it, your white shoes crunching over gravel. Her boots were louder. Heavier. You wondered if she always sounded like that when she walked, like she didn’t care who heard her coming.

Ellie handed your bags back with a mock-bow and a tip of her invisible hat. When you reached your car, she opened the door for you and stepped back, hands slipping into her pockets, giving you room without being overbearing.

“You gonna be at the market this Sunday?”

You nodded before you even thought about it. You weren’t planning on it, but now you were. “Maybe.”

Ellie grinned, all teeth and trouble.

“Good. I’ll bring somethin�� sweet for you. Maybe we can… share.” She stepped back slowly, still watching you like you were something rare and shiny. “Don’t be a stranger, peaches.”

You stood there, rooted to the spot, your head spinning and heart stumbling over itself, your eyes following her every step as she walked away, one hand casually tucked into her pocket.

You didn’t even know girls could look at you that way.

That you could like it so much.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞𝗘𝗧 – 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬, 𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚

It was louder than usual that morning—the kind of noise that filled the air with life. Dust danced in gold clouds, kicked up by horses’ hooves pounding down the dirt road, their heads held high. The smell of hay and livestock mingled with the sharp scent of fresh tomatoes and dirt. Farmers’ kids ran barefoot between the rows of vegetables, their laughter mingling with the rustling of leaves, feet quick against the earth like they were part of it, chasing after stray chickens.

Radio music crackled from an open truck bed, some sweet-voiced woman singing about heartache and heaven. The sun was already high, soaking into the back of your little dress, the edges of your shoes digging uncomfortably into the dirt.

You scanned the crowd, eyes catching on the burst of color—the floral prints of women’s dresses fluttering in the heat, the worn denim of men leaning over their carts, the earthy scent of dirt and sweat clinging to everyone. The smell of fresh bread and sizzling sausages through the air, mingling with the heavier scent of gasoline from the nearby pumps.

Her form bloomed in your sight, a forbidden fruit you couldn’t resist gazing upon, as if your very pupils were designed to drink in her image like a secret indulgence.

Leaning casually against the front of her truck, her stance exuded an unhurried calm, one boot pressed against the bumper. Her shoulders hung loose in a slouch. She was dressed down today—but only by a sliver of intention. No jacket, but her slacks clung like they were made for her, and suspenders lay across her chest, catching the light with their worn edges. A white tee, simple, sleeves rolled, giving just a peek of muscle and sun-kissed skin. A cherry lollipop hung between her lips, bright against the earth-toned world. Her hair was shorter than usual, messy in a way that looked intentional—like it’d been tousled by wind or a fight with a bedhead.

She looked like every sin you’d ever been warned about—the kind your mama had whispered about in hushed tones, the one she swore would steal your innocence and taint your soul with a single touch, drag you to hell without a single hesitation, and leave you there, lost and aching—with no salvation in sight.

When Ellie’s eyes found yours from across the market, narrowing slightly before the corner of her mouth twitched upward, in that instant, you realized.

You were already damned.

When she saw you, she stood up slowly, her hand drifting to the lollipop she’d left abandoned on the dirt. It fell without a sound, like it never mattered, the world fading as soon as your eyes met.

You were divine. Too pure, too innocent looking—like something she had no right to even glimpse, let alone touch.

An angel wrapped in cute little bows and soft cotton, and she couldn’t help but feel the sharp sting of her own worthlessness. You were a walk through spring, a memory of sunshine, your white dress dotted with yellow flowers that seemed to dance with every movement, white lacey socks pulled up your ankles, the kind that didn’t belong on the dusty ground of a market. In one hand, you clutched a basket, tucked with care under the same white bow that held your front pieces back.

She wondered how you even spoke to her the first time. You looked at her with that wide-eyed innocence, something she could never touch without breaking.

And yet, there you were. Standing in front of her, like you had no idea how much you haunted her every waking thought.

“Hey there, peaches.”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. “Hi, Ellie.”

“You came.”

“I said I would.”

“Thought maybe you’d get spooked.”

Eyes fixed on the ground, a small, involuntary shrug flickered through your shoulder, “Was thinkin’ about it.”

She laughed. “Still came anyway?”

You peeked up at her through your lashes. “...you asked me to.”

Your reaction stole her words, if only for a moment. The playful light in her eyes receded, replaced by something else you couldn’t quite put into words. “C’mon,” she said after a beat. “I brought you somethin’.”

Leading you to her truck’s side, she opened the door with a casual gesture and a small grin. Inside, she produced a small cloth bag, its contents utterly defying your expectations.

Not the imagined sweetness of fruit, nor the comforting aroma of baked goods. Instead, nestled within was a pack of rolling papers, a small, metallic tin filled with something green and intensely pungent, a scent that made your nose wrinkle in unfamiliarity.

“Ever smoked?”

You blinked, confusion plain on your face, “Cigarettes?”

