#✮─── . aestra's bibliotheca

[astralnymphh]

slight nsfw. waking up in jackson!ellie's bed, naked. sappy love. mostly fluffy. just thought-dumping atp.

“hmm..” a genial wind came brushing through the sun, courtesy of her cracked bedside window. you've a freshly awoken mind, so everything around you hasn't caught up to you. for all your awareness, the room feels materially kindred to home. you think you're in bed, at home, but nevertheless, you are not. closed eyes can convince you of anything.

it all kicks in the moment her voice cracks, “mornin' sleepyhead. tapped out on me so fast last night, hmm?” her tender and weak one floating around the corner. a throat just as weary as yours. then, a wrapped warmth is laid to your arm, nudging you lightly. “made some eggs if you're—uh, hungry?”

truth be, ellie is not hungry in the slightest. never was a breakfast person, never will be. but in the clemency of her own heart and fingertips, she will make this morning a pleasant one before you leave for patrol. “oh, shit. uh, right i forgot you were—” ellie swang 'round and faced the opposite wall in a fret when she realized you were still in the nude, from the torso up, sat still. the blanket shields you perfectly, but, that doofus thought it crass to look at you either way; hand quick to shroud her eyes, even turned around. “is my bra over there, by chance? could you—” you squint. “uhh, uh-huh! it's just.. right here.” her unoccupied hand collects your bra—luckily in her reach—and aimlessly tosses it in the assumed direction of your voice, ending in the twirled bit of fabric upon your head. simply because she wouldn't dare peek. “thanks. weirdo.”

morningtide trickles on. warm residue of a late-night's love creeps up your spine, waving a shiver through you. you remember the tightness, the biting, the panting, the words of promise left on your shoulder: “'ll come around again. this isn't like last time, i promise. you feel so fucking good.” and you fathom it in the same manner you fathom a love poem; coughing up doughy smiles and giddy instincts that you only feel when you're young and dumb. but, you swallow those cloying thoughts for later, and stick a spare toothbrush in your mouth, returning to an empty mind.

“can i hold you here?” like a pup—an awkward pup—ellie sneaks up on you and softly intrudes your space, questioning whether or not she was wanted there. her hands hover at your waist, and at your sanction, “go ahead.” both hands become both arms, enveloping you in a tight embrace that felt like it wouldn't be able to wait any longer. “i think you're like.. the best i've ever been with,” she rasps, and sways you side to side with slow rhythm, biggest grin to date pulling against your neck. “m'so fuckin' serious about you. it's embarrassing,” a chuckle tickles you.

how will you ever leave this room?

[astralnymphh]

short girls who love ellie williams, i have a concept for us: her teasing you with kisses. m'talking pulling her face away right as you push onto the tips of your toes and tugging those cunning lips of hers into a smile sort of teasing.

“ellie, you're an ass.” it became convention for her ever since she met you: a good few inches shorter than her: average. to observe those lovable lips of yours purse into a pout, or bow into a fake frown as she did it, is amusing for a short spell.

“can't tiptoe any higher?” and a subtle laughter begins in her throat, the mechanics of it bobbing.

“yes! you idiot!” on your beaming face, it doesn't illustrate far. but you are faintly peeved, rightfully so; taking the cuff of her sleeve in your fingers and pinching, pulling, pinching and pulling. anything to garner attention on her cold-hearted mistake. “you're shorter than you act, you know?” and fortunately enough, you're also a clever persuader. if not sharply plain-spoken. “more of a pesky kid than any twelve year-old in jackson.” and it thaws that cold heart right out—if it ever truly was frozen to begin with.

“ouch! y'know u're really one to talk for someone your height,” ellie remarks, crinkling her brows together. “c'mere.” a once dignified girl shackles down and gives in, tapping the underside of your chin and pulling you in for an anticipated one. lets you take the full lead of her lips, releasing a pleased sound when her bottom lip ends clasped between your teeth and tugged into an even deeper, sloppier kiss. taste of her spit in every corner of your mouth. just as she would intend.

[astralnymphh]

ellie teasing reader because she knows how much her body hair turns her on??? PLEASE like imagine her wearing literally anything that accentuates and puts it on display so prettily; tank tops for her armpits, crop tops and low hung jeans or sweats for her happy trail and bush peeking out of her boxers ahhhh gonna die

or her being cheeky and soooo fucking cocky, mocking her whenever they’re fucking and she stares too much at it, takes too much time to lick at those auburn hairs while eating her out. and reader being so pussy drunk and so in love and so so desperate to touch and kiss and lick and suck everywhere oh my fuck

thisss because i know ellie feels so clever and crafty doing it, intentionally popping that waistband down when you re-enter the room for the night and thrusting her crotch out just a tad. held in place by the juts of her hips, everything else appears ordinary and unchanged, but in quiet conference to herself, ellie clads a cocky smile—puppeteered by some sort of cheeky inner-feeling or her predictions on how you'll react. she knows what she is gilding will land her somewhere between your lips and her hips, but playing innocence sends those shivers up her spine. excitement. suspense.

“what's this, els?” when you do take note with a finger tracing sultrily up her happy trail, all that anticipation matures into arousal, and arousal is the one not-so-innocent thing dripping through that bush of hers. that band tight around her pelvis felt dirty. exposing that part of her body felt dirty.

“hair?” ellie tries the clueless act anyways, squinting confusedly as if though you are the true portrayer of indecency. “am i supposed to hide this? weirdo.” but, that soon washes away, as intentions become crystal clear with the push forward of her groin, flaunting that stripe of auburn.

it gets her here; legs cradling your upper-body as if mounted, hand at your head, pussy on your mouth. taking everything inside so silkily, wrapped around your tongue perfectly. her boxers are long discarded—in a needy pull, if she accounts correctly—and rather soiled anyway. made uncomfortable by the stick of her slick. but your tongue takes care of that now, drawing calculated strokes through her folds and cherishing that salty taste of her with an easy smile. well—given the full picture, of course you'd be vulnerable in delights stuffing your face in that tufted bit of her, even pocketing time into licking them 'till they shone more than before. either you're concentrated and tracing her entrance by heart's desire, or you're instinctual, sloppy, and letting the pressure of her palm guide you where she thinks your tongue feels best.

“fuckin' love my pussy, huh? just couldn't stop lookin' at it?” a rasp pushes through her whispering, talking to you though you're too occupied to answer. her groin bears down on you, and the warmth of her palm relocates to your cheek, tapping there. “show me your tongue, cmon.” you obey, and flatten your tongue against the rise of her crotch, watching her instinctively take charge and wipe her clit across the moment you do. “ohh.. fuck, yeah. up a little more—yeah, yeah, ssshhit, that's the fuckinn' spot—fuuuck babe.” your tonguework made her a low-groan, moaning mess above you, in turn stirring you to reciprocate the noises of joy, just into her cunt. vibrating her clit, adding a finger or two inside her out of urge, giggling in love when her pussy clenches them in and her thighs clasp you in tight. fuck, does her knitted expression look heavenly over that hair you adore?

img @/tlouphotographer v instagram.

[astralnymphh]

jus needa grab ellies hips from behind and sway em while music plays in the background… until you sway em a little too much and she gives you that look. she’s all mushy internally but acts like a stone wall on the outside. turning around to softly sway her towards the sofa and lay her down. EEEEP she’d totally get that loser grin out too. eating her out and she’s all squirmy n’ flustered <3 neeeeeeda handle her cause she deserves some loving !!!

18+ ─⋆˙꩜ ur so real for this anon. said loser grin crooking her pretty peach lips as she observes you, leading your mouth over various leas of fabrics and flesh. all on one synonymous path to the heart of her thighs; collarbone, sternum, belly button, the borderline of her waistband. with each muddled smack of your kiss, she would squirm, and rouse in volume. so, when the area most craved, most anticipated for, is met with your hungriest kiss - she moans, "uhhnn, shit," and lets a curse slip, chin nearly touching her neck as her head had perked to follow you, visually. that's when the grin n' all her cute dimples and wrinkles recede, when realization sinks in. ellie could tell your intent earlier, but she was too caught up in the swaying and the smooching to actually prepare her mind. lime-eyed fluster shines in the sockets staring at you - pursed brows and mushy, heart-shaped pupils - as you undo her bottoms, backs of your knuckles crossing the textured length of her thighs as you ease the waistband down. a giggle forms in your chest when her legs quickly retreat from the pantholes you've just glid from her ankles, ellie clearly being too enkindled and flustered to guess where you want - no, need her legs to go. "hey, hey- where ya' going els'?" your voice crawls to her, and you collect her ankles in your softened fists, bringing her to you. her tone is cracked, careful, infected with a tiny laugh. "sorry," such a silly girl, apologizing when your face is gratuitous between her thighs, "i-i didn't know where you wanted me to— aahh.."

ellie is the worst at taming herself when she gets licked: will press so dearly on your head as your tongue swipes or takes her clit into the warmth of your mouth, you aren't a stranger to her raspy curses, whines and jerky movements. for sure. sometimes that loser beam will return with her rushed and breathy chants of, "yes.. yes, yes yes.." pussy lips throbbing and pushing for more of your delirious tongue. could you also imagine her, softly curing her bitten n' tugged lips with another, "fuck, fuck it, m'sorry," right before her fingers hook the lowest point of your head and shove you into her little, desperate grinds, breathlessly begging. "i wanna come, wanna come, fuckin' lick me faster - fuck!" eyes twisting cross-eyed as she finally climaxes. all. over.

on a side note - ELLIE HIP LOVING NATION! [2nd picture from ellievaleriaa via pinterest : P] [lmk if a big text version is needed]

[astralnymphh]

The Sweeter the Wheat

# pair: post-seattle!jackson!ellie x reader

## summary: There is no better birthday gift than loving her.

### reader discretion is advised: romance angst, fluff, bit suggestive towards the end, alcohol consumption, jesse is alive (he thought ahead this time), loser!ellie, sometimes!awkward!ellie, sometimes!cheekyandflirty!ellie, reader is sickenly envious and a bit nosy, but aware, ravenous and tipsy makeouts, sappy shit. #### a/n; listened to "to all of you" by syd matters + "cardigan" by taylor swift while writing parts of it.. got a love/hate relationship with this fic but it slaps i guess

WC: 7.7k+ | DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MASTERPOST | MASTERLIST | ART BY @trackinglessons | DISCORD SERVER

SPRING SUN

 

 “At least we got back before her birthday. Psh—‘magine that sweet tooth havin’ to commemorate her twentieth with nuts and jerky.”

