#Ellie TLOU

[newjupiter]

heavy breathing.

[dykebehaviour]

more loser!ellie please 🙏🙏

taking loser!gf!ellie with you for lingerie shopping

cw: fluff, suggestive, loser lesbian!ellie, fem!reader.

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it starts with one sentence. one sentence and a perfectly timed glance over your shoulder while you’re straddling her on the couch.

“i need new lingerie.”

ellie doesn’t respond at first. she just sort of… short-circuits.

you’re wearing her hoodie - the green one with the stretched sleeves and little bleach spots on the cuff - and nothing underneath it. your thighs are bare against the scratchy fabric of her secondhand couch. your lip’s caught between your teeth. and you say it so casually, like you’re telling her you need shampoo. like you’re not already half in her lap, driving her fucking insane.

she’s holding a half-lit joint and stares at you like you’ve just told her the world’s ending.

“i’m sorry,” she says finally. “you what?”

“i need lingerie,” you say again, slowly this time, like she’s old or confused. you stretch, arms up over your head, hoodie riding even higher on your thighs. you blink down at her. “i’m low on pretty stuff.”

she blinks. once. twice. her fingers flex against your hips like she’s trying to ground herself. “isn’t all your stuff already… pretty?”

you grin. “that’s sweet. but no. i want the really pretty kind. the ridiculous kind. bows and lace and way too many straps.”

ellie’s jaw flexes. “oh.”

you let the silence stretch.

then: “you wanna come with me?”

ellie’s eyes shoot up. her whole body goes rigid, like you just asked her to go to war.

“to… to the lingerie store?”

you nod, very nonchalant. “yeah. i need a second opinion.”

“right. because i’m so… fashion-forward.”

“you are when it comes to me.”

ellie says nothing. her fingers twitch where they rest on your thighs. she’s pretending to look cool, but her mouth is slightly open and she hasn’t blinked in way too long.

you raise an eyebrow. “that a yes?”

she clears her throat. “uh. yeah. sure. i mean, yeah. i can do that. just, like… be normal. in the lingerie store. like a normal person.”

you lean in, grin widening. “you’ve never been normal, ellie.”

“yeah,” she breathes. “and it’s about to get so much worse.”

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the next day, she dresses like she’s attending your funeral.

dark jeans. beat-up converse. that ratty smashing pumpkins tee she only wears when she’s feeling brave, and a zip-up hoodie over the top. she doesn’t style her hair, just pulls it into a low bun and lets the baby curls frizz around her ears. you kiss her temple as she slouches into the passenger seat of your car, and she groans into her hands like you’ve just kissed her in front of a firing squad.

you, on the other hand, look unfairly hot.

hair pretty. lip gloss on. you even sprayed perfume - the one that makes her dizzy and stupid. you keep twirling your hair around your finger at red lights. keep crossing and uncrossing your legs like you don’t know exactly what it’s doing to her.

“please be gentle with me,” ellie mumbles as you pull into the parking garage.

“no promises.”

she groans again.

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the store is a lot.

it’s pink. everything is soft, glowing, wrapped in silk and tulle. the music is sultry - some slow, breathy remix of something you danced to at a party last summer. the mannequins are tall, leggy, headless, and intimidating. there’s a neon sign above the back wall in soft cursive that says treat yourself, baby.

ellie stares up at it like she’s witnessing a religious experience.

she mutters under her breath, “this place is terrifying.”

you loop your arm through hers and tug her deeper into the racks of lace and mesh.

“i thought you liked terrifying things,” you say.

“i do. usually. but this is… this is uncharted territory.”

you pause in front of a rack of blush-colored balconette bras and grin. “you mean you’ve never been in here before?”

ellie frowns. “i’m gay, not suicidal.”

you laugh, loud and bright, and the sound makes her smile, even if her ears are beet red.

she keeps her hands shoved in the front pocket of her hoodie. doesn’t touch anything. doesn’t even look too long at any single item, in case it kills her.

you, on the other hand, are in your element.

you move through the store like a dream, trailing your fingers over lace, pausing to hold up sheer teddies and corsets, tossing matching panties over your arm like it’s a fashion show and you’re the star. you pick up a strappy red bra and turn toward her, holding it against your chest.

“this one?” you ask.

ellie swallows. loudly. “jesus christ.”

you smirk. “so… yes?”

“yeah. definitely. that’s gonna haunt me in the best way.”

you pick up a few more pieces - pale blue, black silk, something sheer and embroidered with little moons and stars - and disappear into the dressing room with a wink.

ellie stands awkwardly outside, pretending to browse a rack of crotchless boyshorts. she checks her phone. bounces on the balls of her feet. almost asks the assistant if they have snacks, then realises that’s a completely insane thing to do in a lingerie store and shuts up.

then, your voice calls out from behind the curtain:

“babe?”

her heart stutters. “yeah?”

“can you come help me zip this?”

she drops her phone. literally drops it.

fumbles to pick it up. wipes her palms on her jeans. tries to act like her pulse isn’t pounding in her ears as she stumbles toward the back room like she’s walking toward her execution.

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the curtain slides shut behind her.

and ellie’s knees immediately go weak.

you’re standing in front of a full-length mirror in the softest, sexiest thing she’s ever seen. lavender lace. bare back. garter belt. stockings hugging your thighs. your skin glowing under the warm lights, the soft sheen of the fabric clinging to every curve like it was custom made for you.

you glance at her over your shoulder, all doe-eyed and dangerous. “can you zip it?”

ellie doesn’t answer. she just stares.

she looks like she’s in pain. mouth open. eyes wide. her gaze drags from your heels to your thighs to your hips to your back to your shoulders to your lips. she shifts on her feet like she’s trying to adjust herself without making it obvious, but you notice. of course you do.

you always do.

you smile slowly. “you okay, el?”

she clears her throat and steps forward. her hands are shaking as she reaches for the zipper. she’s so careful. touches you like you’re breakable. her fingers brush your spine and she jolts like she touched a live wire.

“i’m fine,” she lies, softly. “so fine. doing amazing. really holding it together.”

you turn to face her, and her mouth parts helplessly.

“do you like it?” you murmur.

“‘like’ is the understatement of the century,” she says. “i’m actually blacking out a little. Is that normal?”

you step closer. she doesn’t move away. she never does.

“i’ve got a few more to try,” you say. “want to help me with the rest?”

she exhales shakily. “this is a trap.”

you hum. “maybe.”

“you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“i hope so.”

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you model four more outfits.

with each one, ellie unravels a little more.

the second is all black mesh with star embroidery. the third is a deep red strappy set that leaves very, very little to the imagination. the fourth has tiny silk bows and pearl accents. the fifth, the final one, is so sheer you have to cover your nipples when you step out just to give her a chance.

she stares. frozen. absolutely wrecked.

you cross the room, slide your arms around her neck, and lean in until your lips brush her ear.

“i’m getting this one.”

she makes a noise, something breathless and desperate, and rests her forehead on your shoulder.

“you’re evil,” she whispers. “this is psychological warfare.”

you kiss her jaw. “you love it.”

“i do,” she groans. “that’s the worst part.”

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at checkout, ellie carries the bags like they’re sacred objects.

she hasn’t made eye contact with anyone in ten minutes. her ears are bright red. her face is still flushed. you hand the cashier your card and glance back at her, amused.

“you’re very quiet.”

“i’m recovering,” she mutters.

“from what?”

she glares at you, eyes glassy. “you flashed your ass at me in four different colours and then smiled like it was nothing. i saw your nipples through lace. that wasn’t just ‘nothing.’ that was a religious experience.”

you giggle and slide your arm through hers as you leave the store.

she’s still dazed when you reach the car.

you lean against the passenger door and grin. “wanna come back to mine?”

she nods immediately. “yes. oh my god. please.”

“for what?”

“closure. a cold shower. therapy. a full spiritual reset.”

you lean in, kiss her cheek, lips sticky with gloss. “i’ll wear the red one.”

she nearly walks into a parked car.

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perm taglist: @yasmilks , @natsheretic , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 , @mikellie <3

[bowsellie]

things ellie would send u

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 2

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

The hallway was loud in that late afternoon way—sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, voices overlapping with end-of-day laughter and plans.

You slammed your locker shut a little too hard, and of course, because the universe hated you or just liked messing with you, half your shit tumbled straight onto the floor. Notebook, pen, lip gloss, a crumpled worksheet you didn’t even remember stuffing in there.

You sighed through your nose, already crouching — except someone beat you to it.

Ellie.

Hoodie half-zipped, guitar case strapped to her back, a mess of books pressed to her side like she was trying not to drop them too. She crouched down silently and started picking up your things like it wasn’t weird.

You stared at her.

She didn’t say anything. Just gather your stuff with careful fingers and then stand, holding it out.

“Here.”

You took it. Didn’t really look at her. “Thanks.”

You turned back to your locker to re-slam it shut properly and spin the lock. You glanced at her. She was still there. Looking at you. Kind of.

You raised your eyebrows. “What?”

She looked like she was about to say something—her mouth opened just slightly—but nothing came out. Her gaze flicked down, then back up. Whatever it was, she swallowed it.

Turning, she walked off fast, slipping into the crowd of students in the hall like she hadn’t just hesitated in front of you for too long.

You frowned after her.

Then, right on cue, your friends slid up beside you like sharks sensing blood in the water.

One of them leaned against your locker, twirling her keys. “Ew. Were you talking to that lesbo?”

You didn’t even blink. “No.”

You started walking before they could say anything else, bag swinging off one shoulder, the hallway stretching ahead.

“Are you coming to Tyler’s party or not?” another one of them shouted after you. “You said maybe!”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t answer. You didn’t want to go to another party. Not tonight. Not with them.

Not when — you pulled your phone out, thumb brushing over the screen — you had more interesting things to do.

Like talk to E.

Your room was quiet, save for the low hum of music from your speaker—some indie playlist you didn’t even recognize anymore. You were lying on your stomach, legs swinging idly behind you, chin resting in your hand.

Your phone sat right in front of you. Screen still lit.

E:

I’M IN CLASS T_T

ur insane for this (i’ve been blessed)

how AM I supposed to FOCUS after this ???

You smiled.

One of those dumb little smiles that slipped out before you could stop it. The kind you’d hide if anyone else was around. But no one was. Just you. And her. And the heat still humming under your skin from earlier.

You were about to finally reply when the dots popped up again.

She was typing.

One message.

two. three, four—

E:

care to reply?

i wanna ask something, can i?

what did you think when you sent that pic to me…

what are you thinking now? ?

BRO

don’t leave me hanging

You let out a short laugh, pressing your cheek to the back of your hand. She was spiraling. A little desperate. It was cute.

You waited a beat. Then started typing.

You:

what was i thinking?

nothing really.

just wanted to show it to you ;)

She didn’t respond right away. You watched the read receipt hover.

E:

u always send stuff like that to ppl on here?

You paused. Fingers resting above the keyboard.

You:

what

no

ur the only one who gets to see that

Maybe it was too honest. But you didn’t unsend it.

This time, the three dots didn’t show up right away. You just stared at your screen. Waiting.

You grinned at the screen, still resting on your elbows, fingers hovering as you typed slow—on purpose.

You:

do u wanna see the other one?

You watched the “delivered” turn to “read” almost instantly.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Came back again.

E:

what other one…

A pause.

E:

U HAVE TWO NIPPLE PIERCINGS??

You snorted so hard it startled even you. You dropped your head into the crook of your arm, shoulders shaking as the messages kept coming in.

E:

why would u say that to me

how could u drop that like it’s casual

i’m in distress

i’m literally sweating rn

oh my god do u actually??

You didn’t answer right away. You let her spin out.

You:

u okay over there?

Another pause.

E:

no.

u can’t just hot girl drop that and then vanish.

not when i have a brain

and nerves

and a vivid imagination

this is cruelty. actual cruelty.

You were fully grinning now, cheeks warm against your arm, kicking your feet behind you like you weren’t being a menace on purpose.

You:

i’m just saying

you asked for weird

and i deliver

xx

E:

okay then what's your favorite color

i am just a fragile nerd go easy on me

You rolled onto your back, holding your phone over your face now. As much as you liked getting reactions out of her, there was something genuinely fun about it.

Like she made it easy to be just a little unhinged.

You:

pink :p

what is your favorite color?

The dots appeared instantly.

E:

green :B

(but like the gross kind. forest green. sweater green. mossy swamp witch green)

You laughed under your breath, thumbs already moving.

You:

that is such a weirdly specific shade

u could’ve just said “green” like a normal person

E:

normal is boring

u said so yourself

You paused, smiling a little.

You:

okay moss witch

what’s ur favorite movie

E:

wtf

why is this suddenly 20 questions

r u trying to date me or smth

You rolled onto your side, tucking your pillow under your cheek as your smile stretched into something smug.

You:

idk

maybe

depends on ur answer

Three dots. Pause. Then—

E:

spiderverse

but if you tell anyone i’ll lie

You:

that’s such a loser pick

i respect it tho

10/10 taste

E:

good

i was worried ur opinion might ruin my whole night

You giggled softly, shutting your eyes for a second. It was late now—later than you realized. You rolled onto your side, phone cradled in your hand, the screen's soft glow painting your pillow in blue light. Music still hummed low in the background.

Your thumbs hovered before you typed, casual like always, even though your heart tugged just slightly.

You:

i feel like we'd get along in real life, if ever. don’t u think?

She read it quickly. Typing bubble appeared immediately, like she’d been waiting.

E:

uh, well... u have a lot of friends

i mean

it's obvious

with what you’ve told me before

You blinked.

Friends?

Yeah, you had them. Too many, maybe. But somehow, the way she said it—it didn’t sound like a compliment.

Your brows pinched.

You:

does it really show?

E:

yeah

you’re like the type of person everyone wants to be around

You:

not really. some people hate me

say i’m a bitch

which is true

There was only a one-second pause before her reply landed.

E:

bitch is cool

i don’t mind u bitching me around

JK

Your laugh broke out, a little too loud for how late it was. You buried your face in your arm to muffle it, shaking your head.

You:

what

what did u say

really huh

E:

i mean

it’s u

Your fingers froze for a second. Your stomach did a weird flip.

You:

me??

u don’t even know me like that

There was a long pause—just long enough to make you think maybe she wasn't going to answer at all.

E:

i know things

You scoffed quietly, rolling your eyes, but the grin tugging at your lips gave you away. It was stupid. She was stupid. But God, she was good at this.

You pulled your pillow closer, half-buried your face in it, then typed:

You:

sounds creepy when u say it like that

E:

we’ve been talking for two weeks

i like… have a little voice of u in my head now

like a little devil

whispering shit i shouldn’t do

You blinked, smiling slowly. There was something shameless about that last part. Something that curled warm in your stomach. She didn’t even try to sound casual. She just… said it.

You:

what kind of shit?

👀

E:

nope

not letting u turn this around on me

u already sent me to horny jail once today

You laughed into your pillow, your cheeks heating again even though you were totally alone.

You:

fine

but admit it

u like having me in ur head

E:

maybe

depends

does the little devil voice wanna come over and ruin my life more

You bit your lip, heart doing that dumb lurch it always did when she got bold like this. And God, she was getting bolder.

You:

that depends too

how ruinable is ur life rn

E:

hanging by a thread

try me

You closed your eyes for a second, just feeling your pulse, your grin, the way your legs kicked lazily behind you like you were thirteen again and falling in love with someone you hadn’t even seen.

You:

u flirting with me?

E:

no

i’m letting the devil in

You stayed up talking to her until 3 a.m. It wasn’t even deep shit. It wasn’t I had a rough childhood or let me tell you about my dreams kind of talk. It was mostly stupid stuff. Like whether grilled cheese should be dipped in ketchup or soup. Which celebrities you’d punch if given the chance. What your weirdest recurring dream was. (Hers involved being chased by a swarm of bees through IKEA. You still weren’t over it.)

Somewhere around 2:17, your jaw started to ache from smiling so much. Not even joking. Like actual muscle fatigue. And yet you kept texting her. Kept laughing into your pillow like an idiot. Kept rereading her replies while the night blurred and softened around the glow of your screen.

By the time your alarm went off at 6:15, you were practically in mourning.

Now, here you were.

First period: Calculus. A.k.a. hell.

You were slumped in your seat, hoodie pulled over your head like armor, the room lit in that offensive fluorescent way that made everything feel worse. Your chin was cradled in your palm, elbow sliding ever so slightly with each nod of your head.

The teacher’s voice was doing that thing again—half English, half pure math. Something about integrals. Limits. Derivatives. You didn’t know. You weren’t listening. You were floating somewhere between consciousness and dreaming of accidentally sleeping.

Your eyelids fluttered.

So close. And warm.

“Miss Williams. Forty-five minutes late.”

The sharp voice sliced through your haze like a ruler to the knuckles.

You lifted your head just enough to blink toward the front of the room.

Ellie.

Hood up, headphones half-shoved into her backpack. She looked like she’d just walked out of a crime scene and into a math test.

The professor didn’t even let her sit down yet.

“Just because you’re good at calculus doesn’t mean the rules don’t apply to you,” she snapped, arms crossed. “It’s called structure. You should try it.”

Ellie didn’t look up. Just gave a low, mumbled “Sorry,” and slid into her seat like she was trying to disappear into it.