A laugh bubbled up in her throat at your naivete, as if you’d emerged from some long-forgotten corner of the world. “Not exactly.”

You stared at the pouch.

“Oh,” you said, “That’s… bad, isn’t it?”

Ellie raised a brow. “You think I look like I care about bad?”

You worried your lip, caught between curiosity and apprehension.

She leaned in closer. “Don’t gotta, if you don’t wanna. I just thought… might be nice to loosen you up a little. You get all red every time I talk.”

“i do not.” You blurted, heat blooming across your cheeks, too quick, too revealing, proving her point. After a moment’s hesitation, a soft, “...Just one,” escaped your lips.

𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥 – 𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗘’𝗦 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗘

You didn’t even mean to say yes when she asked you to come by after the market. But your head nodded like your body already knew the answer, even if your mouth didn’t.

Now you were sitting on the creaky little couch in Ellie’s place, your knees pressed tight together, still in the same sundress you’d worn all morning, straps slipping off your shoulders from the way you kept shifting, you didn’t even bother fixing them.

Her place was smaller than you’d imagined.

One-room sort of thing, tucked above a mechanic’s shop with peeling wallpaper that had once been floral but now just looked tired, with a slanted ceiling and windows left cracked open to let in the breeze.

The couch was old and scratchy, covered in a wool blanket that smelled faintly of cigarettes and cedar. A single lamp glowed in the corner, casting long shadows on the bare wood floor.

On the wall above the couch were thumbtacked sketches—charcoal, pencil, some ink. Mostly portraits. A few unfinished, just the ghost of a face and a jawline sketched in bold strokes. You thought you recognized your own bow in one of them, half-drawn. An easel sat in the far corner, facing the window, a canvas perched on it like a masterpiece she hadn’t decided whether or not to share. Smudged with blue and amber, half-born. A stool nearby was stained with paint and cigarette burns, and an old coffee cup full of brushes balancing on the windowsill.

The kitchen was barely more than a sink and stove, cluttered with mismatched mugs and half-empty bottles of something strong. A few records leaned against the wall, sleeves worn soft at the edges, like she’d played the same ones over and over but never quite got around to putting them away. Her guitar leaned against the wall beside the record player, strings a little dusty but tuned. You wondered if she played for people, or just for herself.

There were boots by the door, grease on the floor, and a jacket tossed over the back of a chair like she’d rushed out of it hours ago.

The breeze curled through the open window, stirring the lace curtain just enough to make the whole room feel like a half-remembered dream.

Ellie lit a joint with a match struck against her boot, the flame flickered in her palm before it caught. She took a slow drag, then leaned in, holding it between her fingers as she brought it to your lips. “Just a little,” she encouraged you, voice thick with smoke, “Promise you’ll like it.”

You did, even if it made you cough the first time. That made her laugh, a sound curling around your spine. But then it started to sink in, blooming warm behind your ribs, softening your edges until everything felt farther away. Everything except her. She was too close. One leg tucked beneath her, the other braced on the floor. Shoulder draped over the back of the couch. Her fingers brushed yours every so often—careless, like she wasn’t even thinking about it. But you knew she was.

Everything Ellie did was on purpose.

You couldn’t stop giggling. You didn’t even know why—some dumb story, maybe. Something about the way she said it. The way she looked at you between drags, like she already knew what you were gonna say before you said it. You sat cross-legged, hands folded in your lap, trying not to fidget. And Ellie sat wide-legged beside you, elbow on the armrest, watching you like she was trying to memorize the curve of your mouth when you laughed.

You kept staring at Ellie’s mouth when she talked—slow and syrupy, every word dragging like molasses down the nape of your neck.

Her voice was a sin in itself, making you feel all the things it shouldn’t. She was too close. Sat next to you with her legs open, one knee brushing yours every time she shifted. Your dress rode up a little higher each time.

“So?” she grinned, catching the way your dazed eyes trailed after her lips. “How’s it feel?”

You blinked at her, sluggish and loose. “I feel like…” You glanced down at your fingers. “Like they’re not mine.”

Her head fell back as she laughed, “Good. That’s what it’s s’posed to feel like.”

You nodded, dizzy. Then, a softer “I like it,” slipped out.

Her eyes dropped to your mouth.

You didn’t notice.

You were still fixated on her lashes, long and thick, speckles of green catching the amber light spilling in from the window.

“You’re not like anyone back home,” you murmured.

That got her leaning in, just a little. Close enough to feel her breath. “No?” she pressed, “And what’s that mean, baby?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “You talk different. You look at me like I’m not just some dumb girl.”

The freckled woman scoffed, “You’re not some dumb girl,” she remarked, and something sultrier curled in her tone. “You’re the kind that don’t even know how fuckin’ sweet she is. All soft and wet and waitin’ to be tasted.”

Your breath caught.

She leaned in further, elbow pressing into the back of the couch, her thigh now fully against yours.