Jackson tholes the bright spring against countless heavy hearts, numb from the death groans of winter. Under the melted snow, came old meadows, but nobody returned to comb through them. Only to pluck them bare of flora for a sole reason—a sole person—and not in the name of beauty. 

Some meadows were stabbed through. Pierced into, made into a final home for the dearly departed he.

Time slipped slowly.

“Huh?”

Jesse sits at the tail of the bar, mumbling somethings that fly right past your ears. The diner is packed and the jukebox softly plays, but that of joy and conversation rules, so all nearby speech that is spat has become hodgepodge, herding your brain to run where the world is quiet. Given that, and the subtle significance in the day around you, you feel less than yourself. Immaterial.

There's a rightful wager that you didn't hear Jesse at all. Something about birthdays, maybe.

You pull yourself from the stars with a head-shake, having to retire the tiny notepad in your clutch. “Sorry, I completely tripped out just then. Why are we talking about birthdays—whose birthday are we.. talking about?”

Jesse appeared to be in doubt that your star-scaping moments were over; his features contorting more and more into disbelief as you gave him that barely curious squint. Poor him for having to be offended for somebody else.

A special somebody else at that!

His drawl comes in handy, “Come on, man. Four years strong and now you wanna forget that girl's birthday?” a voice so versed in pettiness, you could smack it right from his clever, grinning lips.

At whim, you almost do. But then his words fall into perfect place; that subtle signifigance makes all the more sense.

Spring: dappled in sunlight and vigorous in the trees, seems lovelier than it would in March or May. Seas of crimson and clovers thrive in the middle of April, and so does the red in her hair—soft, auburn tines—and the meadows in her earnest and shiny eyes. Recently dim, bruised and disheartened. But there, and unplucked at least, above the freckles you least regret missing when vengeance and a clue drove her out of this large, timber sanctuary. Home.

Every year on this day, the sun is relentlessly beautiful. No wonder, you think, now that you remember.

It's Ellie's birthday.

“Shit,” you curse, chewing at your guilty lip. “Is Ellie hiding out today as well? Haven't noticed her walking the thoroughfare at all.” Through the idle-talk, your hands find stray porcelain to retrieve and pile in the sink, scoffing at the liters of coffee that inevitably go cold in forgotten mugs.

“Do you notice anything working behind that counter?”

“Duh, dipshit,” you spout, back-talking him shamelessly, “I noticed you ambling towards the window earlier and knew my ears were in for a grating punishment.” Minding your eyes on nothing but the various plates you grab, the clutter clears fast. Like a damn robot.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, not my fault patrol’s been on cruise control this week.” With a part of the counter graciously tidied by your speedy work, he reclines in the barstool and claims that space with his lower legs, off to the side. Blissfully permission-less. “Can't say the same for here, though.” 

You draw in a prefacing breath, tilting a cup at him. “You could if you hel—”

“No chance.”

“Fuck you, Jess,” you reply wielding a nickname given for occasions of defeat, little knives glaring from your eyes. “Thought this friendship had a no-questions-asked sort of thing. You've disgraced me.” Cueing that age-old love for drama, you gild the lily; mock a drama-queen. Hand to your heart and a pout to your mouth.

Hating Jesse is out of the picture, and hate is an easy pill to swallow. Sure, you two bark blank insults from time to time, but it's all in good humor. You just get each other too well. A hitch fated to click. A shoulder to violently sob into.

Jesse tuts at you, rolling a smug pair of eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Diners just aren't my thing, as infected aren't yours.” He reaches and grasps his mug of coffee that'd been basking there ever since you whipped up his usual, content in keeping his gob flat for the ‘noon.

And you're content in the casual peace and company. Always are. It coerces you to fulfill orders quicker, you would say. Here you stand, in perfect function, machine of the cogs.

That's how all days streak by here. A warm sun arises, and the hustle and bustle of human nature crowds every faded red booth in here, as your kin would have you sustain, and you sustain it fine enough. Even with the latching, mostly silent presence of your best bud Jesse to keep boredom a stranger and insanity a myth. Peckish lips, thirsty throats; everybody. All famished faces of Jackson, satisfied in the wake of your work. All, save one. 

Ding!

At the entrance, you hear the jingle of the tiny, golden bell topping the door, and it doesn't intrigue you to investigate. Everyone is a frequenter, and you're basically omnipresent; sensing who it is and where they're routed to before they even sit. Call that perfect function.

Abruptly, the vintage magazine Jesse blankly browsed through is smacked back in place, and his throat clears. “First customer to break the hour-long streak. Let's see who—” he trails, and a dramatic pause thickens the air. Surprise loudly ensues. “Oh, ain't that funny. Look what fate dragged in.”

“Is it not a regular?” you ask, and at last perk your chin up. Intrigue clasps you now, as Jesse thought it atypical enough to point out. 

Turns out, it isn't a regular at all.

Fate was a scary portrayal, as fate—and unfinished threads—would have you snuck into a corner and stranded for her to find. Plaid and blue, stood Ellie, lost as a doe in tangled woods, yet tall with purpose in front of that swinging glass door. From here, you notice her right arm supported in a white sling and twisted into her chest, right off the bat, as you did the night of return. Changes were made, obviously, sprigs of marker detailing the canvas-color of it, no doubt produced by those pesky kids in-town. Her tattoo is sorely invisible behind the bandages too; you've always liked that thing. 

She's a bona-fide crush. A red-headed angel.

There and then, you recall why your heart reawoke into a prance that night she returned head to toe in dry, aged blood. You felt the revival of an inner-warmth, tracing fingers over the stitches in her back as she hunched in repressive quietude. Felt the moon evaporate off your skin, felt her wrist tensen in your palm as you dressed the wounds in hers. Felt the elusive moment staying became going, as it wasn't right.

You went straight home and threw right up, that very night. Her cold, marred skin was as deathly-like as the skin of a corpse. And you trailed your fingertips, all over it. 

Strange. In a week, her flesh has been suppled of life. Hale, blushing and glowing as in younger days.

In your heart: a tremor. It reaches up every time you swallow, and blooms its beat, pounding at the pit of your throat. You don't feel real, you feel light, you feel fright. You feel the past, waking from a slumber in you, emerging breathless beyond the surface. So many things.

You feel fourteen again.

“Guess her ears were burning,” mumbled Jesse, polite enough to not transform your shared scrutiny into a scene, only so he could leave it in your hands. His head carefully turns, speaking softly, “You spoke to her at all, recently?” 

“No,” a weighted breath departs you, and your shoulders repose. “Only the night she returned, while I tended to some of her travel wounds. Conversation wasn't easy to digest.” Shunning her very blatant presence, you pick your wash rag and begin again, foraging distraction.

“Bet not. Shit got hectic on the route Tommy picked,” he hums, and his eyes pursue once more to secretly follow her walking the opposite direction. Eyes you expectantly the second she slips into a booth. “Gonna take her order?”

You glower at his smug stare, knowing full well he intends to badger you into jumping the gun. Well, you're employed to do that, but, fuck fate! “Uh, duh? Di—”

“—Ipshit. Stop stalling.” He aims his hand, escorting you. “Birthday girl awaits.” 

“Yeah, hold that smile. See what happens later.”

“Mhm.”

EXTRA SYRUP

 Spectral hands suffocate your heart, and now your chest is tightened. Gut nervously sickened. There, she sits, seemingly absorbed by the air, and the sun that ripens with it. Thumbing at her nails, but not anxiously. Blowing at her lip, but not boredly. Hair dark ochre as the earth, yet fiery as the flaxen ray that pours into it. Tucked into a neat bun, as it was in December, January, and every paving year before. You like her hair that way.

She halved it up when Joel passed, and Seattle howled her name. 

A lot about Ellie changed, really, but that is the perennial nature of water. Ellie is Neptune; a late-teenage girl experiencing a crucial shift into a new, individual season. Ones so seldom—they're cataclysmic, but temporary. 

So much of her is eclipsed to the naked eye. Buried to make burrowing space for others. Just not you, it seems.

Every now and then, she glances as you intricately work your way over, a fist cupped to itself as if it alone safekeeps her deep and untold intentions; the warrant for sitting there. And you too, glance when her eyes smoothly retreat, dedicating pockets of this single, cherished minute to drink in little glimpses of her face. Trying to read her, read the shapes on her face if they indicate trouble, or truce. Last time you talked, you declared your resentment for being left worried and sleepless in Jackson.

Was it out of love?

Through the fair-haired light, that scar-heavy look on her features has noticeably abated, recapturing the tender warmth that gave her face the kind, puppy-browed ambiance you hesitated the world for. Gently laid brows, scarred the same as ever.