You watched her from behind your sleeve. Her hair was still messy. Hoodie sleeves too long. Her fingers drummed quietly against her notebook, eyes half-lidded but still pretending to care.

Your head started to dip again.

Just a little.

Almost resting.

“And you,” the teacher snapped suddenly, her voice slicing sideways now. “If you’re so tired you can’t keep your head up, maybe you should’ve just stayed home and slept.”

Your heart did a lazy flip as you blinked up, caught off guard.

She was talking to you.

Of course she was.

You straightened, barely. “Wasn’t sleeping.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, turning back to the board like she hadn’t just publicly executed you. “Some of us actually care about your education.”

You resisted the very real urge to groan. Instead, you blinked slowly and stabbed her in the forehead with your eyes. In your head.

Can’t a girl be sleepy in peace?

What is this, the military?

You tugged your hoodie further over your eyes and sank back down.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Just once—soft, stealthy, like it knew you were in the middle of being very publicly humiliated and wanted to offer comfort.

You pulled it out, just enough to see the screen under the desk.

E:

good morning :>

how’s ur morning so far?

You stared at it for a second, lips twitching. You could still hear the teacher yammering on at the whiteboard, numbers flying across the screen like you were in A Beautiful Mind but with less genius and more exhaustion.

At least I get good morning texts like this.

Some people have coffee. I have this girl.

You ducked your head a little lower and typed back.

You:

hell

the teacher just publicly executed me

im texting u from the afterlife

Three dots popped up immediately.

E:

LMAOO

i told u not to stay up

now ur a corpse

a hot corpse

You bit back a laugh, teeth sinking into your lip as you stared at the screen. Your cheeks warmed, because it was stupid—but it worked. She worked.

You:

i’m haunting this class

spreading sleepy bitch energy

ur next btw

E:

oh i know

i got reaped by the attendance lady this morning

she called me “wasted potential”

i feel like a tragic poet

You:

u are

i bet ur writing limericks in ur notes

E:

nah

drawing boobs on the back page

stay humble

You pressed your fist to your mouth, hiding the very real giggle that almost escaped.

From the front of the room, the teacher said something about derivatives again. You didn’t care. E was texting you about boobs at 9:03 a.m. and somehow it felt like a gift.

E:

u look hot rn i bet

You blinked, then huffed quietly through your nose. You typed back.

You:

nope. i’m wearing a hoodie :( i look like a tired thumb

E:

and? it suits u

You bit your lip, eyes flicking up toward the front of the classroom where your teacher was scribbling something on the whiteboard that may as well have been ancient code.

You:

i don’t wear hoodies at school

it’s illegal

E:

i’m wearing a hoodie rn :)

You:

lmao that suits u

You settled back in your chair, hoodie still over your head like armor, as you typed again.

You:

i only wore it now bc i have bags under my eyes the size of my regrets

E:

aw :[

last night worn u out huh

let me buy u something

what do u want

You squinted at your screen, half amused, half melting.

You:

wait fr

ur buying me coffee??

E:

duh

i take care of the girl i ruin

You:

YEY

i want a croissant and like

a gallon of sugar

You grinned stupidly at your screen, letting your cheek fall against your hand again. You didn’t even know where she lived. For all you knew, she was across the country, or halfway across the world.

But the thought of her—wherever she was—thinking of you first thing in the morning?

That was enough.

E:

done

now look dramatically out the window like ur waiting for me

You snorted, resisting the urge to do exactly that.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88

[cyber333angel]

TWITTER P***LINKS (feat: SEVIKA, ABBY ANDERSON and ELLIE WILLIAMS !)

sevika -

making sure your full of her

hair pulling and reverse cowgirl

spit kink

choking you

taking a selfie

sevika releasing some stress on you after a long day

in silcos office

oral fixation

dry humping before work

bullying you for wearing a tight skirt

abby -

riding abby

making you suck on her strap

against the wall

making you dumb with all her pounding

tribbing

in public

worshipping your tits

making out

welcoming boxer!abby home with kisses on the counter

abby eating you out greedily as usual

ellie -

helping you cum before bed :((

passion with the strap

fingering you

overstimulating you

sitting on her face

p***y slaps

you and ellies typical morning (looks just like her 😋)

nice and slow

eating ellie out on a run

honorable mention :

ambessa -

finally fingering you after all your whining

making you wait

stretching you out

being rough :((

[valeisaslut]

WOW. just… WOW. i’m completely speechless. this is heartbreakingly beautiful and so flawlessly written, i’m pacing my room, biting the bars of my enclosure and questioning every life choice i’ve ever made. i’m obsessed. absolutely, wildly obsessed. BEAUTIFUL.

THE ACT OF DEFROSTING

de ⟡ frost. verb To release from a frozen state; to be freed from ice.

warnings. long ass monologues. graphic depictions of senility & illness. mentions of animal deaths (hunting). brief descriptions of blood. slow ass slowburn. mentions of past death. mentions of past grief & family loss. descriptions of mild injuries & blood. eventual sex. mentions of grief & sorrow. depictions of alcohol & inebriation. drunk sex. descriptions of death.

notes. inspired by CMBYN, POALOF, and any other stories in which they wasted so many days. ──── wc. 22,419

DECEMBER 1ST.

It’s winter again—which means you’ll be seeing her soon.

For the next three months, you will be living alongside Ellie. And, throughout the trip’s duration, you’ll both be acting as though the other does not exist.

In truth, you know of little in regard to her being. You know she doesn't like to make conversation, you know she enjoys drawing in that worn out journal of hers, you know snow sticks to the auburn of her hair, you know she enjoys the crackling sound of a fireplace, and you know she befriended your grandfather when she was fourteen. You don’t know how they met, you don’t know the sound of her voice, and you don’t know her last name. But you know that, ever since he’d first fallen ill, the two of you care for him conjointly during the winter months.

You tip your head back and gaze through the fogged train window, noting the landmarks you’ve come to memorize—the silver lake which is frozen over at this time of year, the willow tree that looks more like a mop with its snowy branches, and then, finally, the large sign reading: Jackson.

You reach under your seat to collect your belongings. First is your duffel bag, stuffed full with winter clothes. Next is your annotated copy of ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’, creased and stained yet indubitably loved. Then, lastly, comes your laptop that harbors the entirety of your work for this past year.

When the train lurches to a halt at Jackson’s ramshackle station, you’re the only one to alight. The platform is coated in such a heavy sheet of ice you nearly slip the moment your boots touch it. With a huff, you pull your bag onto your shoulder and begin the trudge toward your grandfather’s home. It’s roughly a fifteen minute walk from here, but you don’t mind the journey seeing as it’s a rather scenic one. You pass a trickling creek, a boisterous church bell, and more than a few flickering streetlamps.

Before you know it, you’re ascending the wooden steps of your grandfather’s porch. You shift the weight of your bag atop your shoulders as you reach under his window sill for the spare key left for you and Ellie. During the warm months, he hasn’t a need for the key because your great uncle, Tommy, is here to assist him. 

You slot the key into the lock, twist it, then nudge the door open with your knee. It swings wide to reveal a warm, wooden foyer. You place your bag onto the floor before turning around to shut and lock the door behind yourself. As you begin to strip out of your fur coat and heavy boots, the scent of pine reaches your nose and you know, in an instant, that Ellie is already here.

It doesn’t much matter who arrives first so long as they do so prior to Tommy’s departure. That way, he’s able to explain whatever changes have occurred in the past three seasons, which diet your grandfather is currently on, and where to find certain items within the home.

You walk into your grandfather’s room before daring to settle into your own. His room is cozy, decorated with flannel blankets and warmly scented candles. Atop his bed, with a machine located to the left of his bedpost, your grandfather resides with a small smile on his face. That’s when you notice he’s speaking to someone, to Ellie. They both turn, having noticed your presence at the same time.

“Sorry,” you utter, “I hadn’t meant to intrude.”

Ellie inhales deeply, turning away from you. She places a hand atop both of your grandfather’s, leans forward to whisper something in his ear that makes him chuckle, then presses a soft kiss to his hairline. She pushes to her feet, allowing the legs of her wooden chair to scrape loudly across the floorboards. Then she leaves without saying another word.

“Pain in the ass, that one.” Your grandfather says with a weakened laugh. You walk forward, placing your bag on the floor before sitting in the chair Ellie once occupied. He reaches for your hand and you let him take it, rubbing the pad of your thumb along his scarred knuckles. He looks at you with his wizened eyes. “It’s a shame, y’know, that y’all don’t get along. I think you’d really like each other.”

“Maybe one day.” You tell him with a small smile, though you don’t quite believe your own words. He squeezes your hand fondly, returning the smile with one of his own. But he sees right through you; he knows you’re lying.

DECEMBER 7TH.

You’ve long since settled into your room, having turned it into a place more susceptible to being called our own. A thick, indigo duvet lays atop a firm mattress as you slowly awake from a dreamless slumber. The space is warm despite the flurries of snow that can be seen outside your window. 

You toss your legs over the side of the bed, the frigidity of the floorboards beneath your bare feet causing a chill to travel up your spine. You shudder, wrapping your arms around yourself as you walk down the hallway. Tommy has decorated the home with the nick-nacks his brother had once spent countless hours sculpting. From clocks to shelves to small wooden creatures. 

You enter the kitchen and begin to brew your grandfather a mug of coffee, having memorized exactly how he likes it. As the water heats, you saunter into the living room and brace your hands in front of the fireplace so as to warm yourself up. Still crouched down, your ears pick up a muffled thudding sound coming from outside. It’s harsh and repetitive, instantly setting you on edge. You stand to your feet and peer out the nearest window only to find that it’s Ellie chopping wood.

Her hair is tied back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, though two strands have fallen loose and now frame her face delicately. She swings a hatchet high in the air before slamming it down onto a piece of wood, splitting it in two. She’s breathing heavily, puffs of white air coming from her lips. 

Before long, you grow disinterested and walk away. You pour the heated water onto the grinded coffee beans, stirring the two together until it reaches the proper ratio. Then, while blowing gently into the mug, you begin walking toward your grandfather’s room.

You’re passing the foyer when the front door swings open and the coffee is spilled all down your chest. You shriek, staggering backward as pain blooms across your skin. Ellie drops the pile of wood from her arms and comes forward with wide eyes and parted lips.

“Shit,” she breathes. “I didn’t mean to–”

“It burns!” You shout, tugging at your clothes. You remove your shirt, rubbing harshly at your skin in an attempt to rid it of the agonizing sensation that currently adorns it. 

Ellie grabs your wrists, halting your movements. “Just– go take a shower, okay? I’ll make a new coffee for Joel and try to wash the stain out of your shirt.”

You nod, still wincing slightly before hurrying to the bathroom. You shut the door behind you and twist the faucet knob, willing the water to be as cold as possible. While the tub steadily begins to fill, you examine your chest in the mirror. The skin is red and irritated, inflamed by the torridity of your grandfather’s priorly untouched coffee. With a grimace, you remove the rest of your clothing before stepping into the tub. You slide down until the water is lapping around your collarbones, cold yet relaxing as it eases the pain from your body. 

Shutting your eyes, you tip your head back against the tiled wall behind the tub. The backs of your eyelids flash Ellie’s face, her voice ringing through your ears. You open your eyes, opting to instead stare at the ceiling so as to not be haunted by the newfound knowledge of what she looks like up close. But the ceiling is just as blank as the darkness of your shut eyes.

It’s strange—now that you think of it—that you and Ellie have been caring for your grandfather since you were both sixteen and, after all this time, you’ve never spoken to one another. You’d deemed it a simple fact of life, residing on the same level of inevitability as the rising sun and the beat of a heart. But it doesn't have to be like that, does it? Your grandfather said it himself: it’s a shame you don’t get along.

When you exit the bathroom, twisting a towel into your dampened hair, you have a goal in mind. And that goal is to get Ellie to open up, no matter the cost. 

When you find her, she’s sitting at your grandfather’s side, helping him drink his coffee. She has one hand on his back as he struggles to sit up, her other hand wrapped around the mug as she brings it to his shaky lips. When he leans back, only then does her gaze fall onto you—standing in the doorway with a towel in your hair and a thin shirt covering your body.

“Ellie.” You say, stepping forward with an awkward sort of smile. “I didn’t get to thank you earlier for–”

“Don’t worry about it.” She grounds out before pushing to her feet. 

She rounds the bed, heading for the door with a deepened scowl on her face. As she brushes past you, you grab her arm to halt her movements—the same way she’d grabbed your wrist in the kitchen. Ellie whips around, shoulders tense, and stares you directly in the eye. They’re green, you think before she yanks her arm from your grip and storming out of the room in a hasty flurry of chagrin.

In her absence, the room feels vast and empty. Apparently her contempt had been enough to fill the air without needing to exchange any words. You catch your grandfather’s eye, but he’s just grinning as though he knows something that neither of you are yet ready to hear.

With a sigh, you stalk toward the abandoned chair beside his bed. The cushion is velvet, the legs and back are mahogany. Your grandfather built it himself—before he got sick, of course. His hands are scarred from the years spent handling a sharpened chisel, his knuckles and fingertips having taken the brunt. You reach forward, grabbing one of those hands and holding it. You can feel the callouses in his palms that never faded, regardless of how many years passed.

“I told ya.” Your grandfather chuckles lightly. “She’s a pain in the ass, ain’t she?”

“She’s… something.”

He laughs a little louder this time. He rolls his head to the side, staring fondly at the doorway she’s stomped out of. “Ah, if ya think she’s bad now, ya should’ve met her when she was younger. That kid never knew when t’quit. She carried around a book of puns and couldn’t tell how much everyone hated listenin’ to ‘em.”

You shake your head, unable to imagine Ellie in such a way. The girl you know now is as cold as the winter she brings with her. Perhaps if you cared for your grandfather in the summer, your perception of her would be warmer. But, seeing as that’s not the case, it remains icy. Still, you enjoy the mental image of Ellie telling puns and being unable to read social cues.

“How did you two meet, anyway?” 

A question you never dared to ask before, for it felt like an invasion into her privacy. But it isn’t; not really. You’ve known one another for years, it’s about time you get to learn a little about her. Perhaps it’ll explain why she’s so distant toward you yet so kind and gentle toward your grandfather.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d ask me that.” The old man smiles, causing his gray mustache to lift slightly with the upturned corners of his mouth. He exhales a fond sigh, staring up at the ceiling as though he can recall the memory as clear as day. “I was huntin’ in the woods behind my house. It was the only time I’d ever done it without takin’ Tommy with me. A good thing, too. ‘Cause he probably would’ve told me to pull the trigger as soon as I had my gun trained onto a movin’ animal. I almost did. But then its head popped outta the bushes ‘n’ I realized it wasn’t an animal at all. It was a little girl. Her hair was a mess ‘n’ she smelled like cow shit, but she was human.”

“Ellie?” You ask.

“Mhm. Same freckled face and ferocious attitude as today.” He says with a wide grin, but you never noticed that she had freckles. “I shouted at her, like anyone in my position would. I asked why the hell she was doin’ out in the woods all alone. But, instead of answerin’ me like a civilized person, she called me a nosy asshole and tried to steal my quarry. Now, I’d never fight a kid over somethin’ as trivial as that. So I let ‘er have it. Bad idea, apparently. Not because she came back the next day lookin’ for more of my shit t’steal, but because Tommy tagged along. And he was not a fan of my newfound parasite. He told her to fuck off ‘n’ to shoot down her own damn deer. Of course, she argued with the most vulgar language I’d ever heard from the mouth of a child so young. Long story short, she won the deer on the condition that she’d agree to learn how to shoot her own meat from then on out.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah. But only ‘cause she had the best teacher imaginable.” He says with a tinge of pride in his voice. “Every day for the followin’ three months, she’d meet up with Tommy ‘n’ I in the woods. We’d teach her how to hunt and, on the occasion that she’d shoot down her animal, she was allowed to keep its meat. This agreement worked for a while. That is…until she quit showin’ up. Now, I’d gotten t’know that little girl throughout those past few months ‘n’ I was, rather understandably, worried. I barely got any sleep that night, afraid she’d gotten kidnapped due to ‘er lack of survival instincts—for example: meetin’ up with a couple o’strangers in the woods every day like clockwork.”

“But she was fine, of course.”

“Physically, yes. Mentally, not so much.” He replies. “Her momma had gotten deathly ill. She’d been takin’ my deer meat to bring home to her ‘cause they weren’t makin’ any money with her stuck in bed all day. Her momma had a friend, Marlene, who agreed to take ‘er in, but Ellie was rather vocal ‘bout ‘er hatred for the woman. But, as it turns out, a fourteen-year-old’s tantrum doesn't persuade anyone in the court. The judge gave Marlene custody over Ellie ‘n’ she was fully moved in within the week. But, even after everythin’ that’d happened with ‘er family, she continued t’meet me out in the woods for shootin’ practice. She was mournin’ her momma and she was hatin’ her new guardian, yet she found peace in the time we shared. Some days, I’d invite her inside t’make sure she was eatin’. Other days, she’d not utter a single word t’me.”

“And then you got sick, too.”