“You’re pretty as an angel,” She whispered, so close her nose almost brushed yours, worshipful eyes of yours stayed glued to her lips like scripture, as if missing a single word might tear a page from the only book that ever truly had you. “And when you look at me like that—like you want me to touch you but you’re too good to ask for it—I wanna ruin you.”

“I wanna mess up that pretty little bow you wear like it’s gonna save you.”

You could only manage a breathless, “What?” your lungs pulled too tight to drag anything else out of your throat.

Her hand settled on your thigh with confident claim, slender fingers teasing the hem of your dress. “I said,” she repeated, “I wanna taste you.”

You swallowed hard.

She kissed you.

And may God forgive you for the way you let her.

For how your lips parted without thought, without prayer, like sin was sewn into your flesh and begging to be fed.

It felt too good to be wrong.

Too soft to be unholy. But then her pink muscle brushed yours, slowly, coaxing, and you whimpered.

Her hand slid up your thigh, fingers sinking into the tender flesh like she had every right, like God had created you for her palms alone.

Her teeth grazed you, and you swore the heavens cracked open.

You didn’t push her away.

You leaned in.

You burned.

And if this was blasphemy, then hell had never felt so holy.

This wasn’t the hurried fumble of the boy in the field, all clumsy want and impatient demand. This was a languid devotion, her mouth a slow burn against yours, tasting like nothing but salvation.

A wordless prayer of surrender escaped your lips as your hips stirred on the couch, a movement born of a pleasure that felt both sacrilegious and utterly true. Shame clawed at your throat, the taste of transgression bitter on your tongue, yet despite it all, every part of you screamed to surrender. To let her take from you, because it felt more like coming home than any prayer ever had.

She retreated just enough to speak, her breath brushing against your mouth, sweet and trembling, “That good, baby?”

You nodded again, dazed. “Mmm… never felt nothin’ like that.”

Her hand slipped higher up your thigh, fingers curling possessively. “That boy you were talkin’ ‘bout… he kiss you like this?”

You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. “Didn’t kiss me much at all.”

A low hum of satisfaction vibrated in Ellie’s chest.

Ah, it seemed to say, you’re as caught as I am.

“What a fool,” she replied instead, nudging your chin back so she could look at you. “Should’ve known better than to leave a sweet thing like you wanting.”

You were a flower turning towards the warmth of her touch, an unstoppable bloom of a smile on your face that mirrored your body’s involuntary drift towards her.

You didn’t know what it was—the weed, the kiss or her—but you didn’t care.

The world outside became a muted backdrop. The curtains’ languid dance, the cicadas’ desperate cries.

Everything had collapsed into the soft slide of Ellie’s fingers on your thigh, the blissful hum in your head, and the way your whole body pulsed between your legs like you were born just to ache.

“You’re really lettin’ me touch you, huh?”

A slow, heated nod was your only response, lashes drifting down like weighted petals, mind struggling to keep pace with the ascent of her hand. It slid higher beneath your skirt, a place no other touch had ever been granted access.

“No one’s ever—?”

You shook your head—barely—and Ellie grinned like the devil just stepped into church. “God. Look at you.” The name felt obscene in her mouth, like it didn’t belong there.

You prayed he wasn’t watching. Hoped he’d close his eyes and pretend he didn’t see you like this—willingly trembling under another woman’s touch, soaked through, begging.

Soft lips brushed the delicate angle of your jawline, lingered on the warmth of your cheek, and a heated sigh whispered against your throat.

“You’re just sittin’ there,” she mapped soft circles onto your bare thigh, “high and horny, lettin’ a girl put her hands up your skirt. And you ain’t got a clue what to do with yourself, do you?”

An involuntary clench tightened your thighs, a reflexive action born of both embarrassment and a burgeoning heat that had your cunt tingling, every nerve singing under her attentive stare. Her grin stretched wider, “Oh, baby. You want me that bad already?”

The words tangled in your throat, strangled by the molten ache pooling low in your belly. Still, you shook your head, trembling, chest heaving as if the air had sunk its teeth into the narrowing passage.

You didn’t even know what to beg for—only that her touch was the only thing tethering you to heaven. That if she didn’t give it to you, you might start sobbing.

“No,” you breathed, eyes wet and shining, lashes trembling like butterfly wings. “I need you.”

The sound of your voice widened Ellie’s grin, a flash of pearly white against her kiss-bruised mouth, hawking at you like she was about to devour you whole.

“Yeah?” Her fingers traced your jawline, gently tilting your face toward hers once again, “You need me to touch you, huh?”

You nodded—helpless, desperate, thighs pressed tight together like it could ease the throbbing between them. Your mouth opened to answer, but all you could manage was a shaky exhale, like you couldn’t quite let yourself ask for it. Didn’t know how.

Her fingers ghosted right where your thighs met, and it knocked the air right out of you. Your hips twitched forward on instinct. You weren’t trying to be subtle anymore. “Mm-mm,” Ellie hummed, cruel fingers hovering but not touching. “You gotta use your words, peaches. Can’t give you what you want if you don’t ask for it.”