Those fucking freckles, too; a constellated map. Hidden miles and miles away for one sun and moon too many. 

Not a mile bridges you both apart now, not anymore.

“Hey, Ellie,” you chime in, frail in respect of the one-mind conversation her idle stare partakes. Just her, and the spring sun. Sweet wheat skin is taken from its aerial shine as her head heeds your voice, a loose twine of auburn falling from place.

Your somber greeting fine-tuned the focus in her eyes, softening into a shape less spacious, more devoted.

And though away from underneath the boughs of sunlight, her eyes found a disembodied source. Dried moss, gleams into a violent sea glass, pupils taking in how you hold that notepad firm in thumbs and pointers.

For the first time in an age, you too, have changed.

The corners of her lips crease into her cheek. “Hey,” her reply mirrors the breathiness of yours, and her left arm low-arcs up to rest on the booth seat, body facing you head-on. Totally relaxed. “How come you didn't mention the job switch? Was lookin’ for you,” she asks curiously, a tinge of that sweet-talk peeking through her wide grin. 

Now that you've stepped closer and garnered her attention, you can see and feel every notched nicety of her face on yours. You can only imagine how a swollen, sliced lip feels, and the continual migraines a fractured nose brings. Weeks of healing have swept by, but her afflictions in particular weren't petty.

“Guess it felt irrelevant to bring up when you got back. But you're here now, and you found me. So?” your tone edges on.

“Well, yeah,” she chuckles. “Did you not miss me?” She feigns offense; brows quirking and her tone pitching slightly.

You did. 

A sigh starts in you, “Hard to not miss and worry for somebody when you picked up their slack in every patrol dating way back.” Barely nipping what you really felt with a snarky tease. “Oh shit, that rhymes,” you glance off and whisper to yourself, still loud enough to inspire mirth.

And it does; her forehead pinches and her voice rises in mirth, laughing casually and shifting in her seat to lean one elbow upon the table. “Ha— yeah,” she admits defeat. Ellie is undeniably cute when she does, always shrinks into herself and sinks into thoughtful conference, thinking of something—anything smart to knock you back into that corner. “Guess you're right. Hm, always were on my ass about that, huh?” 

You tut, “Mhm. Missed my scolding in Seattle?” crossing a leg and bearing weight upon it.

“Nah,” she confesses briefly, and you barely believe it. Wringing in doubt at that sly smile she tries to conceal from you. “I learned my lesson this time.” Ellie glances up, a prayer written on her face asking you to hold your scolds. “Trust me.”

“Hurt enough this time?”

“Fuck you!” She punts you playfully in the ankle and begins a laugh again. “You’re not allowed to point that out!”

That was the way of things; Ellie would charge into a fight wearing her life on her chest, slackening the rules, and you had to reel her in. Tug the leash. It had you suspecting her to have a foolproof reason as her backbone, like she was daring the devil with eyes fearlessly open. Steadfast intent. She would lure runners to her, grapple them from you, or push you away beyond safety. Leave you to watch an animalistic vigor fill every bind in her body until you're convinced she’s either coming out bitten or scathingly torn.

You wish she saw how worrying she truly looked; a sweet face splattered hair to chin in the blood of infected, catching her breath and shaking the arm of the croaking infected she just slaughtered off her ankle. Being way too blithe-hearted for the sacred sake of everyone involved.

“Don't worry about me.”

One day, when she asked you with her solemn eyes to be afraid, you thought she finally trusted you to handle yourself past her overprotective nature. Then, one clicker got too close for comfort, and she retracted the pact of fighting equally. Losing more than what her blade owes the earth would prove her fears to be a product of her unsacrifice.

Ellie figured it was half the reason you quit patrol duty, but not that it was fully the reason you anguished over her leaving for Seattle later on; her appetite for violence.

She accepts it so easily. But even when you had sworn she had place in something as simple as retiring from patrol and nothing else, she smelt the sugary scent of a white lie. Joel did it before. She never accepted it under a gentle radar. Instead, it had her wondering if she had upset you, if you would forgive the crimson melodrama and still take her up on breakfasts at ten when she returned. Regardless if you painted the full picture in the end, apologies spilled alike to winded waters out of this girl; sorry that she still could not stomach you tagging along for vengeance. Never-ending sorries, and you lapped each one up. Brought gaping arms around her and absorbed all the ugly and hopeless sounds. You wanted to prove her fears wrong, but perhaps it was time fear let you be the lamb. Live and let live.

Then, Dina would step in, and Ellie would be wrapped around her finger in sudden laughter. Happy and unhurt. Couldn't even remember what occurred before her sun entered the room, and dried those tears.

Crimson melodrama is all you preserved when abandoned, and is all you could look at her with when in longing.

The winter dance had your guts up to your throat.

Seattle, inexplainable.

You don’t hate Dina; your envy lies with the disconnection of it all.

“What do you recommend?” she questions, and her eyes anticipate you to be the ultimate apocalyptic-dining expert. Locked and attentive. She then begins to shake her head in gesture, planting the menu down. "I don't— I don't usually go to these kinds of places, so.. What do you think?" she awkwardly giggles, tapping the menu's plastic sleeve.

Tension presses a smile onto your lips at her inelegance. "Nobody does, not even people who went to these places before the outbreak," you opine, swapping the notepad to one hand and sliding into the booth. "It's okay. I mean.. hmm, what do you prefer? Sweet or salty?"

Her eyelids flick down, fingers coming to lace together as her eyes traverse the options. "Uh, I guess I— wait, wait," she interrupts herself. A swift finger draws you to look down at the menu, "You guys make pancakes here?" green eyes gaping at you with pupils more voracious than her stomach—or her sweet tooth.

"Yeah."

"I'll have that then."

It was a steadfast verdict. The sweet honey pancakes, she shall have, at the cost of a couple minutes and a couple ingredients. But it isn't traditional for birthdays, so you weigh in. “Just pancakes? I mean.. Faye is back there if you want something a little more celebrator—”

“—I'm not really a blow-the-candles-out and make-a-wish type of person,” she corrects you, brows cinched in as she rambles. Then, her free hand scoots the menu forward. “But you already knew that, you just insist otherwise,” she chuckles, unable to meet eye and eye.

True. Your soft insistence dawns from wanting nothing less than heaven inside everything for her, and maybe a dash of that sweet-sweet crush on her. But, Ellie is so staunch in being the humble girl that doesn't glorify every recorded happening with string lights and a wish hurled into the uncaring universe bent upon nurturing demised, late lights young girls reach for. She kept everything low-key: a small garage get-together on her last birthday, the one before that, and the one predating those two. Alcohol in your palms and movies playing back to back. Budding distorted laughs and tumbles into each other. Birthday things.

The remnants of her fifteen-year-old mind hangs aimlessly inside that museum. Dangled and stretched into archaic bones. On the day of return, she arrived happier than a sunflower drunk on the sun. Broad smiles and whatever else.

Wasn't for long.

“Forget you're so down-to-earth and reserved about all the fun things,” you snarkily deliver, retiring that still empty notepad behind your back. Memory shall serve. “Will that be it then?”

“Are you saying I'm not fun?” 

“I'm saying you need more of it.” You emphasize with a tiny bounce-up on your calves, tilting your head north. Though, nothing she uttered was wrong and so your voice silkily drones on, “And that.” You act the lack of a ruder way to insinuate. “But yeah, okay. One order of pancakes coming up.”

“Cool, I'll uh—have a 'celebratory' drink in the meantime?” She nudges the menu towards you once again, irises pulled thin on themselves. Thoroughly staring; your reflection in a bead of black.

You have to laugh, kindly laugh. “No alcohol here, dumbass.”

“Oh. Right.” Her doe-stare only crescendoed from there, shying away at the result of her asking. Something reluctant is lodged in her pale throat, stumbling out only when it feels imminent as you turn away. “D-Do you wanna chat, afterwards? There's so much bullshit surrounding Seattle I have to catch you up on and I-I didn't before, so.."

Swinging your head back, you gauge that mercurial girl there. Tripping up her request like it couldn't escape hibernation from her head any quicker than insult does.

Faye shouldn't mind. “'Course, I was left to wonder about everything since that night anyway.” Your boss might even encourage it; knowing that your long-standing crush for her—heartbreaking to fathom, beautiful to feel—never swept you from rambling Ellie into some fairytale, so she would use it to psych you into asking her out. Jesse, too. Damn the nosy ones!

But it's the one thing that keeps you worried now.

“Cool, cool. Oh, hey, add extra syrup will you?”

What does Ellie think of you?

“Mhm,” syrup is nowhere as sweet as your hum. “Got it.”

Does she think of you at all?

MOUTHS ALL-CONSUMING AND DEPRIVING

  Minutes in, minutes out, wallowing at that ruby-red booth fed the realization to Ellie that the nerves feeding off her anxious chest could not combat conversation alone. She needed an aid. Liquid courage. Velvety smooth and robust.

Fortunately for betting gods and heaven-watching anyones, leftover whiskey from the last bonfire made stock in her cloistered, chaotic cabinets. So it founded no surprise that it whirled to mind after the celebratory-drink fact; leading you here, in her bedroom, on her bed. She pours whiskey into stubby glasses, One for her, one for you, and a lucky extra two for further along this unexplored line. Nothing overflowing limits.

But, oh boy, did it make you all lovey-dovey.

Her lips move and they dance over words, but all you hear is your own enamoration of how heart-shaped they are. You see, but fail to hear and comprehend. Floating aimlessly into those freckles, again. Something a fourteen-aged, sanguine mind would do.

Ellie was relaying Seattle to you, she prefaced. Prefacing didn’t aid you in paying attention, though. Today is not your sharpest, it dates to be your most absentminded. Not your usual, at all.