He nods solemnly. “By the time I’d fallen ill, she’d grown up a bit. She still wasn’t her usual self, but she was doin’ better. My diagnosis was enough t’undo all that’d finally begun to heal in that girl’s heart. Hell, she cried harder than my own daughter. It was like she was already grievin’ a death I hadn’t yet gone through. Can’t blame ‘er, of course, but still…it was rough. Then Tommy moved in t’help me out and the two o’you signed up for the winter months and here we are.”

You don’t know exactly what you expected, but that certainly hadn’t been it. Ellie is quite rough around the edges, so you always assumed there were underlying bruises nestled within her past that you’d never quite be able to discover. But this was worse than you could ever have imagined. Not only did her mother die when she was only fourteen, but she was bed-ridden in the same way your grandfather currently is. It’s like a mirror was placed within her life’s timeline so as to force her into experiencing everything twice over.

Now you’re even more determined to get her to open up.

DECEMBER 20TH.

You’ve been trying to make conversation with Ellie for two weeks now. You wake up earlier in the mornings to make her a mug of coffee before she leaves to chop wood for the fireplace, and you stay awake later so you can make supper after the exhausting day she’s sure to have endured. And, whenever you cross paths, you start talking and don’t stop until she leaves the room—which, honestly, never takes very long.

“How was your day?” You ask her while serving a scoop of pasta onto her paper plate. Ellie looks up at you with a frown from where she’s sitting. You ignore her judgemental expression, leaning forward to scoop a portion of supper onto your grandfather’s plate as well. He thanks you kindly, holding a fork in his shaky hand.

The two of you used to just eat whatever you could find in the cabinets whenever you’d get hungry. Some nights, you’d have eaten a can of beans well past midnight. Others, you’d cook yourself a nice meal and eat it beside your grandfather’s bed. It didn’t matter what you or Ellie ate, so long as he was fed something good and healthy.

During these past two weeks, though, you’ve made sure to spend time cooking up something nice so as to ensure a slice of her day will be spent in your company. So long, it’s worked quite well. That is, if you ignore the fact that she responds in one-word statements.

“Mine was good.” Your grandfather replies once it’s become obvious that Ellie won’t be entertaining this particular conversation. “Same as every other day, though, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m glad it was good.” You smile. “Mine was pretty good, too. I went shopping for some—much needed—groceries, picked up a few prescriptions for you, and then came home to cook spaghetti because I remember it being one of your favorites.”

He smiles. “Thanks, honey. You remember quite well.”

“How could I have forgotten?” You ask. “Every single time I visited you as a kid, we would have pasta for supper. And when I would ask why, you’d just say ‘spaghetti is Papa’s favorite’ and then you’d tell me that if I didn’t finish it, you’d finish it for me.”

“And I still will.” He threatens, pointing his fork shakily in your direction.

You laugh, warmth filling your chest as the three of you continue to eat the meal you’d prepared. You cherish this moment, allowing the small details to soak into your mind. Because, though you claimed your day had been good, there were a few points you’d left out of your retelling. 

While shopping, you ran into a distasteful group of people that reminded you of circling predators; the encounter had left a sour taste on your tongue and a heavy weight in your chest. Then, while picking up your grandfather’s prescribed medicines, the clerk treated you like an idiot. She almost gave you the wrong bottle—thrice. Then, after arguing with each other for nigh ten minutes, you came to realize that the confusion emerged because you were giving her the wrong name. Because his prescription changed. His dosage had been raised. When you asked the clerk what this meant, she said his illness was getting worse and he was likely experiencing indescribable pain.

It’s impossible to imagine, though, as you look at him now—smiling and laughing as though nothing is wrong. He looks healthier than ever, his eyes glinting with cheer as his skin flourishes beneath the dull yellow lights of his bedroom. 

And, when you lie awake in bed later that night, the clerk’s words are the only thing you can think about. Her sharp voice having turned gentle at the sound of your franticness, her softened gaze as she kindly explained the reason behind the alteration in your grandfather’s dosage. You turn over underneath the indigo duvet, restless and unable to rid your mind of terrible thoughts regarding your grandfather’s impending demise. What would he want written on his tombstone? Who would even show up to the funeral considering he lives so far out into the countryside? Would you have to give a speech, and what the hell would you even say? Would his house go to Tommy, or would it be sold to a younger family of four? Fuck, you can't stop thinking about it.

When you finally manage to fall asleep, your dreams are just as horribly restless. You shoot awake at least four times, gasping as your grandfather’s slackened jaw and empty eyes haunt your mind. It’s four in the morning when you decide you’ll be unable to fall back asleep.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, no longer shocked by the chilliness of the hardwood flooring beneath your heels. You walk down the hallway until you reach your grandfather’s bedroom door. It’s cracked open, allowing the sound of his soft snoring to pass into the vacant hallway. You push the door lightly with your toe, causing the hinges to creak gently against the quietude of nighttime. 

Your grandfather lies in bed, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. You walk into the dimly lit room, your feet patting lightly across the floor as you approach the velvet and mahogany chair beside his bed. When you sit in it, you make sure to not scrape the legs against the floorboards. 

For a long time, you just sit there and stare at him. You watch his chest move with each breath, you watch his fingers twitch in his sleep, and you watch his eyes shift under their lids. Then, slowly, your fatigue begins to catch up to you. You lean forward, placing your head in his lap as you slowly fall into a restful slumber. The last thing you remember before falling asleep is the feel of his hand coming up to cradle your head like he used to do when you were a toddler.

When you wake again, it’s to the sound of muffled speaking. You lift your head, blinking a few times so as to register what’s happening. Your grandfather is already awake, sitting up against his pillows as he rubs your head absentmindedly. He’s speaking with someone, looking up at them from his place in bed. You roll your head to the side, finding Ellie standing by his nightstand, unaware that you’re awake.

She looks softer like this; warmer. Her eyes are gentle and her hair is dampened from a recent bath. She’s dressed in her pajamas, a pair of thin shorts hanging from her hips beneath an oversized shirt she must have stolen from your grandfather. She’s speaking to him, talking with her hands as her mouth moves with the corners tugged upward. Then you see her freckles, lightly dotted across her skin like stars in the night sky. You wonder if they create constellations, too.

“—Well there ain’t much that can be done ‘bout that, I’m afraid.” Your grandfather is saying to her thoughtfully. “Sometimes rabbits jus’ ain’t dumb enough to take the bait.”

“But I built the trap perfectly.” Ellie insists, her tone a bit childlike.

“Like I said,” he shrugs, “there ain’t much that can be done.”

Ellie frowns, but ultimately accepts this answer. You watch as she bites the inside of her cheek in thought, trying to puzzle out something that can be done. Though, after a few moments, she gives up. Ellie steps forward, leaning in to press a kiss to your grandfather’s hairline, then leaves the room as she says something about needing to change so she can start hunting.

You’re still pretending to be asleep when your grandfather nudges your head and says, “Quit eavesdroppin’, kiddo. Ya ain’t slick.”

You wince, rubbing the back of your skull as you grumble, “I was slick enough for her not to catch me.”

“That was luck, honey, not skill.”

You frown at him, feigning offense. He doesn't fall for it, of course, and instead just laughs at your attempt to make him feel guilty. With a huff, you rise from the chair and promise to return with a warm mug of coffee. That seems to excite him but, just before leaving, you add: “On the condition that you apologize for insulting me.”

Your grandfather, petulant as ever, mumbles his apology under his breath rather than speaking it aloud. But you know it’s the best you’ll get, so you accept it with a warm laugh.

You’re waiting for the water to heat up when a pair of footsteps patters across the wooden flooring. You glance over your shoulder to find that Ellie is sauntering into the foyer. She’s no longer dressed in a stolen shirt and flowy shorts. Instead, she’s wearing multiple layers of jeans and more than three heavy winter coats. She’s crouched down and lacing her boots when you approach her with a grin.

“How did you sleep?” You ask her, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet.

She flicks her gaze upward before frowning and looking back down at her boots. “Fine.”

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.” You muse. “Do you remember, two weeks ago, when we bumped into one another and I spilt scalding coffee down my shirt?”

“Yes.” She grunts.

“You were rather talkative in that moment.” You tell her. “How come you don’t talk anymore?”

“Dunno.”

Then she’s pushing to her feet and exiting through the front door. You watch her leave through the side windows. She walks down the sidewalk to the backyard, likely intending to chop some wood for the dying fireplace. It’s funny, though, knowing that she’s the only one who truly pays any attention to the fire yet she’s willing to spend hours at a time tending to it.

Prior years spent here, you remember catching her sitting in front of the fire late at night, just listening to the way it crackles and hisses. Perhaps there’s a story to explain this infatuation of hers. Or perhaps she simply enjoys waking up early to chop wood and then stays up late watching all of her hard work burn into a pile of ash, just so she can wake up and do it all over again. Probably not the latter.

You carry the mug of coffee to your grandfather's bedroom, sitting at his side while you help him drink it. He tries to hold it, but is far too shaky to do so for very long. Eventually, he gives in and allows you to hold it for him, placing it to his lips as he tips his head back. It’s a rather long and awkward process, but you fill the time with conversation and you fill the space with laughter. So, after a few moments, the stilted feeling has long since vacated the room.

When he’s done drinking, you bring the mug back to the kitchen to wash it for tomorrow morning. It’s his favorite mug, after all—the outline of an owl etched into its face. You handwash it daily for him to reuse each day, uncaring for the chore so long as he appreciates the effort, which he always does.

You’re standing in front of the sink, your hands wrapped in bubbles, when the front door opens and closes. Ellie walks into the foyer covered in icy chill and irritation. She stomps over to the fireplace, loading the newly chopped logs into the hearth. Then she stomps back over to the foyer and begins peeling off her layers. Her boots come off first, then her knitted hat, then her multitude of coats.

You place your grandfather’s mug upside down on the countertop to dry, then you reach into the cabinet for a new one. Not for yourself, but for Ellie—because she appears rather irritated today despite the gentility of her aspect earlier in the morning.

You’re rinsing the mug in the sink when you call over your shoulder, “Don’t run off just yet, Ellie, I’m making you a coffee!”

She frowns at you, but doesn’t argue. She hooks her final coat on his hanger before walking into the living area to start the fire. And, within a few minutes, she manages to spark a flame and create a small inferno within the furnace. Ellie is sitting at the island when you turn around to grab the coffee beans from the other counter. However, due to the mug having just been rinsed, it’s wet and slips easily from your hands. It falls to the floor and shatters instantly, glass shards splaying all across the kitchen.

Ellie instantly moves to get up, but you tell her not to. Begrudgingly, she obliges and agrees to stay seated. Your grandfather is yelling from his bedroom, asking what happened. You call out a response, explaining that you’d dropped a mug and you’re both alright.

Almost immediately after you finish assuring him of your wellbeing, you step on a piece of glass. The sharp wedges instantly within the soft flesh of your foot. You inhale a sharp gasp, yanking your foot off the floor as bolts of pain shoot up your leg.

“What–” Ellie stares at you in disbelief. “Why the fuck do you try so hard, anyway?”

You snap your head up to meet her gaze and, due to the current agony in your foot, you’re just as irritable as she. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You!” She shouts. “You just won’t stop!”

“Me!?” You shoot back, hands shaking as you cradle your foot. “All I’ve done in this past month is cater to you and your selfish ass attitude! I’m not going to apologize for being a decent person, though I can see why you’re shocked that someone actually gives a shit about you. I’m sure not many people do that.”

Ellie clenches her jaw tightly before pushing to her feet. The stool scrapes against the floor loudly, sending a shiver up your spine. She scowls at you. “Quit acting as though you know what’s best for everyone. Stop obsessing over me and figure out your own shit. You obviously need to.”

Then she’s storming out of the kitchen and slamming her bedroom door closed. You hear the lock click into place behind her, though your attention has already been diverted back to your foot and the piece of glass lodged into it.

Fuck her. You think to yourself as you pull the bloodied glass from your skin. And, as you lift your head to gaze down the hallway, you wonder why you even tried.

JANUARY 2ND.

The ten days foregoing your argument with Ellie are torture. The two of you spend the entirety of this juncture ignoring one another, basking the home in an unnerving silence. Honestly, considering this quietude was once all you’d ever known with Ellie, it shouldn’t be difficult to tolerate. But it is. Because the air is thick with unspoken words that are certain to hurt. 

When she enters a room, you make haste to exit it; when you’re speaking with your grandfather, she opts to do so at a later time. You no longer make an effort to connect with her and she no longer endures such an agonizing form of torment.

Most days, Ellie just sits in front of the fireplace and draws in that worn-out leather journal of hers. Others, she busies herself with work—chopping firewood, hunting deer, trapping rabbits, and shovelling snow from the sidewalk. The only times you ever see her is when you’re both accidentally in the same place. Like when you pass through the living room with a pile of blankets in your arms to find Ellie feeding the flames of the fire with newly chopped wood. Or like when you arrive home earlier than expected to find her sitting beside your grandfather with tears in her eyes. Or like when you wake in the middle of the night to fill a glass of water to find her sitting at the island while scribbling messy notes into her journal.

The examples are endless, but as is your loathing for her. You tried—so hard—to befriend Ellie. Not because you wanted to, but because your grandfather claimed the two of you would get along. A bad idea, albeit a valiant one. You should have known there was a reason that you two had never spoken prior to this winter despite having known one another since the age of sixteen. You should have known she’d end up being an asshole.

In fact, the height of her vileness resided within that final dreadful week of December. See, because you’d stepped on glass, your foot had to be wrapped in a bandage that made it rather difficult to travel long distances. Due to this, you were unable to walk to the grocer or to the pharmacy, causing this responsibility to fall onto Ellie’s shoulders. This arrangement lasted only a few days, though it felt like an eternity. 

You spent most of your time at your grandfather’s side, explaining the situation to him with the smallest amount of bias possible—though you were unable to help yourself when it came to using vulgar words when describing Ellie’s attitude. Your grandfather just chuckled, claiming that story made his day. You rolled your eyes with a huff, forever unable to understand the mind of a man so senile. He allowed you to prop your wounded foot up on his bed while you read ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ aloud to him. When Ellie returned from the store, her presence was made very clear via her stomping feet and grumbled cursing. Of course, your grandfather found this all hilarious.

But, thankfully, your foot healed within a few days and you were back to work in no time. You mopped the floors and scrubbed the dishes and tended to the limbless plants in the back yard. All the while, you refused to meet Ellie’s gaze. Sometimes, you could swear you felt her staring. But you never dared to turn—just in case she was, you cared naught to reveal your acknowledgement of her existence. Sure, you could be deemed childish for such petty behaviour, but you didn’t really give a shit.

Today marks the tenth breakfast you’ve eaten since Ellie put that glass in your foot. Indirectly, of course, but you still tell yourself the entire thing had been her fault.

You push your indigo duvet from your body with a yawn, stretching your arms over your head. The icy bedroom window opposite the bed reveals the thick blanket of snow resting atop its sill. It must have snowed a lot last night, thus covering the driveway you just shovelled. Perhaps, if you ignore the snow’s existence, Ellie will become irritated enough to do the shoveling herself. Yes. That is your plan.

You stand from the bed and approach the window, wrapping your arms around yourself. That’s when you spot a small butterfly perched atop the grille, its black wings moving languidly through the icy air. You stare at it for a moment longer, recalling a book that’d mentioned how seldom butterflies are found in the wintertime. This one in particular—if you remember correctly—is a Mourning Cloak butterfly. 

Even twenty minutes later, while you’re making your grandfather a mug of coffee, you cannot seem to rid your mind of thoughts pertaining to the Mourning Cloak. Was it a sign that something will happen to your grandfather today? Or are you overthinking things and it was just a damn insect? You can’t tell. 

Ellie enters the foyer with an armful of firewood. As she walks past the kitchen toward the living area, your eyes meet. Only for a second. Then you’re turning the faucet off and carrying the torrid mug to your grandfather’s room. Still, a heavy weight of superstition beats at your ribcage.

“Mornin’.” He grunts as you enter the room. The strong scents of pepper and saffron assault your nose as soon as you walk inside. You blink, looking around for any new candles Ellie may have put on his shelves. But, alas, there are none. Your grandfather takes quick notice of your expression. He chuckles before saying, “You must be smellin’ the stew Ellie made for me last night. She was nervous as a cat when she asked me to taste it. Said she’d never cooked anythin’ before, but wanted to try out somethin’ new.”

“And?” You inquire while approaching his bed with a warm smile. He sits up, grunting as he reclines his aching spine into his plush pillows. You hand him his mug of coffee, sitting down in the velvet and mahogany chair. “Was it any good?”

“‘Course it was.” He says firmly. “Even if it was tasteless ‘n’ cold, it would still be one o’my favorite meals ‘cause she made it for me. That’s what matters, after all. Not the end result, but the memories made along the way. She spent hours tryin’ t’get every ingredient perfect. And, even when it was as good as she could possibly get it, she gave it t’me with a frown.”

He’s been doing this thing lately where, no matter what’s happening, he’ll somehow make every conversation about Ellie. He speaks of her in a fond tone, mentioning only her best qualities. You know what he’s doing, though, and it’s not going to work. 

When you were attempting to befriend Ellie, your grandfather was at his happiest. He enjoyed eating every meal with you both and he enjoyed watching the two of you interact—albiet scarcely. And, now that you’re no longer speaking to each other, your grandfather speaks about you both to the other in hopes of rebuilding that prior acquaintance.