You whimpered, legs falling open just a little wider like your body was trying to beg for you, the damp spot on your panties obvious now, sticky and embarrassing. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at her, eyes glued to her hand, too ashamed to exist.

“Please,” you panted, “Ellie… I don’t—I don’t know how. I need—” You dragged in a breath, fingers curling around her tattooed forearm. “I need you to touch me.”

Relief and humiliation crashed over you at once.

Ellie’s grin vanished, emerald mists deepening to a shadowed woods as she finally slipped her hand under the sticky lace, rough pads brushing against your dripping heat. You gasped, your back arching like a puppet cut loose, mouth falling open as if you’d just been shown a heaven they never mentioned in church.

It was like nothing you’d ever felt before—no fumbling manly touch had ever made you feel like this.

Her damp, swollen lips returned to the column of your neck, her hand moving skillfully like she knew exactly what you needed even when you didn’t. It was more than you’d ever had, but enough to make you feel like a step further away from grace.

“Jesus,” The redhead mused. “You’re drippin’. And I haven’t even gotten started.”

A soft wave of a pout rippled across your lower lip, “It’s embarrassing—”

“No, baby,” she said, eyes darkening. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. All nice and wet for me.”

Her fingers didn’t rush. Just parted your folds slowly, the way someone might peel something sacred, something she’d fantasized about in the quietest, filthiest corners of her mind.

And god, had she fantasized.

The instant those jade eyes locked onto your angelic form, all flustered and struggling with those bags, the sway of your hair, and the teasing lift of your dress in the breeze, something darker took root. Almost as if you had already been declared by her gaze, and backing down wasn’t in her vocabulary.

She slid two fingers through your center, dragging the wetness up—pausing just beneath the hood of your pulsating clit, letting you feel the threat of her pads.

Your hips bucked without permission, and Ellie smiled like she’d caught you red handed. Like she knew exactly what kind of girl you were. Knew you’d melt the second she touched you.

Her thumb brushed lazy, feather-light circles over your bud—just enough to make you twitch, but not enough to satisfy. Her breath hitched at the sound you made. That desperate little whimper, the one that made her throb in her boxers.

“Fuck,” she muttered more to herself than to you, eyes glued to where her fingers glistened with your wetness, “Bet you touch this sweet little pussy all the time, don’t you?”

You hesitated, heat crawling up your throat, shame curling in your belly, your cunt making it impossible to let you lie. “I… I do. A lot.”

“Yeah?” Her voice dipped, “Rub your clit when no one’s watching? Cry into your pillow ‘cause you can’t get deep enough?”

An instinctive clench tightened your thighs, and a helpless nod bobbed your head before your useless brain could catch up. “… it never feels this good.”

She moved closer, her body warm against your side, her ragged breathing in your ear was enough to make you moan and clench around emptiness. Your legs parted further, hips rolling into her touch like you couldn’t help it. It was pathetic, but she loved it.

“Yeah, baby—that’s ‘cause it takes someone who knows how to play with a body like yours. Knows how to make it beg.”

Ellie let pleased moan, and fuck, it did something to you. That sound alone was enough to twist up your stomach and make you see stars. She could feel your pulse, frantic and fluttering beneath her drenched fingertips, your body thrumming like it no longer belonged to you.

And god, she loved how easy it was to make you melt under her filthy touch. “You feel that?” she rasped, eyes locked on your face like she was starving. “Your pussy’s throbbing, peaches.”

The perfect orbit of her fingers around your clit elicited a soft cry, your white-clad toes curling in response. “You sound like an angel when I touch you like this.”

And then her fingers slipped in.

Just one, but even that felt like too much.

Your breath hitched, eyes wide as your body tensed, your cunt pulsing around her knuckle-deep finger. It resisted the intrusion, unsure whether to draw her in or push her out.

You weren’t used to this. Barely used to your pillow and your own fingers. The stretch burned. Not unbearably painful, but rather unfamiliar. A pressure that made your belly flutter and your muscles tense.

“Shhh… breathe, baby,” Ellie cooed, feeling the way your muscles spasmed around her knuckle. “I got you. You’re okay. Just a little stretch—not used to bein’ touched like this, are you?”

You whimpered, head pressing back into the cushions, your trembling hands fisting the hem of your dress, pulling it up higher as if that’d somehow help you handle it better.

She didn’t move. Just kept her finger still, letting you feel the shape of her inside you.

“So tight,” she echoed, awestruck. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

Your lips trembled. You were breathing too fast, high in your chest, and she noticed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Talk to me,” she coaxed. “Too much?”

You shook your head fast, even as your legs trembled open wider for her. Your hips chased the burn, the friction, the stretch. You couldn’t help it—it hurt just right.

“I’ve never—” Your voice broke on a gasp when she curled her finger just slightly.