Nods are swayed to every shock-value word that you manage to understand, but the star-crossed rest, you miss, and replace with whatever story her pupils trace. They flit to read your face after each end of her sentences, so it has you thinking too much of her time has slipped without the company of a listener, and now that her time slips into you, she can use it to stretch your expression with whatever witty remark she makes. 

She did one day blurt that your laugh compliments your smile—or however that fucking flirt threw it over the crackle of that bonfire.

In fact, when you begin to let parts of her body neck-down from her face distract you, only then do you decipher how much she has grown in a month.

She pitches her drink to sip, and your eyes are hot on that glassy trail, artistically concerned with the way she swills down whiskey: fluently gulped, throat bobbing, the scar on her lip licked clean. Her brows too, have thickened, much so as her leathered skin, her callouses. She traces her thigh in circles repeatedly—a fidgety habit—and her lips purse and tug and wrinkles hug and press said lips when they are prettily wide. 

Every high noon or low point of her body was different, and you have missed a great many things you care too much about to not appreciate every brink and midst. You don't want her to be lost to otherworld winds without studying her presence harshly. She is in your scrutiny, now more than ever.

“So, do I get to see my pancakes yet, or?”

“Oh, oops.” You snap out of your woolgathering, wagging your head left to right. Then briskly as you assented her invitation, you slide your knees under you, reorganizing your seating. “Can't blame me for being so invested in your epic tales. Could totally be a comic narrator for the school in town.”

Ellie had already been sat skyward. Sprawled at one leg and tucked at the other, arm in her lap, where her whiskey is nestled. “Oh, sure,” she says with a sarcastic edge. “Those kids are a bunch of little shits. They would probably interrupt me with fart jokes or make actual fart sounds than sit still and pay attention for thirty minutes.”

“Hmm,” you hum, short and atonal, peeling the corner of the plastic lid back. “And who do you think taught them those terrible jokes, huh?”

Soft lids narrow together to sharpen her gaze; glaring at your clever comment, lips propped slightly open. “Terrible?” An offended, toothy smile pulls on her lips. All sentences she could possibly muster up come crashing into each other; an agglomeration, “I—They aren't bad jokes—and they're puns, really, so they're actually pretty fuckin' smart,” she boasts with brows raised. “And It isn't my fault that every annoying kid picked them up and started repeating them.”

It most certainly is her fault. Hell, even you catch yourself reciting them at the crest of nightfall, giggling into your palm. Although, why she's trying so rigorously to plead her pun-enjoying case to you, might just be funnier. “Are you seriously trying to explain puns to me?”

“God,” she surrenders in a chuckle, and bows her head to introduce another quick sip to her parched lips. Ellie then eyes you for a blank second thereafter, tugging the plump of her lower lip through her teeth. Like contemplation has her hindered.

Around you, the lungs of the garage’s foundation inhale, and exhale; creaking and settling.

She dashes a huff. “You basically asked,” Ellie reminds you, her tone and eye-roll implying obviousness. “Can I eat my pancakes now? M'hungry.” Her face sutures into a pseudo-frown and encloses herself to a crisscross, impatiently behaving.

Now, as for the pancakes. Fluffy, biscuit brown, star-shaped, bountifully rivered in unrestricted syrup, topped off by a definitely-melted, humbled ingot of butter. Needless to say, you're pleased by what boredom and intact cooking-books taught you, and she hasn't even seen them yet.

The ask for a carryout-container was already in order the moment you set pace for her table, because you wound up in a near-catastrophe as she sought you out around the kitchens like a lost pup and maundered right into you. Thank patrol for instincts; it's the one thing you held an undying clutch to. And the sweet pancakes you proudly plated, making refuge on the counters as you cross-examined Ellie in case you injured her arm more.

Lucky girl was all fine and peachy, of course.

She only knocked you two right into that near-injury mess to invite you here. Persuasion sat readily in her throat incase you questioned her motives—most of her ideas turning out to be a little friend-group antic, never anything serious or singular—but you agreed to it in double-time. 

“Think you might just be one of those kids at this point.” You gingerly tweak the rim of the plate you kept the pancakes on and lift it outside the container, planting it between all four knees.

“Eh, you're not so innocent yourself,” Ellie contends before she even casts her first peek at the hillock of starry sweetness, totally taken aback when she does. “Holy shit,” she awes, just as if she were a young teen again, “Are you kidding me?”

Labor-intended nights never slip soft through the gaps of your fastened fingers, not even days where your work period is abridged, but hey, strange, space-brain girls are far beyond ordinary exception. Hell, Ellie is vital! Commemorating the red angel you worship in the patterned and soapy act of cooping up on her bed, toasting to the moonlight and letting her talk your ear off for old times' sake is your approach to telling her you love her.

“Know I'm not a pancake-connoisseur, but I gave it a unique whirl. Just for you.” You held a fork out, gracing her with first honors. “Don't blame me if it gives you a stomachache,” your forewarn is a doubtful one; in your mind, morningtime will arise with an extra punch to her gut.

Ellie, however, stares right into the baying eyes of a challenge, snatching the fork from you. "Hey, if it's good enough for my tongue, then it's good enough for ma' gut!" and promptly after exclaim, gashes and tears her fork into the sweet, airy texture of the pancake, popping it past her sweet, berried lips. “Mhh—and I will blame you. So you end up feeling sorry n'take care of me.”

God, whatever souls you would sell to spend paradisal afterlife with this fool. Talking with a gob flush of the birthday project you're humiliated to be proud of. You scoff, “Asshole,” lightheartedly scornful as can be, and it snaps something to mind. Head tilting eye-to-eye, “Dina wouldn't be the one to?” you ask, right after she swallows.

That particular question seemingly struck a chord as her brows cinched together, eyes dropping with allusion. “No,” she says meekly, soft in the sound, but you can tell it came up heavy. Shadowed by a sigh, and an untimely chuckle. “Do you want to know?” She throws on a shrug that ripples through her head, sending it to hang lopsidedly. As the stout willow grows.

“Guess so,” you agree temperately, not wanting to seem too eager—even though with this topic, you just might be. Camouflage those old, foul feelings of envy. “Did Seattle have you kicking more ass than just Wolves and infected? Couldn't have been a very romantic tr—”

“Dina's pregnant.”

Silence carves it's way after that. Thick, tense and unyielding. You had words lined up but like a shot in stark night they've just—vanished, sunk back into the chamber. Nothing prepared you to hear that, “Pregnant?” lowering a hand to your belly where you swear your heart has pummeled to.

Ellie glances up, once at your widened face and once at your hand. A bite of humor works it's way above her chin; smugly smirking. “God, don't tell me you're pregnant now too.”

“What? No!”

Damn idiot. Should punch her right in the—nevermind.

Ellie is way too quick to make serious things unserious. “You're a damn menace,” you unapprovingly giggle.

“Am I?” Amusement raises her brows, tearing into the pancake with her fork for another bite. “Cause you seem to like menace.”

You adjust onto propped elbows, “Do I?” playing all nonchalant. “I mean, what do you mean by that?” your voice dims, expending for the small space that separates you and her.

“Mhh,” she contemplates with a purring sound, and shrugs. “Dunno.” Ellie retreats those eyes downward where you won't compel her to smile. You can tell she battles the letch to look up again, which—as proven in her case—doesn't fucking work. She shoots up carefully, and it's a conflicted gaze this time. “Not with Dina anymore, though. That’s the other thing.”

And we're back.

Having reconciled the chance, you retrace. Look at her with somber concern. “Did something between the two of you happen?” It's a gentle question, reinforced by the bulletproof stare you offer her to unwind in.

The air in her voice softens, “Sort of,” and the meridians of your body then become easier to look at as she continues, wrinkles in her brows. “Said some things I shouldn't have, and we.. figured it best to leave it at that. For now.” her explanation sounds desolate and attemptless, like she has sat in shadow and vigil accepting this fact and has given up on hope. Crestfallen and quieter; this isn't like her. Bent at her wrist, dangling that glass above her crisscrossed lap like a sad child pokes at the food on their plate.

“For now?” You hate that you pry, but that sick greed in your gut from times before haunts with a hunger for knowledge. Your envy that is enlightenment. Still, you hesitate to seem nosy, wanting nothing than to possibly just console your friend in need. “What's holding you back from.. calling it quits? The pregnancy?” You crane your body upright slowly.

“Just still feelin' bad.” Her fingers begin a tap-dance at the glass' rim. “I'm an asshole.”

You duck at the neck, searching for her downcast eyes. “Come on, El. I've only ever seen you rant and rave at middle-aged grumpy men and infected, no way it was that bad.”

“You weren’t there,” she insists otherwise with an earnest voice, inciting a refreshed sigh as she swigs her whiskey.

“Well, what did you say?” You are relentless. No, normally you would not condone it, but tonight, tongues are loose and boundaries are blurry. You miss your happy girl. “I could talk to Dina, if it helps.”

“Wouldn’t change shit.”

“If you love her, you would try.” Even if it sickens you.

Ellie slots her drink in her lap, and grouches. “Dude.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and stifles a groan, frustrated. It draws out in words without proper footing, “It's weird. We just don't know what to say to each other—I don't know what to say to her, it.. it's just how it is—it was a mutual agreement. None of your business, really.” 

Her own tongue is a very obvious byproduct of nerves, whiskey, stress, by and large a lot of things. Being goaded, definitely.

How it is, is how it will be.

“She broke up with me.”