“Ellie is a wonderful girl. She has passions, hobbies, ‘n’ she cares for her loved ones so deeply that it’s almost painful t’watch.” He says with a sigh. “And you’re the same exact way. ”

“Thank you.” You reply, leaning forward to gently press a kiss to his wrinkled cheek. He smiles when you pull away, his gray eyes memorizing the features of your face. He’s still nursing his coffee mug, holding it firmly between his hands. You place a hand atop one of his, giving him a saddened smile. “Thank you, but I’m not sure she and I are capable of getting along in the way you’re hoping.”

Your grandfather nods with a quiet understanding, shutting his eyes as he accepts this response. You squeeze his hand gently before pushing to your feet and walking toward the door. You’re about to reach the doorway, when he speaks up.

“She reminds me of your mother.” 

Oh. 

Oh, that was an agonizing combination of words to hear falling from your grandfather’s lips. He hasn’t mentioned your mother since she passed away five years ago. Sarah Miller was a lovely woman with an even lovelier soul. She was the embodiment of summer, carrying all of its warmth and brilliance within her heart wherever she went. Your mother wasn’t bed ridden when she died, nor was she ill. No, she just– died. She went in her sleep, which is what most people hope for, but that hadn’t exactly made the process easier. 

Your grandfather was already stuck in bed by the time the news reached him. He reacted rather horribly, to be honest, demanding that he must be present for the funeral and that no parent should ever have to outlive their child. Thankfully, your mother passed in the summer, meaning you and Ellie weren’t present for the horridity of your grandfather’s grief. Still, that winter was a tough one.

He refused to eat, seldom got any sleep, and would lash out whenever you mentioned her. But you knew how he felt because you’d lost her, too. You were experiencing the same feeling of loss that he was. So, after a few weeks of failing miserably at taking care of him, you just gave up. Ellie picked up the slack—wordlessly, of course—and made sure your grandfather’s grief wouldn’t eat him alive. She’d check up on you, too. She would knock on your bedroom door to wake you in the mornings and would knock when it was time to eat lunch. Nothing else passed between you. Well, not until this winter.

“She reminds me of your mother.” It plays on a loop in your head as you go about your day, swirling around in your skull like water swirls around a drain—ceaselessly heading toward that imperceptible finish line. Though, in this case, you’re not sure if there even is a finish line.

You’re lying across the couch cushions with ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ clasped between your hands. You’ve read this novel at least five times now, long since having grown bored of Lord Henry’s manipulative dialogues. It’s entirely your own fault, though, considering you’d only brought one book with you for the entity of this trip. 

Your grandfather has bookshelves, sure, but you learned the hard way that your tastes in entertainment are vastly different. While you prefer outdated literature, he prefers self-help books. So, yes, you’ll put up with reading about Dorian’s moral deprecation for another two months. If you grow too bored, you can always watch TV, though your grandfather only has three channels—which are the news, the history channel, and an endless loop of Tom and Jerry’s best episodes.

“You’re not bored of that shit, yet?”

The sound of a voice coming from behind you makes you jolt, dropping your book on the floor with a light thud. You abandon all thoughts pertaining to Oscar Wilde, though, as you whip your head around to face Ellie. She saunters into the living room with her journal tucked under her arm.

You narrow your eyes at her, snatching your book from the floor with a huff. “You can’t speak of boredom when you spend hours each morning tending to the same damn fireplace.”

Ellie hums in response before sitting at the opposite end of the couch. She’s close enough to you that the heels of your socked feet graze the skin of her bare thigh. It’s oddly intimate, sending a discomforted chill down your spine. Though Ellie doesn’t seem to notice—or care—as she flips her journal open and begins to scratch her pencil across the parchment.

She lifts one leg so as to prop her journal on her knee but, other than that, there’s minimal movement from her end of the couch. On your end, there’s naught aside from deepened scowling and curious expressions. You don’t trust this; not one bit.

But, as the minutes tick by and the fireplace crackles gently in the background, you begin to ponder on the possibility that you’re the problem. Ellie hasn’t spoken, nor has she done anything to cause suspicion. At the thought you, slowly, lift your book to your chest and begin to continue reading from its worn-out pages. Ellie remains unmoved as her wrist twists with each shape she writes down.

A long moment of time stretches between you.

“Okay, this is terrible.” Ellie blurts out after half an hour of tense silence. She snaps her journal closed, drawing your attention toward her. You peek your eyes over the edge of your book, a brow raising. She turns to you, frowning. “I want to apologize.”

You lower your book completely, placing it atop your chest. You don’t say anything as you stare at her expectantly.

“I should never have gotten pissed at you for breaking the mug. The entire reason you were grabbing the damn thing is because you wanted to make me coffee. I didn’t ask you to, but you did. Because you’re a good fucking person, even to assholes like me. And, when you got glass in your foot, I should have helped you pull it out. But I didn’t because, like I said, I’m an asshole” She pauses. Then, “It was wrong and I was wrong and I am sorry.”

You sigh through your nose, pushing up on your palms until you’re sitting upright. Your feet press into her thigh as you shift your weight around, but neither of you move. Then, slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips. “At least you’re self-aware.”

She lets out an airy chuckle, the sound laced with something akin to relief. “Fuck off.”

You laugh before lying back against the cushion. And, when she resumes journaling and you resume reading, the atmosphere is no longer tense and coiled. It’s comfortable and soft. And, as you listen to the crackling fireplace and the scratch of her pencil, you’re able to puzzle out why the butterfly appeared at your window this morning—growth.

JANUARY 17TH.

Living with Ellie has become far more tolerable when compared to that of before. She is no longer the cold woman you once deemed her to be. She’s—albiet slowly—begun to thaw through that icy facade of hers, thus revealing the warm interior that she’d been harboring all along.

Your relationship is still a bit stilted, though it’s not nearly as strained as it had been before. She talks now, which is a massive improvement despite how small of an accomplishment it may seem to be. Her voice is no longer a foreign terrain, but instead something as familiar as the prose of Oscar Wilde. You’ve been taking mental notes on it, as well, creating bullet points regarding the small details you notice in her tune. 

First, she sounds far more gruff and intimidating when she’s shouting at you for having stepped on broken glass. Second, she uses curse words like a writer uses a pen: incessantly. Third, she rambles when she’s nervous or when she knows she fucked something up—like when she forgot to put the fire out one night and woke to a simmering heap of coals. Fourth, she pauses a lot when she wants to make sure her words are precise and perfect, such as when she gives instructions or when she’s telling a detailed story. Lastly, she says your name as though it’s something divine to behold. There’s a sort of breathiness to her tone when she utters it, a sort of reverence.

Your grandfather, for one, has been indescribably pleased by your guys’ newfound friendship. He hasn’t stopped smiling since the third day of January when he first witnessed evidence of it. In truth, it’d been accidental. You were reading a page of your novel to him when Ellie sauntered down the hallway and, as she passed his bedroom, smiled at you. Instantly, your grandfather was overjoyed and demanded that he always knew you could get along. 

He now demands to eat supper with all three of you present, to play card games at least once a week, and to be told every detail of Ellie’s apology over and over until you’re both sick of repeating the story. A few times, Ellie simply refused to reiterate it, calling him annoying and decrepit. You tried to keep a straight face, though you failed and ended up laughing for five minutes as the two of them began bickering over meaningless topics.

You cook most of the meals as of late, making sure to use Ellie’s rabbits and deer for supper. Some days, however, you allow her to take control of the kitchen—watching from the island as she struggles to make sense of a random recipe she’d found in one of your grandfather’s old cook books. 

That’s what she’s doing now, in fact. 

The kitchen is currently shrouded in smoke as Ellie attempts to juggle three different recipes. She’s making pasta, though the water has long since boiled over the edge of her pot. Not only that, but she’s gone out of her comfort zone and begun to make salad and garlic bread to accompany it. Needless to say, this endeavor has not been going well thus far. 

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” You ask as she finally notices the overflowing pot.

“No!” She shouts, though it’s clear she hadn’t meant to. She’s just overwhelmed and struggling. Ellie is quick to retract her exclamation, too, once she realizes how harshly she’d snapped at you. “Sorry, I just– No thank you. I want to do this on my own.”

“Okay.” You nod. “But my offer still stands.”

She places napkins around the pot in an attempt to dry the spilt water—which is rather ineffective seeing as she still hasn’t turned down the heat. You rest your chin in your palm, leaning forward as you watch Ellie bustle around the kitchen like a bull in a china shop. 

Then the oven is beeping and Ellie rushes open it. You’ve just opened your mouth to remind her how hot the pan is when she grabs it with her bare hands. She intends to place it on the island, though only manages to move a foot before she’s dropping the pan with a loud clatter and blowing at her reddened palms with a loud, “Shit!”

You’re laughing as you hop down from your wooden stool. You round the island and walk over to the sink, twisting the knob so as to make the faucet spew icy water. Ellie is quick to rush to your side, placing her hands under the steadily streaming water. She exhales a relieved sigh, shutting her eyes blissfully. You watch her with an amused gaze. 

“Still don’t want my help?”

She cracks her eyes open before narrowing them at you. “Fine. But I still get to tell Joel I made dinner.”

“That sounds fine, I don’t–”

“Without help.”

You instantly scowl at her before reaching over her shoulder to turn the faucet off. Then, with a tightened frown, you give in. “Fine.”

The first few minutes of carrying out this arrangement are terrible. The first thing you do is turn down the heat of the stove, which instantly causes the boiling pot to recede into itself. Then you’re forced to throw away most of the garlic bread that’d fallen on the floor, leaving the three of you with only one piece to share. Ellie calls it without hesitation, but you insist your grandfather should be the one to eat it. With a childish sulk, she agrees.

You put Ellie in charge of making the salad, though she still struggles to chop the vegetables without them rolling away from her cutting board. You offer to help but, of course, she refuses it. 

The two of you move about the space with a soft semblance of naturality. Because, despite never having spoken prior to last month, you’ve known one another for years—which is easy to forget when everything about Ellie feels new. Her voice, her irritability, her green eyes. But other things feel familiar, such as the act of being in her presence and moving alongside one another like two fish in the same school.

The sound of her footsteps patting across the wooden floorboards, the gentle scent of pine still clinging to her skin after spending all day in the woods, the feel of her body brushing across yours when she reaches for something across the counter, the sight of her fingers wrapping around the coveted spice. All of these things make you feel as though you’d known Ellie throughout the entirety of your life.

When you finish making the pasta and have scooped three servings onto each of your plates, Ellie does the same while adding her salad to a small glass bowl. Then, with a wide grin, she begins walking toward your grandfather's bedroom. And, as she enters it, her grin only grows wider. 

“I made dinner tonight!” She exclaims as she places his dishes atop his lap, sitting at the foot of his bed so as to watch him closely when he takes the first bite. 

Your grandfather smiles at her warmly. “I already know it’ll be great, kiddo.”

“Thank y– Joel, eat the salad first.” She orders when he begins to twirl his fork in his pasta. He raises a brow at her attitude, but obliges wordlessly. He removes his utensil from its prior placement and instead moves it to the bowl of salad. Ellie leans forward, excitement flooding her body as the sustenance enters his mouth. The food hasn’t even had time to touch his tongue when she’s asking, “Is it good? Do you like it? Did I add too much ranch? I think I did, but I like ranch so I couldn’t really tell what’s considered too much, you kn–”

“Ellie.” He interrupts her softly. “It’s wonderful.”

Her tensed shoulders instantly relax at the reassurance. She leans back, nodding gently as the affirmation soaks into her mind. Then she turns to find that you’re placing her own plate and bowl on her lap. She thanks you quietly, still riding out the high of being validated in regards to her cooking.

You sit down in the velvet and mahogany chair, using your knees as a makeshift table. The glass plate is hot and burns your skin, but not enough to cause pain so you leave it. You take a bite of the salad and can instantly tell Ellie added too much ranch. Hell, there’s more ranch than lettuce. But then you lift your head and find that she’s watching your expression very closely. So you nod, smiling, and take another huge bite. Ellie instantly grins, hues of red tinting the skin of her ears. 

Supper is eaten with laughter in the air and warmth in your chest. Your grandfather asks what the fuck was going on in the kitchen and, when you begin to explain, Ellie cuts you off to say she’d not done anything wrong. He laughs, turning to you before asking what she’d done. You tell the story of the garlic bread, making sure to end it by saying Ellie managed to cook the rest all on her own. Your grandfather congratulates her but, when he looks away, she wears an appreciative expression when your eyes meet.

Even after everyone has long since finished eating, the three of you stay awake late into the night. You exchange random stories, laughing together as the moon rises higher in the night sky. Then, slowly, exhaustion begins to weigh heavy on all of your shoulders. Your grandfather—predictably—is the first to announce his fatigue and claim that it’s nearing his time for slumber. 

Ellie begins to take the dirtied dishes to the kitchen while you tuck him into bed. You fluff his pillows before easing him into them. He relaxes instantly, his eyes shutting with relief. Then you pull his duvet to his chin and ask if he needs anything else. Of course, he claims to be content, so you press a kiss to his hairline and leave the room. You flick the light off before slowly shutting the door.

When the latch clicks into place and you turn around to walk down the hallway, you’re instantly shocked to find Ellie already standing two inches away from you. You gasp, startled by her sudden proximity. She clears her throat, apologizing. And, just by the sound of her voice, you can tell there’s something she’s itching to say. 

“What’s on your mind?” You ask her softly. 

She thins her lips, fidgeting with her fingers. “Nothing, really, I just– I was wondering if you were doing anything tomorrow.”

“What?” You let out a breathy chuckle, visibly confused by her strange behavior. “I’d assume that you know my schedule quite well, by now.”

“Well, yeah, but– Y’know, I was just thinking…” She averts her gaze, staring down the hallway so as to avoid eye contact with you. Her next words come out of her mouth in a long string, all jumbled together. “I noticed you’ve been rereading the same book over and over. Then, on my way to the store– I was buying another shovel ‘cause I left the other one in the road and it got run over. Uh, anyway. On my way to the store, I passed a bookshop and was wondering if, maybe, you’d want to go? You don’t have to go with me, of course, I just thought I could show you where it was. If you want, I could wait outside and–”

“Ellie,” you breathe. “Of course I want to go with you.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes!” You exclaim with a laugh. “I intended on bringing more than one book with me on this trip but, evidently, forgot. So now I’m stuck reading about Dorian fucking Gray on an endless loop. I’d love to go to a bookstore. And don’t be foolish, of course you’re coming inside with me.”

Ellie exhales a heavy breath, her expression slackening instantly. She appears relieved but, more importantly, she appears domestic and comfortable. All the muscles in her body are relaxed and she’s dressed in her pajamas and her hair is slightly mussed. The sight is naught short of endearing, honestly. And, looking at her now, you’re unsure how you ever managed to hate her.

JANUARY 18TH.

You wake with excitement already bubbling over in your chest. It floods your lungs and weaves between your ribs, making a home of your body. And you let it because, well, you’re going to a bookstore. 

Despite always having taken the responsibility of doing the weekly shopping, you never truly explored Jackson. You’ve waved at a few neighbors and passed a couple landmarks, but you never properly explored it per se. In fact, the vast majority of this small town is completely foreign to you.

When you enter the kitchen, Ellie has already returned from chopping wood and is now crouched in front of the furnace, feeding the flames. Her features are highlighted warmly by the fire’s gentle glow—which only further melts that prior iciness from her body. You walk into the kitchen and begin making your grandfather’s coffee. You make yourself and Ellie one, as well, just for the fuck of it.

You’re leaning against the counter, watching the snow fall into the grass outside, when Ellie enters the kitchen. You don’t even hear her footsteps approach—likely a trait picked up from hunting so frequently—which causes you to jolt when her voice is suddenly behind you.

“What book do you–”

“Shit!” You exclaim, whipping around to face her with wild eyes. She holds her hands up in defense, chuckling under her breath at your reaction. You roll your eyes at her, pressing a hand to your thumping heart. “Holy fuck, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” she giggles. “I was just asking which book you want to buy. Y’know, if you have any in mind that you hope to find.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “Just anything that’s not Oscar Wilde.”

Her head tilts to the side. “I thought the book was about Donovan Green.”

“Dorian Gray.” You correct her. “And, yes, it is. Oscar Wilde is the author.”

“Ohh.”

You then turn back around to finish making the coffees. You leave yours on the countertop, hand Ellie’s mug to her, then carry your grandfather’s to his bedroom. She follows behind you, blowing into her cup, as you push the door open. 

Inside, he can be seen sitting up in bed with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He’s reading the ingredients of a chip bag, holding it away from his face. He looks up at the sound of your guys’ approach, discarding the snack in favor of the drink in your hands. You sit on the edge of his bed, passing the mug to him kindly. Then he’s taking a sip despite the way it’s certain to scald his tongue. He smacks his lips, raising his gaze to thank you for the coffee.

“Joel,” Ellie steps forward with her mug clasped between her hands. “We were talking last night and, well, we were wondering if you’d mind us leaving for an hour or so. I found an old bookstore that I want to take her to, but I didn’t know if you would–”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Go on ahead, kiddos. I’ll be fine for one hour, don’t let me hold ya up.”