“You never let anyone in, hm?” Her thumb circled your clit again like she was trying to distract you.

You shook your head again. Ellie smiled proudly against your cheek, “You weren’t made for boys, were you? Just this—just my fuckin’ fingers.”

You nodded, whimpering like you’d been waiting your whole life to hear someone talk to you like that.

“Good girl,” Her free hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck “So fucking good for me. Gonna let me split you open? Make you cry on my fingers?” it was only when you nodded that she started to move—just a shallow pump of her finger, careful not to push too hard. You whimpered at the way it dragged against your walls, slicked by how fucking wet you already were.

Your head dropped against her shoulder, eyes rolling behind fluttering lids, mouth falling open in a silent moan as she rubbed your clit harder, finger picking up speed and going deeper into your warm channel. The wet sounds were obscene, and she made sure you heard every one of them.

A second finger eased in beside the first, and your body seized. The stretch was obscene, deeper now, fuller than you’d ever been. It made your toes curl and your back bow painfully, a whimper crawling up your throat before you could choke on it.

“Shhh, shhh,” she cooed, her mouth warm and wet against your temple. “That’s it, just like that.”

You clung to her like she was your last breath—fingers fisted into the fabric of her shirt, damp with your sweat and hers. Whispering profanity into your hair, words you shouldn’t have liked, shouldn’t have needed.

“Just wanna feel you come on my fingers.” Her hand moved with slow cruelty. Two fingers stroking deep, dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again, her palm pressing down just right to grind your clit. It was too much. Not enough. Too fucking perfect.

Your legs trembled uncontrollably, the breaths leaving your throat were nothing but ragged little sobs, lips parted, eyes unfocused.

“Ellie—I’m gonna—” your voice cracked around it, barely coherent.

And she laughed, like she knew you wouldn’t last. Knew from the way your pussy acted like it’s been waiting its whole life for someone like her to ruin it.

You cried out—something between a sob and a moan—and your orgasm tore through you like lightning. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t soft. It broke you.

Your body locked up, cunt spasming hard around her fingers, slick soaking her wrist as you came with a wail that didn’t sound like it could belong to someone innocent.

She didn’t stop. Just slowed, dragging it out, milking it from you until you collapsed on her chest, boneless and heaving, while her soaked fingers twitched lazily inside you.

“There you go,” she murmured into your hair, breathless, reverent. “Thought you were a good girl, huh? Thought you were shy. Thought you’d make me wait…”

Her fingers slipped out with a wet noise that made you wince, made your whole body clench around the void left behind.

“But look at you,” she smirked, sucking her fingers into her mouth without shame. “you let a girl you’ve known for, what, a week?—split you open on a couch you’ve never even sat on before.” You should’ve felt ashamed, but your cunt fluttered.

You were still panting against her chest, eyes glassy, body limp. She watched you try to come back to yourself—loved how long it was taking, how fucked-out you looked.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Not so innocent after all, huh?”

It wasn’t a question, but a truth laid bare, torn from you like the peel of a summer fruit. She saw past the bright flesh, down to the bruise blooming beneath. The decay you’d dressed in sweetness, perfumed and pretty, but still rotting all the same.

She didn’t flinch at your filth. Didn’t pull away from the part of you they all tried to smother—your mother, with her disappointed eyes and clipped silence, who looked at you like a stain she couldn’t scrub out, or the pastor, whose voice trembled with disgust when he spoke about girls like you.

Instead, she kissed the crown of your head like you were something meant to be worshiped, even as she ruined you.

You’d spent your whole life begging God to fix you. Whispering prayers into the dark with trembling hands, trying to crush that part of yourself into dust.

But it didn’t die.

It waited.

And now, with her inside you, coaxing it out like a secret she already knew, you finally understood—there was never anything to save.

You were never innocent.

You were made for this.

“Gonna see how many I can take from you before you start begging me to stop.”

You were still trying to remember how to think when Ellie leaned in and kissed you, her tongue sliding against yours, and all you could taste was yourself. When she pulled back, her eyes were hooded, mouth glistening with your spit, and there was something feral behind her grin.

Then she pulled you up.

“Panties off. Now.” was the first thing she demanded. You obeyed on instinct, fingers fumbling as you reached under your dress, barely balancing as you stepped out of the soaked lace. You hadn’t even managed to gather yourself before her rough hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward impatiently.

Your breath caught.

“You’re sitting on my face.”

No questions. No sweet talk. Just a demand as she threw herself onto the couch, stripping off her shirt with one fluid motion. Her back hit the cushions. Her hands found your hips before your knees could even hit the cushions, guiding you up, already dragging you over her salivating mouth. You straddled her face, thighs trembling on either side of her flushed skin, cunt hovering above her lips

Your brow crumpled a knot of delicious torment that only seemed to deepen like the one in your stomach. “Ellie, I—I don’t know if I can-”

Her eyes lifted, beholding something sacred and profane at the same time. “You can. You will. Sit.”