You didn't mean to goad her, but curiosity—and a kiss of alcohol and envy—ate your refrain. The lack of any eye contact or movements to stray from you thereafter her word is telling enough. That it aches her head, and a cold, guilty sweat crosses over your skin. It was a stupid thing to blurt. You feel fucking stupid for even saying that.

Fuck. 

Her dry sniffle is noisy on your shortcoming, and has you scrambling to think. “Sorry, just been worried for weeks.” But you shrink into a ball of abraded arms and legs, conserving yourself into a shy, spotted egg of curiosity that clads no hatching cracks to be convicted of. “Thought you two finally getting together would be the dream to end all dreams.” What the fuck do you know anyway?

Her eyes watch through you, into you like water; she notices, and the pancakes are slid to the side. Shuffles of fabric clamber closer as she eats the inches between you two, her breath brushing your forehead. “Hey, hey. I didn't mean anything by it. It's fuckin' great that I got somebody I can drink with and mope to. Really. Just been shitty all around—Tommy? Fuck, he's been the worst lately.” 

Everything ascends in temperature once her hand plants on the side of your neck, every nerve petrifies; unheard-of touch. She can feel the gasped tension in your throat, thumbing the muscles down. 

“Don't worry about it,” she says, and her saying that amuses you.

A moth-eaten phrase in particular is what was said. You scoff at it, plopping your legs back out. “Dude.” You bite a smile into your lips. Sucks that such a hackneyed thread of words does so; you're really chewing back the urge to call her any byname of dumbass, per usual. But damn that sincere face on her face that sweetens the teasing deal for you. You settle for low-hanging fruit. “You always say that, Ellie.”

“Ugh,” she seconded a scoff back at you, grimacing coyly. “Don't you start.” Ellie drags her hand off, not intending for it to land smack-dab on your thigh. It takes her a second to register the sound, the texture, slinking her hand behind her when you say nothing.

“Start what?” you stutter a laugh, bringing your thighs together.

“Nothin,”

“Don’t bullshit me, WIlliams.” To educe her, you dig your foot into her side, poking her. “Does it have anything to do with only me being here and not anybody else?” You lean into her.

Ellie does too, an exact mirror of you. “No..” The only thing that contrasted you, was her hand again, seeking what was left behind on your thigh. “Just wanted to see you first,” her lips barely move besides a slick smirk. Voice tiptoeing through the air, the noise-level two clandestine lovers live at, in secret song.

“You fuckin liar. No hang-outs for weeks before you left and suddenly you want to see me?” You call bull when she relucts to raise her hung head, witnessing the corners of her lip curl. Her head twists away more, and you spearhead the first, little move: tuck that irkful strand of auburn with a single finger. “C'mon.. what is it?”

“Stupid,” she blatantly spits, and at last confronts your face with her puckish one—glimpsing down, and up, and down. Watching her grip flex into your leg intermittently, chewing her lip. “Mhh, maybe 'm starting it.”

Ellie is heart-poundingly close; her breath is now yours to breathe. You whisper, “Maybe you are,” perking yourself right up to her cheek, unnoticing of the ardor her eyes spin over your face. Unsure where to stare. You pretend the pressure on your thigh flies under the radar, too, and that your heart isn't in the middle of a love-logged swell, and your cheeks aren't tender from smirking at the feeling of it perched there. Love-struck death befalls, if else confessed, so you tease, tease, and tease to stomach your excitement. “Maybe, you're stalling on those pancakes because they actually gave you a stomachache. You feeling good?”

Her bitten lips part, and the next sensations you feel—are transcendental.

Wisping whispers so hot, and intoxicating on your skin, you fail to catch her hand coming up from your thigh to clasp your face, or that hers has shifted in front of yours. She breathes out, “Won't you shut up already?” through lips pulled into a smirk, and rushes to press it fondly against your mouth.

You wince—somewhere between an electrified gasp and a reaction of delight—into the kiss she stole, and it only beckons her to starve more for you. The heat of her whiskey breath pours into your mouth, and you drape your eyes closed. Scoring these seconds by, she spends them concentratedly rolling the skin together, others pushing and shying from the kiss, until she stills and bleeds out the pressure in a slow, wet smack. Hazily eyeing you for a response.

Once you feel her no more, your eyes blurrily creak open, and the corners of her lips at soft upturn greet you. Single creases at either side, the few freckles above them outspread.

Judgement renounces you, leaving you with pathetic pickings for reply. You aren't sure what she wants—or needs you to say. “Ellie?” daintily, a mumble flows onto her lips, and is far from a frail sound of concern. Intrigue encapsulates you.

What does this mean?

You think you know, but self-reason has always proven itself to be naive and too eager to trust.

By cruel emotion, she misunderstands you. “Sorry,” she pants out breathlessly, blowing the shape of it into your cleft lips and hovering right upon. Her fingers gouge the fabric clothing your chest, mangling it into her fist—an attempting grasp. This proximity is all she could ever dream of. “Is this okay?” Yet, dreams always sever at the apotheosis. So when she comes in for the second kiss, she wants no more for dreaming; the reality she yawns with hunger into, is insurmountable.

A dewdrop of something cold dribbles between you. Tears.

In turn, you misunderstand her. Using your own stubbornness to create an enigma. To think, that out of the blue, all of this would transpire? After endless wishes unanswered? You doubt it.

You love her, but you refuse the reality of it happening upon you.

Separating from the plush, licked skin of her lips fleetingly, you speak. “Is this you being drunk?” Only to be drawn back in without her processing your words right away, and then drawn back out. Intricate intimacy.

“Please,” Ellie begs, “Answer me, before I feel like an asshole again,” and chuckles sobbingly before her teeth feel rapaciously empty, and cannot tolerate it any longer. Instinct, and teeth nip your bottom, vulnerable lip.

Neither of you could be totally drunk, having only drank a modest portion.

So this is raw.

Thinly pulled, she slowly stretches it across the air between, and watches it spring back beneath eyelids sunken low. The action entails nothing else for her to feed satisfaction from, already panting right in your mouth in search of more as soon as your tongue descries the answer. “More than okay,” you heave in a passioned breath along that all-consuming, deprived mouth. Your hand squeezes her fist confirmingly.

It quenches her lust to know, a hot-blooded, moaned and voiceless curse snapping into your mouth. “I fuckin' love you.” Her rage softens in meeker kisses, peppering them up to the corners of your lips until she pauses, and pulls herself away. Her eyes turn troubled and adrenaline-rushed. Stains of tears shimmer beneath, along new ones that begin to plunge, and for the first time ever, you know they're yours. But then the flesh between frowns, the mood shifting, and she croaks, “Am I.. an asshole?”

It breaks you to hear that.

You glare, and stammer, “W-What? You aren't.” Hooking dearly onto her wrist when her hand glides up to rest against your cheek. “Why?”

“Cause I sprung this on you, 'nd I don't wanna force you to..” Ellie cranks to a halt, mouth screwing shut like her thoughts were too much to bear hearing aloud. “Fuck,” she quietly spews, cowering her face near your neck.

“Said it was okay,” you coo, clarifyingly coo, raking your fingertips up and through the tied loops of her hair. “The only asshole thing you'd ever done was not let me come with you.”

“I know.” Her eyes search for uncomplicated plains. The sheets, her lap, your neck. A kiss is planted as she tips her head, the gust thereafter a warm reminder of her sorries.

“Thought you were going to die.” You awoken in violent patterns, cold nights restless in bed, tossing and turning. Waking and falling into daydreams of how Jackson would feel missing a cardinal component. A girl to rave against dying lights. Thorns scale your throat at the thought. “You're reckless, y'know?” you mean it as a gentle insult, chuckling as it leaves your lips, and sealing it into her scarred palm. Kissing reckless consequences.

Her lips loiter on the pulse of your throat. They drag, and they drag.. sloppily limping over your jaw as she makes her way to observe you in her palm, mumbling low, and gravelly, “How many times am I gonna have to say it?” Ellie deems it redundant to tell you that she knows again, resorting to her own little gentle insult, “Such a fuckin' sap.”

“Says you.”

Her hand is comfortingly warm; you aren't fain to break away. But her fingers are curious, thumb nearly making it into your mouth before she second-guesses herself, easing it at the verge of your lips instead.

A longing moment of Ellie staring at the way her thumb looks—a decoration to your mouth—passes, and she responds, “Still alive, aren't I?” to that loose thread of a plea you forgot you even said. It calls you right over, bidding you to look into her eyes again as space finds itself thinning again, her scratchy, band-aided nose caressing yours. “Dumbass.”

She chuckles into your mouth as you chuckle into hers, cutting yourself off with a kiss that ebbs, and flows. Suckles, and smacks, snaking her tongue in for a change. That sweet, sweet wheat. Saccharinity you can't explore anywhere else other than the outline of her mouth. And you—of grunted volitions in her chest—take exploration further, replacing the grasp of her shoulder with the coursing of fabric, sliding under the hem of her shirt and palming the skin there.

You feel her skin breathe, her belly breathe into your hand, and a content wrinkle pinch between her brows. Her skin, is as soft as nothingness.

“You're a dumbass.”

Air clings to your cheek as her hand reaches around you, pressing fingerprints into the base of your head as to prop you for her delightments. Ellie is no amateur, enjoying you as if she knew you were hers without explicit pledge.

“Sure, babe,” she scoffingly counters, and pulls her tongue out of you, lips messiy shining. She scouts you out; lays eyes on your expression with undertones of satisfaction and presses an appetent bite right back into your damp skin, grunting into the filthy kiss.

Your mind is one-pathed right now; in the most maddened form, you crave the story further down her throat. In that warm space, is air thinned and balmy with the scent of alcohol and syrup. In those whimpers, is the sincere confession she held tight in throatly gloaming, all those intimate times before. In all of your yearnings, your lips never parted for more.  