“Really?” You ask, tone teetering on uncertainty. Admittedly, you hadn't even considered the fact that doing this would render your grandfather alone at home for an extended amount of time. You were just so excited that the thought had slipped your mind. You suddenly feel indescribably grateful for Ellie and her recollection of this fact.

“Really.” He insists. “Now get outta here.”

Despite your residual doubts, you leave the room. Your grandfather assures you he’ll be okay and explains that he’ll likely spend the entire hour trying to read the back of his chip bag. Ellie tells him that if he needs anything, to call her using the landline—which she spends a few minutes setting up on his bedside table. While she does this, you go to your bedroom to change.

You layer your jeans and put on three coats atop your shirt. Then, perched at the foot of your bed, you pull four pairs of socks onto your feet. By the time you reach the foyer, you’re sweaty and wondering why the hell snow exists. You reach over to put on your shoes, but you struggle to tie them considering how limited your movements are due to the layering.

As if on cue, Ellie rounds the corner to the foyer, only to find you annoyed with yourself. She chuckles under her breath before walking over. Then, without a word, she crouches in front of you and begins to lace your boots. Her fingers move with a steady precision that had been completely absent last night when she struggled to chop vegetables for her salad.

“Thanks.” You say.

She shakes her head, not responding. The lack of words reminds you of the beginning of the trip; of all the years spent in unsettling silence. You stare at the top of her hair as she continues to move. The crown of her head reflects light and, due to its auburn color, it almost appears golden. Like a halo. Then she’s lifting her chin and meeting your gaze.

Her skin is adorned with gentle freckles, only a few hues darker than her pigmentation. Her eyes meet yours in a sea of mossy green, her pupils darting between both of yours. She parts her lips, exhaling through her mouth softly. And, for a moment, you’re lost—unsure where you are or what you’re doing—as your entire world orbits Ellie and her indescribable resemblance to sublimity. 

Her head is between your spread knees, which is a rather intimate position for two people of your being. One of her hands is still brushing your ankle. Rather, the thick fabric that covers your ankle, but still. You’re not sure how long the two of you reside like that but you do know you were willing to stay.

Ellie blinks a few times, clearing her throat before standing from the floor. She swallows harshly before grabbing her knitted hat from its hanger and pulling it onto her head. She pushes the front door open and allows you to exit first. Instantly, the frigidity of the winter air bites at your cheeks and the tip of your nose. You shudder.

“It’s not a very far walk.” Ellie assures you. “Only a few blocks north.”

You nod as your teeth begin to chatter. “Yeah, okay.”

The snow crunches under your boots with each step, leaving a trail of passage behind. Some of the sidewalks are shoveled while others aren’t. Joel Miller’s, however, is definitely shoveled. In truth, his house looks like it belongs to a young pair of people who cannot seem to stop moving around. 

You walk with Ellie toward the bookstore in silence. But it’s not awkward, it’s comfortable. She breathes through her mouth, leaving puffs of air behind her. You copy her, making the clouds join together behind you. She laughs, the corners of her mouth tugging upward strikingly. You smile at the sight, focused solely on her instead of the bookstore in your near future.

When you arrive, the interior of the shop is so warm that you peel your coats off without hesitation. Ellie does the same, folding hers over her arm. She offers to take yours, but you refuse—not wanting to burden her after already making her walk all this way.

The gentle ambiance of the shop is warm and welcoming with its sounds of soft chatter and quiet footsteps. The floor is carpeted and the walls are taupe. It’s cozy, homely. And, before long, you’re heading toward the literary section. Ellie trails behind you, watching as your fingertips lightly graze the spines of certain books. You can feel her eyes on you the entire time.

And, as the minutes tick by, you grow increasingly more impulsive. You grab one book, then another, then another, then, before long, you’re struggling to hold them all. Ellie offers to take a few and, this time, you accept. You place the novels in her arms and relish in the lack of weight placed upon your own limbs.

“These all look boring.” She comments as you add yet another paperback to the pile. 

“They do not.” You frown.

“They’re old.” She says. “They were written in the tenth century, there’s no way they’re entertaining.”

“Yeah? Well what do you prefer to read?”

“Uh–” She frowns, the tips of her ears turning red. “You’ll make fun of me.”

You’re instantly intrigued by this. You raise a brow at her behaviour, tilting your head. Your voice is soft when you speak next because, really, listening to her is like watching a sad puppy hurt itself.  “I won’t make fun of you, Ellie, I promise.”

“Well, I prefer comic books.” She admits before rambling a bit. “They’re easier to read and easier to understand. I know it’s a bit childish– which is why I didn’t want to tell you, at first. Because you’re reading these big huge philosophical novels and I just– I like comics.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed of that.” You tell her gently. Then you nod your head to the left, saying, “Also, I think I saw a comic section over there.”

Ellie instantly perks up, turning toward the direction that you nodded. You watch the way her eyes light up as she reads the genre sign. She, with a tone tinged with excitement, asks if she could visit the section once you’re done shopping. You laugh, telling her that she can do anything she wants and that you’re not her keeper. Her ears redden a bit before she nods.

You end up adding one more book to the pile before you’re both heading toward the comic section. You take the stack of books from her, allowing her to add her own choices to the heap. Honestly, the moment you enter the aisle, you notice a difference in her demeanor. Her eyes are brighter and her lips are tugged upward—passion. The exact kind that your grandfather mentioned when he compared the two of you. 

You end up spending ten minutes with her in this section, walking behind her through the shelves as she rambles about the different authors she does and doesn’t enjoy reading. At one point, she gets on a tangent about a series called Savage Starlight that she doesn't stop talking about even once you’re both at the register.

You place the pile of books onto the counter. And, when you begin to sort them into two sections, Ellie stops you and says she’ll pay for them all.

“What?” You blurt out. “No, no, no. You’re here because of me, I’ll pay.”

“I’m here because I wanted to take you here.” She corrects you. “This was a gift, now let me pay.”

“No.” You insist as you reach into your back pocket for your wallet. But then, as soon as you have it in front of you, Ellie swipes it from your hands. You gape at her. “What the fuck?”

“I told you to let me pay.” She replies simply before handing a wad of cash to the woman behind the desk.

You complain about this all the way back to the house, scowling at her as you walk down snowy sidewalks and ascend the stairs of your grandfather’s porch. You only drop it once you’re in the foyer and she’s unlacing your shoes before you even have the chance to shut the door fully. Then her hand is on the back of your calf, easing your foot upward to remove the boot fully. Then the other one.

Later that night, when you’re eating supper with your grandfather around his bed, you tell him about her insufferable insistence on paying. He laughs, deeming that to be an issue common among couples—neither of you catch on. Because, in retaliation, Ellie is quick to tell him about how pretentious your taste in books is. To this, your grandfather laughs heartily while agreeing. You gasp dramatically, pointing out that he’d once claimed to enjoy ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’. More laughter, of course, which lacks a genuine response.

Then, when you’re lying in bed at night, reading your new novels in the lamplight of your bedroom, your mind keeps returning to that moment with Ellie in the foyer. When she’d held your gaze whilst knelt in front of you like your body was an altar.

Your stomach churns at the memory.

JANUARY 28TH.

You spend almost every second with Ellie. Her voice is music and her soul is sunshine. You’d be a fool to feel anything aside from awe in regards to her change—from an icy woman bereft of  charm, to a warm girl whose laughter sounds akin to the call of angels. 

You make her coffee each morning and, when you know her to be feeling morose, you wake early so as to deliver it prior to her daily tasks. One time, you knew she’d be in a foul mood but woke later than you’d intended. So, clad in thin pajamas, you ran out into the yard where she was chopping wood to deliver the coffee. She turned, startled, but instantly broke into a shocked laugh. Your entire body was aching from the frigidity, but she was happy and that’s what mattered. When she came inside a half hour later with the firewood, a smile was still splayed across her lips. She made fun of you for a week.

At noon, Ellie is in charge of making lunch because she’s become increasingly passionate about cooking—rather, the compliments she receives after cooking. At first the meals were terrible, ridden with too much spice or too little char. But, as time crawled onward, her ability got better and she learned how to balance the ingredients. Now, in fact, noon is your second favorite time of the day. Because, while Ellie floats around the kitchen, you sit at the island and read aloud your book to her. Sometimes you can tell she’s not listening but, if you dare to stop, she instantly turns to ask why you’d gone quiet—it’s a bit endearing, really. Other times, you know she’s listening because she makes a comment on every fucking paragraph.

Nighttime is nice, too, because you both spend it in the company of your grandfather. He still smiles whenever the two of you interact, as though he cannot believe the scene before him. He smiles when Ellie says your name, half groaning it as she insists that this is the best meal she’d ever eaten. He smiles when you ask her to pass the pepper, your fingers brushing as it’s exchanged. He smiles when you enter the room together, holding three plates and three cups, while bickering over something meaningless. He smiles a lot, of late, and you’re glad to see it.

After supper, once your grandfather has fallen asleep, the two of you sometimes opt to stay awake. As the moon arches into the sky and the stars dot the darkness and the fireplace crackles in the living room, you sit together on the sofa. Some nights, you read while she journals. Other nights, you both read different books, enveloped in gentle quietude. Most nights, though, she watches the fire silently while you read your books aloud to her. These are your favorite nights, because it feels like a conversation without having to go through the endeavour of materializing topics to discuss. But, no matter what you’re doing, this is your absolute favorite part of the day. With the scent of pine in the air, the solid feel of her body beside yours, and the warm glow of the fire, you’re certain you’ve never been more at ease.

“Hang on,” she whispers one night, halting your reading.

You’re lying on your stomach, novel in front of you, as your ankles rest on Ellie’s lap. She sits with her legs criss-cross while massaging your calf and watching the fire hum from within its furnace. You turn, peering at her from over your shoulder. “What is it?”

“Do you wanna do something fun tomorrow?” She asks with a pair of green eyes glinting with interest. She places both hands on your calf, biting the inside of her cheek as she anxiously awaits your reply. She should know by now, though, that your answer will always be an assertive ‘yes’. 

“When have I ever declined an offer to do something fun with you?” You ask with a breath of laughter. Then you place your book face-down on the cushion, removing your legs from her lap so as to sit up to fully face her. Your eyes narrow playfully. “What do you have in mind?”

“After eight years of annually taking a train to Jackson, I’m sure you’ve noticed the frozen lake just outside of the town.” She muses. You nod, unsure where she’s going with this. “Well, what if I said I saw a shop down the road that sells ice skates?”

“I’d love to, but–” You frown. “I’ve never skated before.”

Ellie shrugs. “I can teach you.”

“What about my grandpa? A trip like that would take all day.”

“Already thought of it.” She says with a grin. “There’s a neighbor down the street who’s our age and willing to watch over him for the day. I made sure she wasn’t a psycho, don’t worry.”

You try to conjure up other things that could possibly hold you back from taking this trip. Not because you don’t want to go—you do—but because it simply sounds too good to come to fruition. You love your grandfather, truly, but spending every single day in this little home can easily become repetitive and cause a severe case of boredom. This year, since befriending Ellie, you have someone to talk to which makes the cabin fever less prominent. Prior years, however, became rather miserable whilst nearing the end of January.

So, when you’re unable to think of any other possible reasons to not take the trip, a wide smile crawls upon your face and settles there. Then you nod, thus giving Ellie the needed confirmation regarding her plan. She smiles as well, visibly becoming quite giddy with the excitement of what’s impending.

JANUARY 29TH.

“And his lunchtime medicine is–”

“In the bathroom cabinet above the sink.” Dina finishes with a light laugh. “Yes, I know. You’ve told me eighteen times.”

You wring your hands, your heart thumping anxiously beneath your ribs. You’re not sure if it’s due to the fear of something happening to your grandfather in your absence or due to the excitement of getting out of this god forsaken town for the first time in two months.

Dina is a kind woman. She is wearing a casual outfit and speaks as though you’ve been friends for years. You and Ellie sat across from her in the kitchen, explaining to her everything that Tommy once explained to the two of you—which medicines he should take and at which times, where to find his glasses when he inevitably loses them, and what time he should be in bed to ensure he won’t be in a sour mood come morning. Dina absorbs all of the information like a sponge, asking questions and offering comments.

But, even after she has repeated it back to you ten times now, you’re still worried something will go wrong. Dina assured you that she knows your grandfather quite well after living beside him for ten years. She told a story of how they first met: she’d just moved in with her fiance when your grandfather knocked on her door with Tommy at his side and a plate of cookies in his hands. He welcomed them to the neighborhood with a kind smile, explaining which people to stay away from and which stores to shop at for lower prices. She speaks of him fondly, recounting times he’d asked for her help with gardening or cooking a certain meal. 

Then, after an hour or so of discussion regarding your grandfather, Ellie is reminding you that it’s nearing time to leave. You give Dina two more instructions—which she was already made aware of—before following Ellie to the foyer. 

While you voice your worries, she kneels before you and begins to lace your boots. This has become a rather habit of hers, always making sure to be there whenever you’re about to leave the house. Even when you’re just leaving for a few minutes, she rushes to your side so as to be the one to tie your shoes. You’ve assured her countless times that you can do it on your own, but she insists on helping. So, after a while, you’ve just given up and now allow her to do it without complaint.

“What if he chokes on something while she’s using the bathroom? Or– I dunno, what if he tries to sit up and pulls a muscle in his back?” You’re rambling at this point, leaned back onto your palms as you stare up at the wooden ceiling. “What if she gives him too many pills or, oh god, what if she gives him the wrong one? We can’t go. Ellie, we have to–”

But when you look down at her face, she’s smiling. Almost as though she’s holding back a laugh. You instantly stop talking, frowning at her as she finishes tying your boot. When she lifts her head and meets your gaze, she can no longer hold it in and bursts out laughing. “Joel will be fine. That guy has survived worse fates than one measly day of solitude.”

“But what if he’s not?” You continue to fret as she uses your knees to push herself to her feet. Ellie holds a hand out and you take it, allowing her to pull you from the bench. Your mind continues to swirl around thoughts of distress. “What if–”

“What if he’s perfectly fine and Dina is a lovely woman and we have a lot of fun?” Ellie suggests. You turn to her, eyes frantic as you tighten your lips into a thin line. She grins, nudging your shoulder. “C’mon. He’ll be fine, I promise.”

“You can’t promise something like that.” You scoff.

“I can if I know it’s true.”

“But you don’t.”

“But I do.”

Ellie then swings the front door open, holding it as you walk outside onto the porch. She follows behind you, twisting the lock before turning to meet your unsure expression. She chuckles, placing a hand on each of your shoulders before asking, furtively, “Do you trust me?” Dazedly, you nod. She smiles, “Then trust that my promise isn’t hollow.”

With a huff and one last gaze over your shoulder, you accept this. And, as you follow Ellie to the shop, you tell yourself over and over that your grandfather will be fine. Because Ellie was right—he has survived worse than this, what with his passion for hunting; Dina is a lovely woman and possibly is the best person Ellie could have asked; and you will have fun skating, because it’ll be with someone you trust.

The shop is small, more like a trading post than an actual store. The entirety of the building is made of wood, warmed almost too much by the burning coals within a dying fireplace. A bell chimes as Ellie pushes the door open to reveal the messy interior. The burly man behind the counter smiles as you both enter, welcoming you like an old friend. Ellie places a hand on your lower back as she guides you to the shelf that harbors the ice skates. The man behind the counter makes comments on their durability and why you should buy them.

Ellie picks out a pair for herself, checking the size thrice before she helps you. You murmur under your breath that you like the green ones, but you know the black ones will fit better. She suggests that you could always try them both on, but you decide to settle for the black ones.

“Good choices.” The man smiles as Ellie places both pairs atop the counter while pulling out her wallet. The man’s hair is bright orange and his shirt is plaid, looking like a lumberjack from a child’s film. He takes Ellie’s cash before putting the shoes in two separate boxes and sliding them across the countertop. Ellie grabs them both, not giving you the chance to pick them up yourself. “Have a lovely day, ladies! And make sure to be careful on the ice!”

“Thanks, you too!” You call over your shoulder as Ellie holds the door open for you. When you exit the shop and descend the porch stairs, you turn to her with a frown. “I can hold my own back, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” She responds. “But I wanted to hold it for you.”

Despite wanting to argue, you know it will have been futile, so you—begrudgingly—accept her terms. 

The town rises with the sun, people exiting their homes as they head off to work. You pass one house where a pair of twin toddlers can be seen playing in the front yard. Their mother watches from the porch with a fond smile as they waddle in tandem through the snow. You kindly wave at them as you pass, causing one of the kids to topple over her own feet. Instantly feeling guilty, you rush forward to help. You grab the child under the arms and haul her back upright. She giggles, flashing a gummy smile with only two teeth in her mouth. The mother waves at you, calling out an appreciative ‘thank you’. 

Then you keep walking. Ellie tells you not to feel obligated to help people, but you brush her off and claim you wanted to—like how she wanted to carry your shoe box for you. To that, she hasn’t an argument. She simply nudges your shoulder, calling you an asshole under her breath. You laugh.