Strong arms wrapped around the plushness of your thighs, dragging you down before your brain could even catch up. Your breath hitched as Ellie buried her face between your legs without hesitation, licking a stripe through your folds like she’d been starving for it. The heat of her tongue against your still-sensitive cunt made your head fall back, a soft, broken whimper leaving your lips.

Your hands scrambled to lift the bunched-up fabric of your dress, needing to see her. And there she was, eyes fluttered shut like in prayer, her lashes damp, mouth glistening with you. She moaned like you were the best thing she had ever had in her life.

“Taste like fucking peaches,” she husked against your clitoris, “Could eat you for hours.”

She sucked your clit into her mouth, flicked it until your thighs clamped around her ears on instinct.

The wetness at the base of your lashes registered a beat late, it wasn’t until you blinked that you consciously recognized the gathering tears. “Ellie—it’s—too much—” you sobbed, the words barely audible through the quiver in your voice.

Her grip on your hips only tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as she dragged you down harder. She didn’t stop. Her tongue fucked you deep, filthy and focused, button up nose bumping against your rosebud every time she moved. You cried out, overwhelmed, your whole body twitching from the overstimulation, nerves tingling from your earlier orgasm. Your hands flew back for balance, clutching at the couch behind you as your vision swam.

Your thighs started to lift, trying to get away, but the auburn-haired woman dragged you right back down with a bruising grip.

“I said sit.”

Impure mewls caught in your throat. You couldn’t do anything but obey.

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore—just garbled, desperate nonsense between sobs and gasps.

She sucked your clit harder this time. You came almost instantly, with a scream, whining her name over and over. You reached for her, pushed weakly at her forehead, but she wouldn’t budge, unwilling to relinquish the newfound sacred ground.

“You come again,” she growled, breath scorching against your sensitive bud, “or I’ll keep you here all night.”

And you did. Again, and again, each time more indecent than the last.

Until you were slumped forward, dress wrinkled around your waist, mouth open but soundless, legs shaking like you’d run through hell just to end up in her defiled mouth.

You couldn’t see. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything except ride.

Spit and slick dripped down her chin. Your thighs were shaking so hard they knocked against the blade of her shoulders. You sobbed, begged, whispered her name like it was both a prayer and a curse.

She pulled back just enough to say, “One more. Give me one more.” looking up at you like she’d just painted a masterpiece.

And you did.

Everything after that was a blur, your boneless body in her arms, the scent of sex and her gasped name still echoing in the air. You don’t remember falling asleep. Just her breath against your shoulder, the gentle press of her lips on yours.

Morning crept in like it knew what had happened. Soft and gold and sticky-warm, filtering through the lace curtains of Ellie’s little apartment, painting your bare skin in light. Your dress lay discarded somewhere on the floor, tangled in the cigarette-scented sheets. Your pussy still slick. Your legs were sore.

You were asleep, slack-jawed, cheek pressed to her shoulder, curled in close. Ellie watched you from her side of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, collar popped lazily, one arm tucked behind her head, and the other lazily combing through your hair.

She grinned like she couldn’t help it.

“Girl like you,” she murmured, voice scratchy with sleep, “should come with a goddamn warning.”

A sleepy noise slipped from your throat. “Mm—Ellie?”

“I’m here, sweetheart.” She kissed your temple, a slow press of lips against sweat-damp skin, “You passed out,” she whispered, dragging her palm back up your thigh like she couldn’t stop touching you, even in the quiet of morning.

Your hips shifted toward her, face half-hidden in the pillow, body curling naturally into hers like you belonged there.

Ellie stretched, one hand behind her neck, eyes trailing the soft curves of your back with something close to wonder. That cocky glint in her eyes had faded into something that didn’t look like lust anymore. Hushed words wrapped you in a sweetness that felt almost too much to bear. The kind of tenderness that made your cheeks ache from grinning widely.

“You ever think about leavin’?” she suddenly asked.

Your lashes fluttered, and you blinked at her, not fully understanding. “Leavin’ what?”

She shrugged, “This town. Your dead-end barn. The church ladies and their ugly little stares. I dunno. I think about it all the time. Movin’ west, maybe. Somewhere, nobody knows your name.”

The question settled in your chest like a stone, something you’d only ever dreamed about. You didn’t answer right away. Your lip caught between your teeth as you watched the morning light dance on the walls, casting shadows like a dream you couldn’t quite grasp. “I ain’t never been nowhere,” the words almost feeling like a secret you were ashamed to share. “Not really. Just the market and church and... town.”

“Yeah.” Her fingers skimmed your ribs now, light as petals. “There’s more out there,” she added. “I could show you.”

She didn’t know why she said it. It sounded insane out loud—asking a girl she’d only just met to run off into the unknown—but something about you had sunk into her bones, sticky and sweet and impossible to shake. Maybe it was the way you’d looked up at her last night. Or the way you tasted, like something she could get used to. Maybe it was something simpler, though. The way you’d fallen asleep wrapped around her, like you were made to.