Two holes that want to consume each other.

Weeping, wailing, tormenting in an empty forever.

“Fuck you, Ellie,” you cathartically sob into the humid cavern of her, a hint of wanton—and other repressed things, taking form. That hand under her shirt wanders from her navel and tweaks the button of her jeans, pressing your body against all of her like it hurt to be inside your own, singular body. Overcame by a need you could not chew out.

Ellie cuts the kiss, quick to soothe the movement with her hand pressing down and collecting yours. “Hey, hey, too fast,” she laughs, distancing herself and giving you those eyes that could see you were overstrung, hectic to go somewhere you aren't prepared for.

She loves you, but that means appreciating you enough to wait until time is perfect.

Her head cocks, “Let's take shit slow, huh?” fingers weaving into the pliant gaps of yours and pulling your fist dear to her chin, kissing it.

You speak over the repeated sounds of her smooches, “Yeah, sorry,” cringing slightly at how fucking cheesy the scene became. But, when is Ellie not? Wonder clasps you now; intent to know what this makes out of the two of you, having held your feelings for forever. “Well, what does all this mean, then?”

“It means..” Ellie slants her body even more, stealing your wrist along with her. Planning something, no doubt. “You and me, breakfast tomorrow at ten, Tipsy Bison?” Her mouth stuck to the side of your hand like syrup, so firm in not letting you go.

It makes your ears simmer hearing her shamelessly set up a date, of all things she could have said. God. You errantly laugh, totally not giddy when her mouth starts sprinkling up your arm at an alarming pace. “Sounds more than good—hey! You slow down!” 

Happy birthday, asshole.

perm taglist; @whore4abby @aouiaa @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @maleelee @seraphicsentences

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[astralnymphh]

mom!ellie taking her child to get their first shots w reader

but like ellie’s the one holding the baby trying not to cry once the baby starts crying 🙂‍↕️

okay so i'm in seventh heaven reading this because mom!ellie makes a return to my inbox, tis a joyous day everyone. but yes, i can just envision it so perfectly. reader, on the opposite wall to the chair & ellie, and a seemingly unaware baby giving you a doughy, beady, blank stare, and a few glances to spare towards the one embracing them arms-over-arms.

ellie could not get more riveted and smiley with the baby than she is now; lacings of auburn draping down her cheek as she grins downward, even she a totally unaware and in-her-own-world person—her world being her kid. “teeth are startin' to come in, huh buddy?” raising her arms a mere moment in rapture to wipe a thumb across their dry cheek, beginning a slow rock side-to-side. then, the doctor signals at the ready, and both corners of her lips are tucked away, straightened into apprehension.

she whispers to the little guy in her clasp, “i got ya' bud, there's nothin' to worry about.” her sweet child, calming him for the worst that's to come. once it does; soft skin broken by the needle, a near falsetto cry starts up below her, and all she can do is endure. embrace the source, and endure. legitimately, glancing away as it happens, casting her eyes up as a tactic to hold tears back.

obviously, you being so nonchalant and aware in comparison, notice the distress slowly inching on her features and point it out flippantly, “i take it this is your first shot too?” giving her a taste of her own satirical medicine. you aren't sure if the joke or the soft and final cries from your baby genuinely struck a tear in her waterline, but it glistens pearly all the same. ellie scoffs, “psh—what do you mean? m'totally fine, babe. not a single tear in my eyes.” ending up in a snotty laugh and a stream-lined cheek, rubbing one eye with the knuckle of her thumb.

[astralnymphh]

ct; fat fluff warning you might shrivel up and die. no warnings tbh. mentions of previous nsfw activity. ellie being cheesy again someone needs to control her. kinda loser!els coded idk. dinosaur figurines feature.

⋆ ellie is the goofiest girl during aftersex. past the exhilaration and the exhaust, a small trace of the sun is still left to dance in her veins. reborn and perked up as a puppy prancing in the yard. you could be near knocked out, dazed from your high, and ellie would still unearth ways to make you fall impossibly into love even more. a catastrophic, love-bomb supernova—as ellie might name it.

“—'nd that's when dr. daniela star swooped down and beat the shit out of 'em!” she triumphs in a low voice, her fingers pinched around the plastic body of a tiny, old triceratops figure. smashing it into a still-standing figurine of an astronaut, kindly waving hello. “or.. into them.. hm, been a while since i read those comics..” contemplation tugs her brows.

the scene was beyond loveable; your redheaded angel laid supine at your side, half-bare and half-sweaty, using various action figures from large tupperware time-capsules to demonstrate various scenes from her head. apparently explaining the action of each showdown didn't gain enough recognition from you, so, this is the next best thing—and ellie fucking loves it. a lot. “y'seem to know enough if you're giving a rendition right on my stomach.” the little feet of the figures poke your skin, leaving delicate phantom-marks. “how are you not tired babe?”

“well..” ellie begins a muted 'doot doot doot' sound as the triceratops creeps up the open valley of your sternum, softly stopping at the top. hand stilling. “you keep me awake, honestly.” then, she ditches the tiny plastic figures and wipes them from your belly. the scars of her palm scratch you lightly as it drifts down your chest and settles atop the pouch of your navel, holding you dear. “can't sleep when there's someone so fuckin' pretty..” caressing you with her eyes. rising your pulse with her whispers. “right next to me.”

[astralnymphh]

nsfw. soft/dombottom!ellie x subtop!reader brainbot bcus it rarely exists. guided fingering. guided oral. pussy referred to as 'her' once again. horny at 8 dollars and 48 cents in the morning what's new. mdni.

dombottom!ellie splaying her thighs out for you, eyeing you with that encouraging look. your eyes blown—greeted by the glossy arousal of her pussy, the scent of it just as stirring as the sight. scarred legs perfectly cage you in atop your bed, inviting you to be more than just a meek onlooker. “mhhn—see how wet you've made me?” ellie subtles her speech into something below the level of a quiet coo, breaking the mood with an involuntary chuckle. her inked hand comes to grip at the top crevice of her thigh, hips adjusting closer to your white-hot, mesmerized face. “need ur' fingers baby, cmon.”

it's not the usual role you would engage in; she was the one always in a dire thirst to bring about your pleasure. shoving her insatiable lips into the question gapping your thighs: if she would do you and herself the favor in that moment. ellie herself was even nervous to be the guiding voice this time, for her own question: if you truly liked being told what to do. turns out, you doubtlessly do. “go a little faster, uhh—yeah, yeah, atta' girl,” a whisper and a moan intermingled, heavy in her throat.

your digits had her cunt to a clench. tightly curled inside, stretching her labia wide and thrashing that heavenly spot she contracts her abdomen against the pleasure of, afraid she might cum too early. ellie needs herself to last. last against the dying of her composure, summer skin aglow in the ochre tint of an internal fire. “tongue now. fuck, hahh—wanna cum in that p-pretty mouth,” ellie stammers, facial features flared. she couldn't even believe her own words. but, the heat of the moment had possessed her, and the sweet noises of your fingers pumping her wet folds transformed into the fast lapping of your tongue. groin intentionally riding the rise of your nose, all slutty, yet in a way of using your face, auburn bush all up in it. “there you go. yes, yes, take all of her, all in that mouth,” head thrown back into a groaning ecstasy. “fuuckk..”

[astralnymphh]

neck kissing with ellie.

gif creds: elenaxnate/tumblr. short indulgent fic :P romance/fluff.

Like a bee to nectar. Kids to sugar. Sunflowers to sunlight. Your neck is a preserved pollen: captivating, entrancing—it entrances that reddish-haired beau prancing around your kitchen searching for warmth. Branches to perch. Nooks to kiss.

Dying suns encapsulate the hours she feeds; in the evenings, devotion. At your neck, a prayer.

"Wish you'd lay the work off after dinner. Told you I'd get it," she kisses you there, too sweetly.

Cheeky prayers, muffled in your ear, and more so mundane covets. To save you trouble, is her duty. To prove her fondness, is her life's dream. And you never found your place amongst her forests to learn and understand why fleeting dreams of you are what motivated her all those years ago. First at your service, then your door, then your hands, lastly your neck.

For all you know, minds assume reason, and instinct falls short of it. Now, in the resign of autumn, reason dies, and tendency prevails. Tender tendencies.

"Why not together then?" you suggest every once in a while, and your tone curls as you do, "Dishes would get done much faster with four hands."

You fail to see it, but her eyes smile. "Because you distract me," laughingly, she says.

She isn't lying; your presence abstracts her thoughts, and the threads of what she was going to accomplish tangle and fray. Be it reading, painting, or guitar— a cacophony of silvers, oaks and water will languish her focus, and suddenly phantom imagery of you and whatever it is you're doing fills her every nerve. Contemplation departs.

But she loves to distract you more.

And because her laughs are stuffed in the crevice binding neck and shoulder, you giggle too. Not because her words are ticklish, or laughable—other days, her silly dad puns are— but because all you can feel is her mouth and her teeth and her chest to your back and everywhere her hands wander and fuck is it overwhelming. Almost facetious that she is doing it intentionally. An elaborate ruse to convince you time is worth wasting.

Her intentions lie between the fangs. Amusedly love-biting.

It fosters a slight shiver, a love-cringe. "Ellie," you weakly release, and roll your shoulders up as a way to peel her off. "That tickles.."

Don't you dare, babe.

Her nips get noisier. "'Spose to.." she insists in a whisper, laying the boundaries for her lips. They creep up, and up, leaping after your shy-away. "Do you hate this?"