It takes fifteen minutes to reach the edge of town. When you do, you’re welcomed with a line of bare trees and naked shrubs. Ellie grins widely before picking up speed, walking with haste into the woods. You jog after her, passing the ‘Welcome to Jackson’ sign that you’ve priorly only ever seen through a train window. It’s much taller close up.

You catch up with Ellie, a smile tugging at your lips, as she leads you through the woods as though she’s been here countless times. She hasn’t, of course, she just has an indelible connection to forestry as a whole. The foliage calls to her like the voice of a deity. She knows the trees like an astronomer knows the stars or a sailor knows the tides—irrevocably. 

The two of you walk side-by-side for five minutes more, basking in the atmosphere. Sunlight, golden and gentle, filters through the naked limbs of overhead trees. It paints Ellie in hues of warmth that you’d once deemed impossible. 

She was once the embodiment of reserve, cold and icy in all but name. She met the snow like an old friend, bathed in the flakes like she was already made of their dendrites. But, as you get to know her, you’ve come to realize she’s not as bitter as you’d once believed her to be. No. An hour each morning is allotted to tending to the fireplace, honing its flames and feeding its coals. She’s not frigid simply because she’s used to the cold. She’s warm because she cherishes the heat of fire, no matter the time of day nor the fatigue in her bones.

“Here we are!” She beams with a widened smile. 

You lift your head to find a small decline in the snow leading to a frozen-over lake. It’s large and stretches past the trees, farther than you can see. 

Then you turn to find Ellie sitting on an oversized rock, slipping the skates onto her feet. You walk over to her, watching over her shoulder as she laces them easily. When she stands, she wobbles a bit and is forced to grab onto the rock for balance. You laugh at her, offering your arm to help her to the lake. She shakes her head, claiming that she still needs to tie your shoes and, for that, she cannot leave.

With a fond huff of air, you plop down onto the rock and hold your foot out to her. She crouches down, struggling a tad considering the huge blades on the bottoms of her shoes. She tugs at the knot she tied for you only this morning. Then she’s reaching for the box she’d carried all this way for you, removing the lid, and pulling two ice skates from within it. She removes your boot, sending a chill up your spine from the sudden coldness that seeps through the fabric of your socks. Then she slips the skate onto your foot, working with deft steadiness that can only be defined as devotion; as reverence. 

Once both skates are on your feet, she stands—albiet unsteadily. Her movements are similar to that of a baby deer and, before too long, she’s slipping and falling onto where you’re still sitting atop the rock. Her hand falls onto your shoulder, fingers digging into your skin as she catches her breath. 

Ellie, with parted lips and wild eyes, raises her head to meet your gaze. Your faces are inches apart, her hips between your knees. Your brow twitches with curiosity, unable to register the feeling that suddenly floods your chest. You’re close enough to count the freckles on her skin and name every color within her irises. You exhale a soft breath through your mouth, gaze darting across her face. 

“I thought you said you were good at this.” You whisper.

Her gaze flicks from your eyes down to your mouth, then back up again. “It’s been a while.”

You huff a laugh. She does too, and the sound reaches your ears like a melody you’d been longing for since birth. Then your expression is slackening and you’re leaning closer, just by an inch. Ellie’s breath hitches. She blinks rapidly before loosening  her hold on your shoulders and pushing to her wobbly feet with a thinned mouth. 

For a long moment, you don’t move. Then she’s turning to you with a smile that makes it feel like everything that just—almost—happened, never did. She holds out a hand, kind and friendly, for you to take. So you do, allowing her to pull you to your feet. Then you’re both wobbly. You more so, of course.

Once you reach the ice, it’s much easier to stand yet also much easier to slip. Your balance wavers and you’re suddenly gripping onto both of Ellie’s forearms, using her body like a pair of crutches to hold yourself upright. She laughs under her breath, twisting her wrists to hold you steady. 

“Bend your knees.” She whispers. Her voice is so quiet and so close to your ear that a chill goes down your spine—and not from the cold. Your heart pounds within your chest but you oblige, bending your knees slightly as she instructed. Instantly, it’s easier to move with fluidity than when your legs were locked. “Good.” 

Her lips caress the shell of your ear. It startles you, enough so that you snap your head upward and lose your balance. Suddenly, you’re tumbling toward the ice with her coming down with you. You hadn't meant to pull her, but you don’t feel bad for it. Not when she’s hovering over you, breathing heavily, with her hands propped on either side of your head and her body slotted between your legs.

She blinks, brows furrowing. Her cheeks turn pink, though you suppose it could be due to the cold. Her lashes flutter, just for a second, before she lowers her head. Your noses touch and you swear she can hear how fast your heart is beating. She pauses, allowing you to take the next step. And—without hesitation—you do. 

You crane your head upward, meeting her halfway as your mouths meet. She tastes of firewood and solicitude. Her lips are soft and pillowy with a gentle semblance of warmth, not an inch of her soul rendered cold. You lift your arms from the ice to her back, snaking them around her shoulders so as to pull her even closer. She obliges, bending her propped arms to rest on her elbows in place of her palms.

When she pulls away, you’re both breathing heavily and a bit shakily. Ellie blinks once, twice, thrice before she’s suddenly pushing to her feet and shaking her head fervently. You watch her, mind swirling, as she struggles to collect herself.

“I didn’t mean to–” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as she squeezes her eyes shut. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Maybe not,” you offer softly, “but it did happen.”

She turns to you, looking down to where you’re still sitting on the ice—partly because you don’t want to startle her and partly because you don’t know how to get up by yourself. She frowns. “You’re Joel’s granddaughter, this is like– super fucked. I don’t know what I was thinking. This isn’t–”

“Ellie.” You snap, grabbing her attention. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

She exhales a sharp breath, nodding, “we’re fine.”

JANUARY 31ST.

Since the kiss at the frozen lake, it’s been quite awkward whenever you’re in the same room as Ellie. It’s not bad, necessarily, it’s just… off. She’s quiescent, lacking in her usual loquaciousness. A few times, you’ve wondered if she regrets it. In truth, you hadn’t thought of her in a sensual light until the lake. But, since then, you’ve not been able to stop.

When her gaze catches yours, you wonder what her eyes would look like in a dimly lit room. When her hands wrap around a mug, you wonder what they’d feel like on your body. When she speaks, low and gruff, you wonder what kinds of things she’d say when sharing a bed. When she bites on her bottom lip, you wonder what her teeth would feel like if they were to graze the bare skin of your hip bone.

It makes you feel dirty, actually. Like you’re in desperate need of a bath despite having already taken one today. Your hair is still damp and your skin is still adorned with the scent of soap. And yet your thoughts make you yearn for another and another so as to wash your mind clean of such filth.

You’ve just finished eating dinner with your grandfather. He noticed the change in your guys’ relationship instantly, though he seems to know better than to say anything about it. You all still eat dinner together, but the conversations that arise are a bit stifled and awkward. Ellie refuses to meet your eye and won’t even speak to your grandfather when he addresses her. She wears a blank stare and stiff shoulders, eating from her plate whilst enveloped in absolute quietude.

“So,” your grandfather muses. “What’d you girls do today?”

Ellie does not respond, instead turning her head into a downcast position, thus toward her plate. She almost appears… ashamed. With a soft clearing of your throat, you decide to fill her silence. “I started a new book today.”

“Really? Oh, lemme guess. Is it another borin’ one?” Your grandfather teases, raising his brows in inquiry as he bites on his fork.

“It’s a classic, yes.” You frown. “Macbeth.”

“You’re reading Shakespeare now? Like, actual Shakespeare?”

At this, you nudge his shoulder with a gape. He laughs, apologizing halfheartedly for insulting your taste in novels. He does, however, insist that he’s never met a person younger than eighty who enjoys reading Shakespeare for fun. But, after that, the conversation on books is dropped and thereby moves onto a new topic regarding laundry and the nuisances it evokes.

Before long, Ellie finishes her meal and takes her leave without a word. You watch her leave, frowning at the back of her head as she exits the bedroom with her dirty dishes. Your grandfather’s voice falls silent as he observes the scene before him. The negligence in Ellie’s gait; the longing in your gaze. 

“Somethin’ happened.” Your grandfather says. You turn at the sound of his old and wizened tone—through it, you’re able to predict that he’s going to be giving you a long piece of advice that you hadn’t asked for. With a sigh, you turn in your chair to face him fully, preparing yourself for his rigmarole. “I dunno what occurred between you two. In truth, I don’t care t’hear it. What I do care to hear is an apology. I know Ellie pretty damn well enough to make a few guesses as t’what occurred. Somethin’ happened between you that crossed a very thin line between friends and lovers, right?”

You don’t reply.

“Thought so.” He nods solemnly. “Somethin’ you should know is that Ellie has been through hell ‘n’ back. In every aspect of livin’, she’s experienced pain. Family, friends, lovers. She lost her mother to the same form of illness that has taken hold o’me. She lost her best friend, Riley, to another sort of illness that resulted in her life endin’ when she was only thirteen. And, when she finally began to heal from it all, she fell in love with a girl named Cat—who ended up breakin’ her heart into a million fragments.” Your grandfather frowns deeply, reaching out to grab hold of your hand. He runs the pad of his thumb across your knuckles. “Now, I dunno what exactly happened between y’two. And, maybe, Cat ain’t the reason she’s behavin’ this way. But I thought you deserved to know ‘cause I doubt she’d tell ya herself.”

Once again, responding to him feels too big of an endeavor for you to overcome. You feel conflicted whenever your grandfather tells you tales of Ellie’s past. On one hand, you’re appreciative of his words because you’re aware that he is likely to be your only source of information regarding her past. On the other hand, you wish Ellie would be the one to tell you these things. You wish she trusted you deeper so as to confide in you about things of this sort. But alas, that is not the case.

Your grandfather releases your hand and, with a small smile, he rolls his head to the side—thus conveying the fatigue lodged within his muscles. You stand from the chair, pull his duvet up to his collarbone, and press a kiss to his wrinkled and bearded cheek. Then, with a whispered ‘goodnight’, you take your leave.

The hallway is vacant and silent, shrouded in the absence of the girl who once would leave this room by your side. You remember the way you’d both have to stifle your voices at night while getting water. You remember tripping over a floorboard and catching yourself on her shoulder, causing her to burst out laughing. You remember reading to her in front of the fireplace—which is already snuffed out and cold.

You turn around, leaving the living room and heading back down the hall. You’re unsure why you even tried; of course she wouldn’t be here. Why would she? With a huffed sigh, you saunter down the hallway toward your bedroom. A few feet from your door, you pass Ellie’s. You halt.

It’s silent inside but, within, you know she resides. You stand outside of the door for only a moment, only long enough to hear that familiar gentility of her pencil scratching the page of her journal. She’s awake. It shouldn’t surprise you, really, considering she’d been spending every night for the past month staying up late with you. Her mind cannot rest just yet, for it’s gotten accustomed to your company.

Just as you’re about to continue your trek to the bedroom, your grandfather’s priorly spoken words ring through your skull. “What I do care to hear is an apology. I know Ellie pretty damn well enough to make a few guesses as t’what occurred. Somethin’ happened between you that crossed a very thin line between friends and lovers, right?” 

Then you’re knocking on her door

The scratching of her pencil suddenly stops at the sound of your knuckles meeting the wooden door. You listen closely as her pencil clatters atop her desk and her journal snaps shut. Then the legs of her chair are scraping across the floor and her feet are approaching the doorway. The knob twists. The latch clicks. The door swings open.

Ellie’s standing there with dampened hair and an oversized shirt—the face of domesticity. The room behind her is bathed in the soft orange glow of candles, allowing the scent of citrus to absorb the space. She blinks, brows creasing. Then her voice, smooth and quiet, glides through the tense air between you. 

“Do you need something?” The words are a bit harsh and blunt, though the softness to her tone is enough to prove she doesn’t mean for them to sound as so.

“I want to apologize.” You say. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I mean– well, to be honest, I thought the feelings were reciprocated. But I see now that wasn’t true and that I shouldn’t have assumed such a thing. I’m sorry. Or, to quote a woman I once knew… it was wrong and I was wrong and I am sorry.”

For a moment, Ellie does not reply. Then there’s a shift in her body. Her eyes glint something akin to ardor and her shoulders relax a little in the presence of you. Then, before you’re able to react, she’s taking a step forward and cupping your jaw in one of her hands. She leans forward, brushing her nose against yours, and whispers, “You weren’t wrong.”

Then she kisses you—soft and reverent. Her fingers flex against your skin, the tips of them pushing slightly into the side of your neck. She breaks for air, cheating heaving slightly. You halfway expect her to recluse in the way she had back at the frozen lake. But, instead, she dives right back in. And, this time, she kisses you with more ferocity than before—hungry and rapacious.

Her other hand finds the dip of your waist before she tugs you into her room. You follow, like a fish on a hook, as she shuts the door behind you with a light thud. Citrus fills your lungs, sharp and tangy and devout. 

Ellie’s mouth never leaves yours as she stumbles toward her bed, your feet tripping over one another. Then the back of your knees is hitting the side of her mattress, drawing her hand to cup the back of your head as you fall onto it. The mattress dips under your guys’ amalgamated weights. 

Breath leaves your lips heavily yet unhurried. Your lashes flutter, just enough to catch the sight of her like this: close and intimate and pious to the act of redamancy. Her pupils are blown and her lips are wet. She lifts her gaze to meet yours and, for a moment, you think you’re drowning in a sea of green hues. 

Then she tips her head to the side and leans back in for more—more of you, more of this. Her mouth, open and shaky, presses into the soft spot behind your ear. She places kisses along the line of your jaw. Your head falls back, eyes lidded as you stare up at her wooden ceiling. She kisses down the column of your throat until she finds the pulse between your collarbones. Her teeth graze the skin there, drawing a gasp from your mouth. 

Your hands find her head, half cradling it and hand yanking it. She chuckles against your skin, low and amused, before she comes back up to your face. Ellie hovers over you for a second, eyes darting across your features. Then she begins tracing her hands down the length of your body. Slowly does she move, fingers caressing each dip and waver of your skin. 

Then she finds the hem of your waistband, running the pad of her thumb across the elastic. She hesitates, searching your face for any semblance of refusal. But, instead, she finds only awe and the willingness to allow her anything; everything. So long as she’s the one doing it. 

With an avid nod, you grant her the permission to cross yet another thinly inscribed line within your relationship. Ellie is slow, savoury, as she dips her hand under the fabric of your pants. Almost instantly, you’re squeezing your eyes and breathing heavily. Ellie sinks forward, lowering her mouth onto yours. It’s not necessarily a kiss, but rather a fusion of devotion. She whispers your name, breathless and shaky, into your mouth as you breathe, heavy and shaky, into hers.

She stellifies you, turning your mind to mush and your body to pomace.

Before long, you’re on your back as your mind slowly comes back to you—emerging from the shadows of bliss as a shapeless creature that hasn’t the care to stay long. Ellie holds you through it all, whispering into your ear and peppering kisses across your face. From your nose to your chin to your cheeks, she kisses you. Then, once you’re present enough to do so, you snake your arms around her neck and pull her into a heated kiss. It doesn’t last long considering your lack of breath, but it’s enough.

Her hand is drawn out of your pants and presses into the mattress as she hovers over you, awestruck as she takes in the sight of your blissed-out face. You stare up at her, fond and vehement, before a small grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. Then you’re laughing, chest shaking as your eyes shut.

“What?” Ellie asks, genuinely confused.

“Nothing, nothing.” You say through your fit of laughter. “It’s just– I was expecting the exact opposite of this when I came to apologize. I thought you’d just ignore me, brush it off, or something.”

“Wanna hear a secret?” She inquires, rolling onto her side next to you. You narrow your eyes at her, nodding slowly as though you’re not sure if you trust this or not. Then she says, “I’ve been in love with you since we first met. Sixteen years old and shaking your hand at that snowy train station, I instantly knew I was doomed. That’s why I never talked to you. I was scared of fucking up my words or– I dunno, saying something stupid, I guess. But when you burned yourself with Joel’s coffee, I couldn’t help it. It was my fault that you spilled it at all but, also, I couldn’t stand seeing you in pain.”

You stare at her, lips parted and eyes widened. Ellie’s face is tinted in hues of red, blotching her pale skin in a display of chagrin. You turn onto your side as well, the mattress squeaking as your weight adjusts, facing her with that shocked expression. 

“Eight years?” You ask. 

Ellie nods, still blushing. “Eight years.”

“You could have told me! Or, if you didn’t want to admit it just yet, you could have said something to me!” You blurt out. “I thought you hated me!”

“Hated you?” She lets out a laugh. “I don’t think there’s a world in which I could ever hate you. You’re too well fused into my soul.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “Awe. That was shockingly poetic.”

“Oh, fuck off.” She turns onto her back, frowning at the ceiling. She has one arm propped under her head so as to act as a makeshift pillow. “I was being honest and you’re making fun of me.”

You giggle, rolling over so your chest is against hers. You’re practically on top of her, your face less than a foot away from her own. She blinks up at you, her cheeks turning an even darker shade of red. You press a short kiss to her lips. “I’m not making fun of you, El. I was just surprised to hear something so eloquent coming from you.”

“You don’t think I can be eloquent?” She asks, furrowing her brows playfully.  You hum, feigning thought as if this is something needing a long moment of consideration. Ellie gapes at you, feigning shock. “Sorry I don’t read Shakespeare, but that doesn't make me illiterate.”