“I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?” Her voice grew firmer, just slightly. “Ain’t nothin’ here but a dead field and a name that don’t even fit right.”

You shook your head, but the motion was slow. Weak. “My parents... they wouldn’t let me.”

Ellie smiled, sunlight painting her freckles gold, and the green of her eyes shimmered like moss after rain. She looked too beautiful for this world, a vision untouched by cinema or poetry verses. A beauty that language could only betray, leaving words to falter and fall silent for anyone who dared to try to capture it. “But you’re a big girl now, ain’t you? Ain’t gotta ask nobody’s permission.”

Your skin prickled, but you didn’t look away. “I’ll think about it.”

But deep down, you already knew you were going.

She pampered you like royalty, bringing you coffee strong enough to burn away the last of sleep, a plate of eggs and toast kissed with butter and honey. By the time you stood to go, the sun was already high, painting the room in harsh gold that made you blink, still dazed. Gentle fingers closed the buttons of your dress, wrapping around to linger a moment too long at your chest, like she was doing it on purpose. When you turned to dust off the wrinkles in the fabric, she tucked your panties into her pocket, flashing you a grin.

“Lost somethin’, I think.”

“Ellie…” you fought to hold back an eyeroll, but the smile tugging at the corner of your lips betrayed you.

“What?” She lit a cigarette, shrugged into her jacket—brown corduroy, loose over her button-up shirt, sleeves pushed up. “I’m keepin’ ‘em. S’only fair.”

She walked you home like she was staking her claim. Her hand was on your waist, steadying you like a man would, guiding you through the honey-dipped streets. Though she could have easily sidestepped the stares and the longer route by driving, she needed more time with you. People stared, their gazes sharp and curious, but you kept your eyes down, avoiding the weight of their judgment. Ellie didn’t flinch. She never did. You liked that about her.

You passed the grocer, the diner, Mr. Ray sweeping his front steps with that old, rhythmic motion, the sound of the broom bristles brushing against the concrete. Ellie only nodded at him, daring him to speak, daring anyone to say something.

The farmhouse loomed ahead, weathered and weary like it had lived a thousand lives longer than yours. You could feel the weight of its history in the worn wood and cracked windows. It was your home, yet it no longer felt like it. You could almost hear your childhood calling out from inside, the echo of innocence lost beneath the weight of time.

The door stood ahead, and for a moment, you hesitated. Ellie’s arm stayed firmly around your waist, the sound of her boots crunching on the gravel mixed with the soft jangle of keys in her pocket.

Her hand slipped from your waist, fingers brushing against your back, a soft, questioning squeeze that made you feel seen. “Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly, forcing the words past your lips. “Yeah… yeah, just my parents. They’re not real big on strangers, you know?” You forced a light laugh, but it came out more like a nervous breath than anything else. “They’re kinda… conservative. They don’t like anyone in the house who isn’t family.”

Ellie seemed to sense the unease in your tone, her expression softening just a little. She nodded slowly, her thumb running over the small of your back, comfortingly. “I get it,” She raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing at her lips, though it didn’t quite meet her eyes. The weight of something unsaid laced her following question: “Will I see you again?”

Hers was just hope. Hope that you wouldn’t run, that you wouldn’t vanish like smoke the second her hand slipped from your waist.

But even then, she knew that was a possibility.

She’d been running her whole life—dodging shame, suspicion, the suffocating judgment that came with loving women in a world that wanted her different. There were towns where she had to lie. Streets where she had to flinch. And homes, too many of them, where a girl like her was only ever a secret.

So if you did walk away—if you chose the safety of lying over the risk of being seen—she’d understand. She wouldn’t chase you. Wouldn’t blame you. Because being yourself out loud, in a world like this, took a kind of courage she hadn’t always had either.

On your part, you weren’t sure how to answer her question, because if there was one thing your heart screamed, it was yes. Yes, you wanted to see her again. Taste her again. Let her touch you like you were something divine, not something to be hidden. But her words echoed through your chest like church bells.

You ever think about leavin’?

You had. In the quiet moments between chores and dinner prayers. In the silence after slammed doors and bitten tongues. You had dreamed of it in pieces—dusty highways and gas station coffee, rooms with open windows and no one watching. But never like this. Never with someone. Never with her.

Because it was reckless, impulsive; you’d only met her a week ago. Just seven days, and already she felt like a doorway you’d been too scared to open your whole life. Like running with her might ruin everything, or maybe save it.

Your lips moved before your doubts could catch up. “‘Course you will,” your words steadier than you felt. And when she smiled, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the beginning of something that could work out for real.

You grinned, a little unsure but determined, “I wouldn’t let you get away that easy.”

The woman’s smirk curved deeper, slow and easy. She leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing your ear. “Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, though.”