"So much." you quip.

"Then it's working," her breathy giggle is hot against you, and it's contagious. A sound you want to eat and nourish from. "Will this take long?" Doubt already inhabits that antsy tone of hers. "I can't wait to show you what I found on patrol. Like, seriously can't wait."

"Can the kissing wait?"

".."

"Right."

"Shut up," her brows tweak against you, mouthing sass. "Pretend 'm not here," speech dimming, her lips lower into you once more, and find reason again. They pucker, suck, and pepper across plains of damp skin gone cold. Hungrily pulling the taste of your skin through her teeth, and down her throat; soft animalism.

It never stops—she never stops. Not for the moon, not for the sun, not for breath or silence.

"You're weird."

You can feel the evidence forming on your skin already. Phantom marks she embeds so she can admire them later. Revisit and reintroduce her tongue to them in bed.

"I know."

[astralnymphh]

YES PLEASE. BLOCKBUSTER ELLIE?? 90’s?? SIGN ME UP. WHERE DO I PUT MY NAME??😖😖🙏

- 🩵

a/n + cw; OMGG AN EMOJI ANON i haven't seen you guys in a hot minute, but YESSS BLOCKBUSTER ELLIE!! specifically x customer reader. it's a cute duo! and let me relay why from my very scrambled 3 am jot-down. was going to make this a blurb, but it better translates through something more structured. ++ SFW! kinda mean!reader tbh (but ellie likes that), very fluffy you might squeet, quickly written, awkwardness, ellie being a nerd. [first pic from amoaeIIie on pinterest]

Imagine Ellie, in her blockbuster getup, leaning her butt into the edge of the register counter, jamming to whatever is playing on her hand-me-down walkman; earsbuds in, eyes downcast, head bopping slowing - soundly unaware of you awaiting service on your over-due rental. "Hello?" your volume divides the soft ambiance of the store, but it isn't enough to rope Ellie's mindspace from the clouds. Calling out again, "Hell-looh?" you extend beyond the cash register and wave your hand - nothing, nada.

How the hell has this girl not gotten her ass fired yet?

After numerous roadblocks, a brazen last resort comes into play. You cut around the counter briefly to take things into your own hands (literally) because you have not the time, nor the patience, for her slacking off.

Beryl eyes drop sharply to the walkman in her pants pocket when a single earbud is spooled from her ear, assuming it fell - but to her surprise, it hung low from your finger, and a glance above that finger was your face. Risen of one brow, flat-lined of your lips; impatient.

And her entire focus blanks out when you begin to speak, curtly and satirically, "Hey, I know busting out your Dad's old walkman in public makes you feel cool and whatnot, but you're on the clock." handing the slim cord back over to a stunned girl, flushed behind the pop of her freckles. Maybe your tone of voice sent her higher into the clouds, past a coven of angels, because her lips part narrowly and remain still for a single second - save two or three. Or maybe it's 'cause you specified it as her 'Dad's' which was.. spot on.

And whatever excuse she had quickly cherry-picked for you, hesitated audibly in her throat before it split from it, "O-Oh, right, shit sorry - was about to end my shift n' thought the store was empty. My bad." scrambling to stuff the other earplug in her pocket and avert all attention to you. Very eagerly.

"Looks like you've got a late fee on this one.." her pitch pummeled deeper, and coarser as she concentrates on the clunky screen she hunches slightly to use. Scrunching the freckles of her face together, hogging the blue-lit screen. Poor girl probably forgot her glasses at home. "Annnd are you looking to rent the sequel?" she peeks her auburn head from the screen and holds up the cased movie, tracing her index over the plastic cleft, tapping twice. "To this - it has a second part."

There's no denying it: she is cute - and guilt rolls your guts around for being so snippy and sullen to her earlier. But based on her demeanor growing enthused the second she saw what movie you had in hand - she doesn't seem to care a hoot.

"Out of stock," replied you, indifferent-sounding - and strking; crossed arms, bent knee, stiffly-standing. Comparable to a millpond. "Guess I won't be the only person with late fees." you take a breath to jest, shaking loose strands of hair from your eyes.

"Haha," you're no world-class comedian; that joke wasn't all that funny, but the need to hurl any affirming noise at you, was necessary. Relenting to reflex. What can she say? Love at first sight! "Yeah, that seems like the agenda these days," Ellie sighs out, molding the plump of her lip under her teeth and reshapes it into a dorky smirk. Isn't she just a sweet chocolate-box of adorability?

"Hmm, bummer."

That hum and word trips into her ears, knocking some brain-cog, and an idea limns her features; they glow wide. "Actually - um, I've got a copy of the sequel at my place. Technically it's my Dad's, but.." her pitch fluctuates, mindlessly thumbing the case between two fiddly hands. "Maybe you can - if you want, not pressuring you or anything - come over?" she throws a pointed thumb backwards, motioning a potential future. "Watch it? If you weren't planning on watching it with somebody else."

Slick trick to seeing if you're single; of course you'd watch movies with your boyfriend - or girlfriend.

"Hmmm.." you hummed longer this time, and this time it admitted the mushrooming of an almost aggravating anticipation in her belly. Like you meant to torture her with 'hmms' and nothing but 'hmms' as your answer hung high in cloudy abeyance, until, "What's the name on your tag - ah, Ellie."

"Yeah?"

"Ellie," you confirm her name twice, and speak it to enthrall her full-scale attention. Made it sound fucking sugary sweet, through a swirly whisper and a twist of your head. "If you can give me a discount, or a full wipe on that late fee, then yes. It's a date."

Light panic ensues. "Date?" she croaks and laughs it off, "I mean - pshh, guess that's one way to put it." backtracking to her hunched, elbows-on-the-counter pose.

"You put it that way."

"Yeah, I just.. didn't wanna admit that." immediately, she uncurls her spine again, relaxing her muscles to somewhat peer at you. "Sure. No more fees." Rounded eyes lost - adamant on indirectly staring at you and the space below you, because Goddess forbid a stroke of idiocy flickers through her while gawking at you.

The store runs dead-quiet in the background of your conversation, leading you to one golden question. "Your shift over after this?"

Oh damn, her cheeks are pink. "Uh-huh," bet she's oblivious to that red-hot beam nearly bursting the seams to her face, too. Nasal lines fold as a severe smile tugs, shadowed by her bent thumb poking at it. "Takin' my car?"

And that's how you pick up girls at a video store in the 90s - the Ellie Williams way.

this isn't even the full idea

[astralnymphh]

Werewolf!Ellie? Her all primal n shit? OH MY GOD

I'd die.

💚💙

.⋆✮───she is FERAL, and she is PRIMAL, and she is HAIRY. that's random compared to the preceding terms, but it is TRUE. and i think she's the most horndoggiest hounding-your-backside type of girl. and has a breeding kink. but mostly, i want to yap about those sharp pearls of hers, and how she uses them. no bounds are found shackling her impulses— nor her capricious teeth. in the midst of getting down and dirty? bites. feral bites. from neck to ankle, the pits of her teeth have engraved your skin numerous times, in moments where her pleasure reined over every process of thought. she'd be humping her wetness into your bare thigh: lost in the sweat, biting and tugging lips over teeth, digging the fat of your thigh in the cleft of her nails, huffing, "fuck, s'good to me, so good.." when your own fingers softly trace the grooves and hairy trails of her body— and suddenly, her beady clit would drag against in such a delicious way, her fucked out demeanor would grow wayward. she lowers herself and immediately finds her teeth a home on your collarbone, sinking in as her pelvis continues bucking and eventually climaxing on your thigh. it draws blood, "ah— shhhit," tugging a hiss from your lips; her sound of reward. quiet growls brim your ears, until ellie unsheathes her bite and laps her tongue over the fresh wound. puckers her lips next, and presses them over the lunar shape of it, the corners of her mouth slightly stained in that crimson delight. so when her head perks to gage which face you're clading: satisfaction, or left in want, her strawberried smirk turns out to be wreathed in more red blotches. that satisfies you. "got your fill, baby?" you speak softer than a new-mooned night, plowing your digits through her hairline, and into her scalp. denial shakes beneath your palm. "mh-mn," hummed she, snaking the head of her tongue out to smear one of the blood stains drying her lips, "again?" looking so fucking eager with brows pinched and eyes carefully ashine. a newfound pressure slips between your thighs— fuck, she wants her fingers inside you. simultaneously.

trickery strums her a giggle as lips come to nudge at your shoulder; a request— or a promise, duly known as, "gonna bite you here, mhm?" but in reality, that won't be the last of her bites. no, not with ellie. rarely, an end is found with her bites.

[astralnymphh]

𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐊𝐈𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑! ★

content: prodigy!abby x nerdy!reader, childhood friends, university-based, fluff (for now), romance + tension (little bit angsty), drabble length but switching up the small caps (experimenting. heh), mainly jotting an idea, not a certified abby expert.

It was an absolute murder to discover that she could not fufill this one off her bucket list.

Fucking video gaming?

Exactamundo! Abby can outstand everybody in nearly anything, being everything from a virtuoso violinist, to a glorified part-time fisherman, and a damn gourmet chef as well. She paraded around the entire campus pursuing a name in every elective and Olympic hobby you could ever think of. Name it, chances are she's done it. Actually, more than done it, all things considered.

But video games? Guess the esteemed Abby Anderson had finally tumbled downhill and suffered defeat; looking you up out of all computer-smart people felt treasonous to her, but seemed high-priority to the eye of the beholder, the eyes in question even rolling. You don't need an in-person class course on fucking Skyrim. Look at the tutorials!

“So, how the hell do I shorten my speedrun times?”