“You heard that?” You smile. “I thought you weren’t listening to our conversation at supper.”

“I’m always listening when you talk.”

FEBRUARY 11TH.

You know what your grandfather meant when he compared Ellie to your fallen mother. He hadn’t intended to suggest that Ellie could ever replace Sarah’s role as his daughter, he simply meant to say that they both withhold the same amount of sunny brilliance within them.

Despite priorly believing Ellie to be cold and bitter, you’ve since shoveled away her coat of snow to find nothing but warmth and kindness. She’s funny and gentle and caring and, honestly, you should have spilled coffee on yourself far sooner than you had.

Eight years, it was, that Ellie spent loving you whilst believing it to be one-sided. She’s told you stories from her perspective on all of which occurred since first meeting one another. When you were kids, she avoided you like the plague because she thought it would make her feelings go away. And, when she was seventeen and started dating Cat, all she could think of was you—which indirectly caused the end of their relationship. And, at eighteen, she knew for certain that these feelings would never go away. At twenty, she promised herself that she’d never utter them aloud to you because she didn’t want to infringe on your visitations with your dying grandpa. And, from there, she simply carried on her goal of staying away from you so as to protect you from the burden of knowing her.

She also recounted her thoughts regarding these past two months. When you spilled your grandfather’s coffee, she rushed to your aid due to feelings of guilt and devotion to you. Then, when you tried to befriend her, she continued to ignore you—not because she wanted to, but because she felt that she had to—which you told her was a silly reason. But, after a week or so, she was unable to take it any longer. All of the frustrations with herself that’d been accumulating for the past eight years were suddenly let loose when that mug broke. She was worried and she hated that she was worried, so she acted as though she hated you, despite that not having been the case. Then, for the following juncture in which you loathed her, she forced herself to act the same way to you so as to make it appear as though your hatred was reciprocated. But, again, she didn’t last long before everything was let loose. She apologized for everything, thus evoking your guys’ friendship. Then, when you kissed her at the frozen lake, she felt as though she’d not only failed herself but Joel, as well.

Of course, you assured her that all of these things were foolish seeing as she could easily have just voiced her struggles. 

Anyway, for the past week and a half, you and Ellie have embarked on a new  journey with one another. Not quietude, nor loathing, nor friendship. But, instead, truth—for once. You’re not officially dating, but you might as well be. You kiss her whenever she enters the house and, whilst within it, she cannot ever seem to rid her hands from your body. And each night, as darkness falls over the town of Jackson, your hands roam and your mouths meet in heated worship.

Your grandfather knows because, well, he always knows these things before you do. He seems to love it—despite Ellie’s worry. He claims to have always known through the way Ellie looked at you when she was sixteen. He also said, now that you’ve both finally accepted your mutual adulations, you’re prohibited from ever arguing again. Ellie laughed, saying she’d never dream of it.

“G’morning.” Ellie says as you trudge into the kitchen. You yawn, stretching your arms over your head, as the scent of coffee meets your nose. You blink a few times so as to rid the sleepiness from your eyes, then your gaze is searching for the source. That's when you notice the three mugs placed atop the counter. Ellie hands one to you. “Made you coffee.”

“I see that.” You reply in a whisper before pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Thank you.”

She smiles bashfully before grabbing hold of the other two mugs and beginning to carry them toward your grandfather’s room. You follow behind her, nursing your own drink, as she pushes the door open with her knee. Inside, your grandfather is already sitting upright in bed, writing something onto a sheet of paper. He turns at the sound of the door hinges creaking, smiling as he watches the two of you approach his bed. 

Ellie hands him the mug before sitting at the foot of his mattress. You take the chair, watching as she helps him drink from the glass. Lately, his illness has been getting worse. He’s lost a lot of weight and his hands have become too shaky to eat or drink on his own. You worry for him; so does Ellie. Just the other night, you laid in her bed with teary eyes as you discussed your concern for his health. She comforted you, though you could tell she shared the same feelings.

“What were you writing about before we came in?” You ask as Ellie removes the mug from his lips.

“Jus’ in case.” His voice wavers from impending weakness. “I was, uh– I wrote a couple o’letters. J-Jus’ in case, y’know, somethin’ happens to me ‘n’ I don’t get the chance to talk t��everyone. Wrote one to Tommy. Wrote one to Maria. Wrote t’some old friends o’mine: Bill, Frank, ‘n’ Tess. Wrote two to Dina and her fiance. And, of course, I wrote the longest ones to my granddaughter and to my best friend.”

The room falls silent at that. It’s rather known that your grandfather hasn’t many days left. But for him to speak of it like this—in terms that make it sound so… solidified—it places a heavy weight in your stomach and it lodges a tightens in your throat. You suddenly don’t feel strong enough to speak. Ellie must notice this, too, because she’s the first to break the silence.

“You’re not going anywhere, old man.” She scoffs. “You’ll have the chance to talk to everyone and each member of their families. No need to write letters.”

“I know.” He agrees with a small nod. He doesn’t appear conflicted, nor does he appear sorrowful. He's just accepted it. Welcomed it, even. But this isn’t a truth which can simply be endured with a curt smile. It’s his death you’re talking about—the loss of your grandfather’s life. He shrugs. “It’s jus’ in case, anyhow.”

The atmosphere, after that, changes rather drastically. 

The inside of the home becomes rather cold and frigid with the heavy understanding of what’s to come. Each night, you lie awake wondering if your grandfather has died while you’re not looking. Ellie falls asleep by your side, an arm draped across your chest, while you stare at the ceiling with a pit of despair lodged within your stomach.

You no longer leave your grandfather’s bedside for very long during the day. Upon waking, you make sure to check on him before brewing his coffee. Then you sit with him until noon as you help him drink from the mug. He tells you stories of his life—how he’d met Tess, how he’d officiated Bill and Frank’s wedding, and, of course, countless memories with Ellie. 

Then, at noon, you cook lunch. Ellie sits at the island, speaking to you in a gentle voice as though she’s afraid you’ll shatter at anything else. She hugs you from behind as you wash dishes, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck. You don’t blame her for her touchiness, considering you’ve not been in the mood for anything more than kissing since realizing your grandfather was writing death letters. She assures you she doesn't mind, of course, and that she understands. But you still feel guilty. When her hands roam late at night or when her kisses descend to your breasts, you try to enjoy it. You do. But then your mind begins to stray and thoughts of your grandfather’s impending grave comes to mind. It makes you feel guilty for enjoying the act of being alive whilst knowing he’s lacking in his ability to do the same.

You three eat both lunch and supper together, trying desperately to ignore the elephant in the room. Your mood is dampened by the inevitability of losing your grandfather. But, as he and Ellie laugh together over bowls of stew, you think you’re the only one bothered by it all. Ellie says it’s wearing on her mind, as well, but you don’t see it.

And, on the sixth night since finding out about the letters, you walk with Ellie to her bedroom. It smells of citrus. She sits at the foot of her bed, unhooking her belt and peeling off her jeans. You flop backward onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling overhead. You breathe in and out, counting each breath you take because it’s the only way to distract yourself from the more tiresome thoughts. You reach forty-six before Ellie’s head pops into view. She hovers over you, her hair framing your face. You look up at her, frowning.

“How’re you doing?” She asks, shifting forward so as to be right beside you. 

You sigh through your nose as your brow creases. “I don’t know anymore. He’s getting worse each day and I– there’s nothing I can do to help him. He says he’s fine, that he’s not hurting, but every time I speak with the pharmacist she says that dosage for painkillers has risen. How can– How are you not affected by it all?”

You roll your head to the side, watching Ellie from where she now lies flat on her back beside you. Her green eyes flick across the ceiling, her chest rising and falling softly. She’s dressed in her pajamas now, her skin cleaned and smelling of soap. Her lips twitch in thought as she ponders on your question. Then, with a thin smile, she turns to meet your gaze.

“I am affected by it.” She admits. “Of course I am. I’ve known Joel since I was fourteen and– he treated me like a daughter when all I needed was a parental figure. I know he’s told you about our past together, so I won’t go into detail, but– but I am affected by it. Every day, I’m affected by it. But I’ve chosen to not allow his illness to steal more from us. It’s already taken so much. It won’t take my memories of him, too. I don’t want my final recollection of Joel to be of him sick and in pain, dying. I want to remember him being strong, laughing, and enjoying life the way he’s still striving to.”

You feel tears build up along your bottom lashes. Your throat suddenly feels thick with a grief you’ve not yet been able to swallow. You sniffle and Ellie turns, frowning. She reaches over, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before swiping a fallen tear from your cheek.

“It’ll be okay.” She whispers, coming forward to hold you in her arms. You let out a choked sob as she hugs you close to her chest. She runs her fingers along your scalp soothingly. “It’ll all be okay. I promise.”

FEBRUARY 22ND.

It’s ten days later when you’re sitting at your grandfather’s side, your head on his chest, as Ellie reads aloud a page from her comic. Listening to the gentle thrum of his heartbeat soothes the ache in your heart. He rubs your back, though you can feel the shakiness of his hand as he does so. Ellie’s voice is soft as she reads the dialogue from the page. 

A sudden knock is heard at the front door.

Ellie’s voice stutters to a stop, her head turning toward the sound. You, begrudgingly, lift your head from your grandfather’s chest and begin to stand. Ellie tells you to lie back down, assuring you that she’ll open the door in your stead. You don’t argue.

She places her book face-down on your grandfather’s lap before standing from the bed. She leaves the room and you listen to her footsteps slowly evanesce. You hear the front door open, straining your ears to hear who it is that she’s speaking it. But their voices are too muffled to make sense of. A woman, you think, you cannot tell. Then the door shuts again and you hear her footsteps approach the room. 

But it’s not just her. There are three pairs of feet. You lift your head, sitting upright in the velvet and mahogany chair. Ellie turns the corner, entering the room before the other two. She holds the door for them. 

Dina and her fiance are the ones to enter the room after her. Dina walks inside with a wide grin, coming over to hug your grandfather avidly. In the doorway, her fiance lingers awkwardly. He’s a tall man with black hair and a kind smile. He accidentally meets your gaze, giving an awkward wave. 

“Joel!” Dina grins as she sits on the edge of his bed. “How’ve you been, lately? You look great!”

“There ain’t no– no need t’flatter me, Dina.” He chuckles heartily, his voice wavering with growing weakness. “I know I look like sh-shit.”

“Handsome and modest? Damn, you’re quite the prize, Miller.” She laughs, nudging him lightly. Then she glances over her shoulder at the man in the doorway. “Sorry, Jesse. Is it too late to decline your proposal?”

“Ha-ha.” He laughs sarcastically. “Yes, it’s too late. The invitations have already been sent out.”

“Invitations?” Your grandfather inquires.

“That’s actually what we came to talk to you about. Our wedding is scheduled for October.” Dina says with a smile, though it’s tinged with a bit of pity. The room is suddenly enveloped in quietude as the statement settles in. You know where this is going—he won’t be living long enough to see Dina and Jesse get married. 

Jesse clears his throat when it becomes apparent that Dina’s strength has begun to falter. “Enough of that. We came to let you know of our wedding date and to invite you to a bonfire we’re hosting tonight. We only invited a couple friends and will last only an hour or two. There’ll be drinks and games, if you guys would have to tag along.”

“Ah.” Your grandfather muses shakily. “I– I’d love nothin’ more to– than to attend but I ain’t sure how well my legs w–work nowadays.” 

“We thought of that, too.” Dina says with a smile. “Jesse’s great grandma visited a few months ago and bought a new wheelchair, so she left her old one. We could bring it over, if you’d like to try it out.”

Your grandfather thinks for a moment, weighing the options. Then he shrugs. “W– Why the hell not?”

It’s four hours later when you’re pushing your grandfather’s wheelchair into Dina and Jesse’s backyard. He’s dressed in thick winter clothes that Ellie picked out for him, claiming to know his style quite well. You were the one to dress him, though. The entire time, he laughed and made jokes while struggling to so much as lift his leg. You knew he was in pain, but you knew he didn’t want to acknowledge it. So you ignored it.

The snow isn’t as thick as it’d been during the prior two months, but it’s still frigid enough to make your nose and fingers feel like icicles. When you round the corner of their house to find a large and billowing fire, you notice the way your grandfather’s face lights up. You’re sure he’s missed this—being outside with his friends and family. Especially after eight years of being bed ridden and very seldom taken outside. 

Dina welcomes the three of you with a wide smile and two drinks for you and Ellie. Then she leads the way to where you can put your grandfather’s chair. She has thick logs set up as seating for everyone else, situated at the perfect distance from the fire to remain warm yet not scaldingly so. There are a few other people here, chatting and laughing lightly. You don’t recognize any of them, but your grandfather certainly does because, the moment you situate his chair, he’s being bombarded with conversations and questions and laughter and memories. 

You linger for a few moments, uncomfortable with the notion of leaving him. But then Ellis is tugging on your hand and beckoning you toward a game of cornhole against Dina and Jesse. With a light laugh, you follow her.

With a drink in one hand and a bean bag in the other, the game ensues. Dina stands beside you on Jesse’s team as the bags are tossed. And, as time passes and you become increasingly inebriated, your aim gets worse. But so does everybody else’s. In the end, Dina and Jesse win by two points. While you simply laugh and don’t care, Ellie is demanding a rematch and insisting Jesse can’t count. 

You get another drink while the game is reset. Once you’ve returned, the teams have been switched. You’re now standing beside Ellie, who is on Dina’s team. You narrow your eyes at her and she winks, saying she’ll let you win. Dina curses at her, saying she can’t just let you win. You insist that she can.

The game begins and, by the end of it, you’re barely comprehensive of what’s happening. Ellie is in the same boat, if not worse, as her feet stagger with each throw. Jesse does the same, stumbling over himself and earning your guys’ team absolutely no points. By the end, Ellie and Dina win. Jesse is the one to demand a rematch this time despite being the drunkest one present. Dina grabs him by the arm and pulls him away to drink some water. All the while, he continues to demand a rematch. 

“Good game?” Ellie turns to you, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. Her green eyes are lidded and bloodshot, her cheeks pink from the alcohol and the cold. She steps forward, snaking her hands onto your hips.

“Terrible game, actually.” You frown at her, though your arms betray you as they wrap around her shoulders to pull her closer. Ellie giggles lightly before lowering her head to your neck and pressing kisses onto the skin. You lean away, though it’s evident that you don’t intend to actually stray from her. Your hands tangle in her hair as you laugh. “You cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat, Jesse just can’t throw for shit. Especially when he’s drunk.” She says skin your skin, the vibrations of her voice sending a chill down your spine. Her mouth is cold and wet against your throat, making the kisses feel simultaneously wonderful and horrible.

“I prefer to be on your team, then.” You tell her.

“Do you?” She mutters against your jaw. “Because I prefer to be on Dina’s.”

You pull away from her with a scowl, laughing lightly. “Asshole.”

The world is a blur of bliss and ecstasy as the winter air breathes over your skin and the lights spin around you. The sounds of laughter and chatter fade away as you focus solely on Ellie’s mouth and needy touches. Her hand traces up your spine. And, for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel afraid to enjoy this moment.

You pull away, causing her to frown. But then you’re grabbing her by the wrist and tugging her toward the treeline. Jesse whistles as he notices the two of you taking your leave, Dina slaps him on the chest while still trying to coax him into drinking a bottle of water. You chuckle at them, shaking your head fondly as you lead Ellie into the trees.

Then, once you’re far enough to feel a semblance of privacy, she wastes no time in spinning you around and pressing your spine into the bark of a nearby tree. If it weren’t for the multiple layers of clothes you’re wearing, that would likely have hurt.

Ellie kisses you, hard. Her teeth graze your bottom lip as she memorizes the inside of your mouth with your tongue. All the while, her hands are roaming your clothed body. She can’t feel the shape of you nor the warmth of your skin, but she seems to enjoy this just as much. Perhaps she’s too drunk to care much. You reach up, hands finding the back of her skull once more and her hair threads between your fingers.

She hums into your mouth before her body shifts. You’re unsure what she’s doing until you feel her knee begin to spread your thighs apart. Your breath stutters for a moment before you nod and allow her to continue. She does, slotting her thigh between both of yours. 

Your arms tighten around her as your hips roll back and forth. The world spins and swirls around you, fading away completely from your mind. She holds you tight, as she urges your movements to pick up the pace. They do, becoming hurried and a bit jagged. 

You breathe warmth into her open mouth, filling that defrosted soul of hers with adulation.

When you both return to the bonfire twenty minutes later, Jesse can’t seem to stop teasing Ellie—who is still drunk and stumbling a little. Dina comes forward as the two of them sit by the fire. She hands you a glass of water and straightens your hair for you. You thank her, sipping on the chilled drink as it washes down your throat icily.

A few minutes later, you join everyone else around the fire. You sit between Ellie and your grandfather. He’s still talking to his old friends, catching on all of which he’d missed while bed ridden. One of them got divorced, one of them got a new knee, and one of them had a grandson. 

You rest your head on Ellie’s shoulder as she rubs her hand up and down your back. You listen to your grandfather speak, his voice laced with happiness despite its light waver. She was right: this sickness has already taken so much from you; why not remember your grandfather like this instead of sick and in bed?