Your head tilted to the side, silencing her thoughts with the soft press of your lips—like a secret passed between mouths.

“I’ll see you soon.”

This time, making the words sound more like a promise you intended to keep.

Ellie didn’t move at first. She just looked at you, breathtaking eyes sweeping over your face like she meant to memorize every inch. Then she let out a breath, all sweet resignation.

“Alright,” she nodded, tilting her head with a half-smile. “But don’t make me wait too long, peaches.”

Her hand slipped from your back, drifting softly down your arm in a touch so tender it left a chill. “I’ll be thinkin’ about you,” she breathed, almost to herself.

And then she turned. The sound of her boots crunching on gravel faded as she walked away, the edge of her jacket catching in the breeze. You stood there, still and quiet, watching her retreat until she was no more than a figure folding into the horizon.

A hollow kind of ache settled low in your ribs. “See you soon,” you whispered after her, knowing full well she couldn’t hear you.

You closed the door behind you with a gentle click, the kind that made the house feel full, lived in. Familiar. The silence inside pressed in close, like it had been waiting for you. You stood still for a moment, letting it settle around your shoulders like a shawl. Your back leaned against the wood. You breathed in deep, and Ellie was still there—on your skin, in your hair, between your thighs, in your head. The guilt swam low in your belly, but it didn’t matter. Ellie was real. And for once in your life, you felt real, too.

You walked dazed through the front hall, your steps light, your body still humming like it was tuned to her.

“Mama, I’m home!” you called, cheerful, almost giddy, kicking off your shoes with a thud. You padded down the hallway barefoot, grinning like a girl with a crush, soft and sugary, giggling under your breath. “You won’t believe the night I had.”

The kitchen opened around you like a dream. Pale morning light filtered through the curtains. Your mama was seated at the table, like always. Hair brushed, dress neatly pressed. You bounced on your toes, full of sunshine and static. “I’m so happy!” you squealed, and walked over to her, fingers brushing a curl away from her cheek.

You blinked, then laughed a little. “Oh, Mama. You’re always so quiet when I’m excited.”

You sat across from her, cross-legged in the chair, arms wrapped around your waist like you could no longer contain the excitement. “She said I taste like peaches,” you whispered, voice high and sugar-slick. “Can you believe that? Me. Peaches.” You twirled a little in the seat, too dizzy to sit still.

You leaned forward then, conspiratorial, like a child telling a secret to a parent who might still forgive them.

“I let her touch me, Mama.” Your voice dropped. Soft. Sacred. “And I liked it. I let her touch all the places you said a man was supposed to touch first. I let her do it, and I—” Your voice caught on a giggle. “I loved it.”

Mama didn’t answer. Mama didn’t nod, or frown, or slap the sin from your lips like she might’ve.

Her eyes were wide. Too wide. Rolled back so far, they looked like pearls strung loose from their sockets. Her mouth hung slack, a line of congealed red dripping from the corner like jelly.

You smiled. “She told me she wanted to go away. With me. That maybe she and I could have a little place of our own. No men. No preachers.” You reached over and swatted a fly off your mama’s cheek, then another off her collarbone. They’d made a home there, buzzing and nesting in the soft hollow of her throat.

The buzzing was worse now. You barely noticed it. “You always said a girl like me would end up damned,” you sighed. “But Mama, it felt like heaven.”

You stood slowly, the chair scraping loudly across the blood-streaked tile. The soles of your feet were tacky with it, sticky and dark. You stepped around the dried smears on the floor, past the long drag mark where Daddy’s boots had caught on the linoleum.

He was slumped near the sink, folded wrong, the back of his skull a pulpy mess. The iron skillet lay nearby, its handle bent at a strange angle, slick with blood and something grey. Bone, probably. Bits of tooth were scattered like sugar over the countertop.

“Oops,” you murmured. “That must’ve been when he tried to grab my arm.”

Then you were laughing again. Breathless and bright.

“I wonder if Ellie likes pie,” you chirped, brushing past your father’s ruin of a body. You shoved him off the counter with a grunt, his head making a wet crack when it hit the floor. “She seems like an apple and cinnamon kind of girl, don’t she?” You giggled. “Sweet and spicy. Just like her.”

You opened the pantry. The sugar was still there. The cinnamon, too. A knife gleamed beside the butter dish.

“I’m gonna make her one. A good one. From scratch.” Your voice dropped into something soft and solemn, like a vow. “Then I’m gonna go to her. I’m gonna leave this house. This town. I have to.”

You paused, just long enough to glance back over your shoulder at the ruin of your family. The kitchen reeked of meat.

You smiled, so sweet it nearly cracked your face in half.

“It’s not wrong to want more, Daddy,” you added quietly, almost to yourself. “I was never gonna stay in a life that I didn’t deserve.”

And with a hum, you got to work—baking a pie from scratch, just like your mother had taught you—for the girl who said you tasted like peaches.

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