None of it made a lick of sense. Well, the wanting to do speedruns part, you see the appeal in a medieval-inspired game. Speedrunning sucks the fun and the atmosphere out of a truly gorgeous game such as the forenamed. Yet, it's not like you haven't experimented in closed-world speedruns after immersing yourself in collecting all the achievements; Firewatch takes the cake.

But, still, coming to you—a forgotten, childhood friend whom she ghosted—makes no logical sense. Games are easy-peasy. Literal pieces of cake!

You scrunch your nose at the reclined blondie on your bed, confused. “Um, by watching a tutorial?” Almost laying back into a condescending tone, maybe even a little. “Did you even think to do that before knocking in the dead of night?” Her mordant, stick-up-the-ass kind does the same thing to you, so, you can gripe at that game all you desire.

“Hey,” she pouts, sounding out mock-offense. She scoots up from her prone position on the bed to face you—so proper. “Everything has more to it than what you see.” Sure, philosopher. “And there definitely is with video games. I keep losing. Besides, if I can't stomach skydiving or rock-climbing, then this is next on my list.”

“Pft—”

“What? You know I don't do heights.”

Oh, my god. “'You keep losing?'” Is she a prodigy at radical honesty?

Pond-blue eyes toss in a perfect, resentful circle. She scoffs, “Why do you think I came over here?” Complaining right hand flicking with attitude.

“I don't teach beginners.”

Your sarcasm flies not even an inch under her radar; it was always a retreat tactic back in highschool—when this imitative facade first hardened. “Oh, okay.” She bites you back with it too. But it never even occured to her that you might just be serving a tablespoon of teasery. Being old friends, having lonesome yearns, even stubborn prodigies can be painted in a rosy picture.

Still can see those young, faded freckles. Lovely ones.

“This was a mistake, wasn't it?” An unpleasant question. Drops from her lips almost wantonly.

It strains your chest cavity.

Is seeing her a mistake?

Not really. You hope not really. Once, there was a time where she was suddenly rude, dismissive and up every aspiring valedictorian's ass, but all paths lead back, you believe. Somewhere underneath that porcelain facade—and hot, rocking bod—is a clean crack in her over-achiever matrix; softness is bleeding out. You can see the beginning brooks of it like a kingly ichor. Possible smiles that aren't contemptuous.

What next, an apology?

“Can I at least.. say sorry, before going?”

Sorry—going? Fuck, you majorly zoned out. “What?” You loom in closer, throwing the one-brow raise. The proximity barely even occurs to you.

“For being a jerk, for blowing you off, ..” The list implies endlessness as her voice fades out. In a way, you expect her to pick up and continue. But, after the gestures and head-tilts, she pauses. Reinstates eye contact, pauses, and works her lips again. An awkward, prefacing breath skims. “And I guess, 'm also sorry for.. this?”

Before comprehension hits, it is too late. Darkly, a warmth brushes your cheek and a silence catches your lips, blocking your eyes out. It makes you feel blindsided, this short-lived kiss, one you suspend wide eyes for, tilt your neck for, accept without question. A strange deja vu rushes to your nape.

You shiver.

It even ends before you understand it, Abby pulling away with light-glossed eyes you swear are stones of aquamarine in disguise. She cracks; dints a smile in her cheek. Proud, anticipating. Having her this close made your inhales excessive; you needed all the air in the world to function right now. Deep breathing.

She smells like the outdoors.

Naturally.

“Good?” She has to reassure herself.

“Yeah,” you quickly spout, croak even. Wherever in the world your head is, it's not here. “Not really a prodigy at kissing, so..” And while it is somewhere, the remnants of her kiss are phantom. They have not stopped yet.

An amused chuckle greets in gusts across your lips, from your radical honesty, the moment itself, whatever. Crowns you the jokester anyways. “Guess we both have something to learn then.”

Wonder what future that comment entails.

[astralnymphh]

blockbuster!ellie who enacts the cliche stand-under-your-bedroom-window-holding-a-stereo, but she's playing your favorite song from your favorite movie.. bearing the equivalence of a sweaty marathon fiend who's just spanned the longest run of their life because the car joel lent her is busted for the time being. blockbuster!ellie braving that retro stereo high after nearly fumbling to slide the cartridge in, the clunky shadow of it staving moonlight from the sweat that clings her bangs to her forehead. crush!reader who wakes up to a delightful disturbance—that delightfulness deriving from the familiar beat thrumming outside your bedroom walls that your groggy brain can't quite grasp the song name of yet. crush!reader who rolls the frame of that window blocking you and her up to discover the source, wry smile twisting your face.

"ellie?" you call out. equal parts a whisper, equal parts a yell; as if your voice could disturb the dark sky and the moon.

"g-got a ladder?" her voice is quick to disturb everything, loud and questioning. "'been standing out here for a bit, i didn't— didn't know you were such a heavy sleeper." she quipped, assured it might crack a purer grin onto your face. it could definitely ease the nerves tangling inside her right now.

"uhh," you glance around your backyard, finding no recollection of where a whole ladder might be. besides, it's near the hush of night; who would cause such a ruckus so late, unsure of this girl's plans? not you. "know how to climb trees?"

turns out, she had actual cases of your favorite movies planted in her duffel bag that's slung in a low loop down to her hip, and some your favorite snacks, and a present. and a 'dinner reservation' in the nearest movie theatre tomorrow, with a trip the arcade afterwards, and a kiss. maybe.

[astralnymphh]

ct; fluff. slightly suggestive. idk just word-vomit cuteness.

van life w/ gf!ellie in the sweet, globetrotter, 'n kinda trashy way, inspired by the conversation she had with dina in that one van in jackson! being in such consistently small living quarters, the cloth of your lives are intertwined.

her shirts, your sleepwear. “where did you get these shirts, ellie? they're like—magic put-to-sleepers.” your shorts, her activewear. “yes, yes i know i got dirt on them. 'll go wash 'em in the creek. it's fine, babe.” your cups, her cool rock vessel. “babe—babe, thats a crab, not a rock. you put a crab in my favorite mug.” her shoulder, your regular footrest. “—n' if you move ur' feet, i could play you my new song. please?” cue that little two finger tap-tap she does with your ankle, impatient smile on that puppyish face of hers. everything is non-negotiable and comes packaged neatly inside that warm spot you deem love.

there lies a map to the stars on your ceiling; polaroids capturing snapshots of moments otherwise rotten to time—and a literal map of stars, but that's just ellie's interior decorating at hand. “uh, no, stupid—that's 'spose to be the big dipper! not a.. weird, random amalgamation of dots.” who do you think bought that ridiculous glow-in-the-dark marker?

at break of morning, the outside barks—a little dog to keep you company all these years through. “hey! spock! don't chase after the squirrels! do they chase after you?” and fuck that cursed amount of headspace, right? if ellie reaped a penny for every viscous impact of the ceiling against her head when bargaining some intimate alone time with you, she could buy you every star out there. “guess the universe—or this van—doesn't want me to have you t'myself. hmph, but they aren't stopping me, are they?” legs wrapped around her tightly-bound hips as if she could drift off into the markered heavens above her head at any given moment.

[astralnymphh]

can yoy do ellie massaging you after you've had a long day of work? (i love your fics btw)

⋆˚✿˖° literally eager to do it at every hour of the day. but after the utmost grueling hours of your day, she makes it her job to soothe you. well— provided that she sneaks in a couple (lie) neck kisses alongside those massages. love is a grandeur thing ellie cannot hold herself from, even in the most mundane moments. i guess. try to explain anything to her and she'll get distracted.

silky smooches are laid behind the caress of her fingers, trickling up your shoulders slowly. her hands are good in practice—but that dork has an affinity for distraction, an impulsive mouth. the question is: are you the object of her distraction, or is it her own brain? it particularly takes over in whispers puffed against your neck. “you wanna—” kiss. “tell me—” another kiss. “'bout your day? could use a distraction right now.” and another.

“are you sure you aren't already distracted?” quickly, a smart remark leaves your mouth. a spry use of tongue to masquerade those sighs of easement when her fingers press circles into the base of your neck. you feel her breath graze you, “psh— shut up,” and the heat of her 'shut up' brand into your skin. softened by a punctual kiss thereafter. “thats the point.”

you're unsure on why you even thought to ask, “you're such'a idiot.” because you could only sweep aside her stupid response and stretch your neck out for her; indulging. “'love that about you, though.” sneaking in a compliment, since you know how cherry-flushed they get her. such a sucker for love. “mhm?” ellie hums, warming it through a kiss to your jaw. “last time you talked me up about how smart i am. which is it, babe?” suddenly, her hands were defiant, and roamed your body where 'mundane massages' take place the least; pawing at the plush of your thigh so innocently (another lie), a knowing grin curling at your nape. “cuz' it can't be both..” the tip of her nose is pushing into you, poking for answer.

“i think you choose when to be smart n' when to be an idiot. idiot more often, obviously.” those knuckles bending and pressing into your thigh pause for a glance, followed up by an offended laugh from her, a brief snort coming from her nose. “obviously? obviously? you dick..” ellie is definitely blushing her ass off right now. but her hands resume almost instantaneously, and so do her antsy lips. knuckles flexing into your skin, lips nipping little wisps of skin and suckling.

ellie just couldn't handle being mean to you back—only spare kisses of forgiveness, and let you breathe in every compulsive grope of your thighs, hands making way across every inch of your body. cherishing the way you just melt into her palms. “that feel good? hmhm—know it does.” pride painting her lips at each mewl she can strum from you.

whoops got a little excited there at the end 💜 @/elliestattooo on pinterest for the pic.