FEBRUARY 25TH.

Your grandfather passes away in his sleep three days after rekindling with a group of old friends. He went quickly and painlessly. But, still, he went. 

You were the one to find him, lifeless and cold. 

Despite knowing it was doomed to occur, you fell to your knees and sobbed. Ellie must have heard your cries because it only took a few seconds before she was rushing into the room. When she saw the scene, her heart audibly shattered within her chest. She lingered in the doorway, frozen, for a moment. Then she came forward and held you as you sobbed and sobbed.

It took two hours before you gained the courage to call Tommy. When he answered the phone, you could hear in his voice that he already knew what you were going to say. It was tinged with dread and grief. But, still, he let out a pained sound when you uttered those two terrible words—‘Grandpa’s dead’. He said he’d be home as soon as possible.

Dina and Jesse helped you and Ellie bury the body in the backyard. You could barely get any words out without crying. Ellie was recluse and silent, helping to dig the grave without speaking. Dina had tears in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything or ask any questions. Jesse was the one to officially place his body in the ground.

Two days later, Tommy arrived with a suitcase and a missing piece in his soul. He rushed into the house during lunchtime, but neither you nor Ellie had it in you to eat. Your head was in your hands, your spine arched as you shook. Ellie had a hand on your back despite being in a similar state of despair. Dina and Jesse were in the other room, having opted to stay until Tommy’s arrival so as to make sure you both were eating and sleeping.

Tommy went into his brother’s room, which was still shrouded with his scent and his spirit. There, he found the letters.

To my granddaughter,

The first time I ever saw you, you were a wee little thing. You were so small n so fragile. I didn’t even wanna hold you in the hospital for fear of breakin you. But your momma, my Sarah, insisted. She was always so strong n assertive, that woman. She demanded that I loved you. But she didn’t need to demand that. I already did. From the moment I laid my eyes on you, I already did.

When you were growin up, I saw you nearly every weekend. Your momma would bring you to my porch in a little pink stroller that Tommy had bought for you. She wouldn’t even need to knock on the door before I was opening it and pullin you into my arms. You always loved bein held.

Once you were old enough to walk, you were old enough to cause trouble. You painted on the white walls n shattered my momma’s ugly vase. You were a little nuisance, to be honest. But I loved you, even still, because I always would. And because your visits gave me an excuse to make spaghetti n bring Tommy over. 

Do you remember spendin Christmas eve at my house when you were seven? I hope you do because that day was one of the best days I ever had. You came over with your momma to help us wrap presents for the neighbors. You weren’t good at wrappin, but we still let you do it because it was impossible to tell you ‘no’. You helped me cook a nice soup and you helped me decorate the tree. Then, when your momma was gettin ready to leave, you cried n cried. You begged her to let you have a sleepover at my house because ‘Santa brought Grandpa the best gifts’. 

When your momma said she was movin away, I didn’t believe it. But, as it turned out, she hadn’t been lyin. Within that month, you were both packed up n ready to move three states away from Jackson. You cried when you told me goodbye, squeezing me so tight I nearly couldn’t breathe. 

After that, I was lucky to see you once a year.

By the time I got sick, you were sixteen years old but, in my mind, you were still seven and beggin to have a sleepover. I thought I would die without ever seein you again. I now know how terribly wrong I’d been. And thank God for that. Tommy cared for me, but it wasn’t the same as when you came over that first Winter & said you’d be comin to visit every single Winter. Then, as if things weren’t already good enough, Ellie said the same thing. I thought, for sure, I’d died and woke up in heaven. 

The two of you didn’t talk at first, but that was okay. I knew, one day, you would become best friends. 

When your momma died, I thought my world was over. In a way, it was. I knew I’d never see that golden hair turn gray or that kind smile turn wrinkled. I fell into a pit of despair so deep I thought I’d never come out of it. But then, like clockwork, you and Ellie visited me in the Winter. You were grievin just as much as myself, but you still managed to come all the way to Jackson. Seein you, despite everything, is what pulled me out of my own grief enough to make the most of my final years on this earth. 

And it's because of you that I’ve been able to smile, knowin life ain’t so bad. Because it gave me you.

All that to say, these past eight years have been tough, yes, but havin you girls here with me has made every second worth it. If I had to get sick a million times in order to see your faces laughin together, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

With every ounce of love in my heart,

Grandpa

notes. this took so long to write & would have taken even longer to proofread. so i just ,,, didn't proofread it. also because i'm not sure if i want to put myself thru that pain. anyway! i hope someone out there has the patience to read this all the way thru bc i'm so proud of it. love u guys !!

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong.

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[pearlsinoystersflesh]

abby who asked you out in the sweetest way possible. that dumb, half run thing to catch up to you, a poster and flowers in her hands, and an awkward smile on her face.

abby who had beamed, forgetting her own strength and jumping on you the second you said 'yes'

abby who had taken you on two dates in one night. to dinner, and then bowling, and when you both didnt want to go home, the aquarium. abby who listened to your silly fixation on sharks and starfish, enjoying every second of your voice

abby who woke you up every day to a million texts, all in uppercase, and did the same when you went to bed

abby- who was great at foreplay- but still thought taking you to her at-home gym and using you as the weight for her hip thrusts was much more fun, with you straddling her

abby, who was a gentle giant- big, and intimidating, but truly kind and awkward and filled with butterflies like a kid when she saw you

abby who fucked like she needed something from you, like you owed her something important. abby who surprised you the first time you saw her strap

abby who had shushes you gently the first time, stretching you on her thick fingers first, stopping right when you hit the edge- and filling you to the brim with her cock

abby who lowkey has a mommy kink, but is too embarrassed about it to be upfront, so she murmurs:

"fuck- you take mommy so good- fucking perfect."

abby who can't cook, so she spends hours in the kitchen just to make you cookies, and she's more upset than you are when they come out burned

abby who listened to every single song in your spotify library, and memorized your favourites, because it makes her feel closer to you when you're gone

abby who doesn't care for dom-sub labels, just likes the intimacy of skin on skin, or the deep rooted trust of a strap on or vibe. abby who just likes you.

ill get an actual fic out soon, i just dk what to write. im moving soon and so i wont have much time to write, but im free all week and will be writing religiously (maybe. im not reliable)

[elliewilliamsdaily-game]

yep... looking at the bow...

[les4elliewilliams]

bleed her dry. ⋮ sub!ellie x vampire!reader

warnings: rushed, wrote this half asleep, might delete idk. lowercase very much intended. fingering, blood/feeding kink, ellie begging to be sucked dry and then passing out.

she should feel ashamed for what your nose pressed into her neck is doing to her—drooling over her collarbone, nuzzling the porcelain skin like a dog hunting down truffles. her wrist is in pain, bent over her own thigh, middle and ring fingers curled up for you to use and bounce on like she’s nothing but a sex doll. her eyes squeeze shut, face all blotchy red as if she’s the one getting railed—but she’s not. it’s the insistent little kisses pressed against her pulse point that are doing it.

god, what would it take for you just to sink your fangs in and take what you want? why drag it all out like a held-back coward?

thing with ellie is that she always insists she can take it—can handle sharp canines piercing the largest vein in the crook of her neck and bleed her dry. it’s a delirious feeling; despite the lifeblood being drawn eagerly, the pulse between her legs only pounds harder, stubborn against the dizziness flooding her skull and clouding her vision into a bleak, colorless fog. she pants in your ear, the wild heartbeat so inviting under your palm, pupils looking up at you as if praying you’ll be starving again—because only then you come to her to satisfy your needs.

but you’re full and sated, with little—if anything—left to want. nothing to quell. you’ve already taken from her weeks ago, took so much she swore she was about to drift into some other realm and finally leave all this behind.

always so stubborn. always encouraging you to take more of her. and you trusted her so blindly. what a foolish mistake you’d made.

she’s shaking beneath you, lips parting, mouthing something that never makes it out before muttering a feeble “faster” that’s too weak to fool even you, even in your dazed state. your hips slam down harder into her quivering hand, looming over her to lick the salt off her tongue, invading every inch of that filthy mouth. you could be doing something different with that mouth, if she were to be honest.

your hand finally descends from her chest, pressing down on her tense abdomen before coming to cup her mound, prickly hair tickling your palm, fingers drifting over her slit, smearing the puddle she’s dripping with. her breathing stutters; your lips return to her neck, peppering it with kisses, denying yourself the one thing you both seem to want—albeit for different reasons. she grunts when you push into her without warning, pumping back and forth until she whines, weak fingers inside you twitching, struggling to keep the pace.

but no, it’s not your fingers she truly desires, though ellie’s most honest when finger-fucked, and curling her tongue around the words trying to escape feels impossible. pearly fangs flash behind her eyelids the moment they flutter shut. “just fuckin’ bite me already. you’re… mhpphh… right there—”

“not hungry.” you hum indulgently into her neck, earning a spoiled little groan you’ve only ever heard coming out of children for over a century now. there’s so little she can take when her mind goes out like this.

“don’t give me that shit,” she snaps. “you’re fuckin’ drooling over me.” you punish her for that, pushing harder and deeper into her, nails nearly clawing at her insides, cum gushing out with each thrust.

“please,” she drawls on a weak gasp, and god, she sounds so desperate, hungry for something she shouldn’t even crave. “just a little. swear i can take it. i’ll tell you when to stop.”

you lift your head, bloodlust eyes finally linking, your hips coming to a pondering halt. “you said that last time.”

she huffs through her nose, all frustrated and twitchy, you realize all she truly needs is a fucking exorcism. “c’monnn... you always takin’ from me, what’s one more sip?

“jeez, you’re needy.”

“fuck you,” she whines, and then something breathier worms out, “…please bite me. pleasepleaseplease.”

a brainless little lamb begging to be sacrificed. only, she’s no lamb—not really. she’s a wolf in sheep’s skin, daring you to take what pulses so recklessly under layers of delicious flesh. throwing herself into your bite like it’s her birthright. taunting you with that vein, with that look. always begging to be bled out, like the ache in her cunt will only ease if you drain her dry. as if you could ever resist when her blood pulses that loud beneath your touch—singing your name, chanting it.

and she looks all cute under you, panting, moaning dumb on your fingers, eyes all glassy and shifting to that needier shade of green you always catch whenever your mouth unlatches from her salty neck. her hair’s splayed out over your pillow, head thumping against the velvety-red bedframe with each thrust of your fingers. can’t pull back now. can’t stop yourself from caving in.

when your fangs finally sink into her neck, she whimpers, then starts moaning twice as loud, clawing at you with her free hand like her whole soul is getting fucked. your fingers turn brutal, the heel of your palm grinding into her pained clit. her own fingers snap out of their trance, stabbing into you at a murderous pace, moaning like a slut into your shoulder as little crimson droplets roll off hers in glistening lines.

you chase them, lapping each bead from your fingertips before sucking them clean. she mewls at the sight, back arching hard.

“taste so good, darling.”

you latch back onto her neck, sucking and clenching ‘round her fingers. this won’t last long, her walls keep telling you.

and it doesn’t.

she cums before you even get to finish feeding, eyes all unfocused and skin dripping with cold perspiration. she looks like she’s about to pass out.

she does.

for seven full seconds.

seven brief seconds that mean nothing to her—not when you’re hovering above with bloodied lips and the guilty stare of something unholy, fingers no longer nestled inside her, frantically searching for the rise of her ribcage and the buried beat of her heart. it’s there, faint, but still humming your name. what a saint.

the first thing out of her mouth when she blinks back to life is, ‘…you could’ve kept going’ she could’ve died and still gotten off first. like a fucking freak.

“oh, please.”

“i was fine. could’ve taken more.” a stubborn little lie she keeps telling herself. she doesn’t even dare to look up.

you raise a brow, fingers smothering the fresh teeth marks on her neck, pressing into the forming bruise until she sucks in a hiss. “you passed out for like seven seconds.”

“exactly,” she continues. “could’ve gone for ten.”

[marscardigan]

when you need the job done

neighbor!ellie williams x reader

neighbor!ellie universe

summary: moving out alone for the first time might be scary—and awfully exhausting. you’re lucky you have a very handy lesbian as a neighbor.

word count: 6.8k

THE BOX you were carrying was way too heavy. You knew it the second you stubbornly yanked it out of the trunk, but by the time you realized how unwise that was, you were already halfway up the steps to your new apartment. The one that didn't have an elevator.

A bead of sweat ran down your temple. Your arms were shaking, the cardboard creaking ominously, and you could feel the edge of a textbook digging into your thigh through the bottom of the box.

You grunted softly as you stagger forward, muttering under your breath, "okay, stupid idea, officially noted."

That’s when you heard it. A door creaking open. You looked up, flustered, and caught sight of her. A young woman that was standing in the open doorway of the unit just across the hall. Faded gray hoodie, sweatpants that sat a little too low on her hips, and a tangle of auburn hair in a messy bun that looked like it gave up halfway. One hand gripped the door frame, the other clutching a half-eaten granola bar.

She blinked at you, shocked. You offered a small, sheepish smile. "Hi."

She blinked again. "Uh—hi."

There was a beat of silence. She kept staring at you, and you shifted your weight, struggling to hold the box and at the same time balance your pride. "I, uh… just moved in."

She nodded quickly. "Yeah, no—I figured. New face. And boxes. That’s… obvious. Sorry."

You bit back a laugh. "I promise I’m not usually this pathetic. Just… long drive. Too much stuff."

Ellie snapped out of it suddenly, like her brain had just rebooted. "Shit—wait. Let me help you with that."

Before you could protest, she’s stepping forward, quickly wiping her hand on her hoodie like she just remembered she’s eating, then gently taking the box from you like she’s worried you’ll shatter if she’s too rough. And she lifted it as if it didn't weight anything. God, you're not sure if it was just the exhaustion, but was the room suddenly hotter? Or was it just you?

"Oh my god," you exhaled in relief, letting your arms drop. "Thank you. You may have just saved my spine."

She grinned softly, cheeks a little pink. "No problem. I’m Ellie, by the way."

You gave her your name, and she repeated it quietly under her breath, like she wanted to make sure she didn’t forget. It was oddly endearing.

She followed you into your apartment and gently sat the box down by the window. "Wow. You’ve got, like… a lot of books."

You glanced around at the stack of boxes marked READING / PLEASE DON’T CRUSH, smiling a little. "Guilty. I had a system, but the system kinda died somewhere around hour five of unpacking."

Ellie nodded like she got it. "Want some help? I mean—only if you want. I don’t have anything going on. Just… reorganizing my guitar pedals and regretting life choices."

You raised an eyebrow. "Guitar pedals?"

She blushed faintly. "Yeah. Music nerd. Don’t judge."

"I’d never," you replied, already walking toward the nearest box. "If you’re serious about helping, I’ve got a bookshelf I was too scared to try assembling alone."

She perked up immediately. "I’m your girl."

An hour later, Ellie was sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, her hoodie sleeves pushed up—her arm tattoo on full display, as she studied the instruction manual with a look of pure concentration.

There was a screw between her lips and her hair was falling in her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. You were lying on the rug beside her, trying not to laugh. "You look like you’re defusing a bomb."

She spat out the screw with a grin. "This is Ikea. You never know." You laughed, and Ellie beamed at the sound. "Okay, hand me the... um. That… L-shaped—thingy."

"You mean the Allen wrench?"

"Right. That. Allen. Bastard of a wrench."

You passed it to her and watched as her hands worked with practiced ease, though she was still mumbling things like 'who designed this nightmare' under her breath. After a few minutes, the pieces started to come together.

You offered her a drink from your tiny fridge, and she takes it with a soft 'thanks,' sipping while scanning the partially-built shelf.

"You know," she said casually, "this place is nice. Good lighting. Kinda cozy already."

"Think I’ll like it here."

Ellie shrugged, maybe a little too fast. "Yeah, well. I mean. You’ve got a cool neighbor, so."

You laughed, leaning your head back against the wall. "I really do."

ELLIE WAS standing at your door, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other, wiping her hands on her jeans even though she hadn’t touched anything in the past ten minutes. The bookshelf was done. The boxes were stacked a little neater. She helped more than she should have for someone who just met you, and now there’s a weird lull in the air like… okay, what happens now?

You stretched your arms overhead, groaning quietly as your back pops. "Okay, officially retiring from lifting furniture."

Ellie snorted. "You say that now. Wait until you realize you still have, like, six more boxes marked 'miscellaneous disaster'."

You groaned again, dramatically this time. "Those are tomorrow’s problems." Then, with a soft sigh, you glanced toward your hallway and say, "God, I still need to get a new bulb for the bedroom. I haven’t been able to see in there since I got here."

Ellie raises her brows. "No light at all?"

"None," you say. "And of course, I packed the lamps in the box that’s... still in my car. Which is currently blocked in by some delivery truck of doom."

There was a pause. You expected a laugh, maybe a 'good luck with that.' Instead, she played with two of her fingers awkwardly, and smiled at you. "I could take you?" she said.

You blinked. "What?"

"To the store," she shrugged, eyes darting away like she regrets offering. "I was just gonna run out and grab snacks or something anyway."

You tilted your head. "You were?"

Ellie turned red, but tried to play it cool. "Yeah. Definitely. Wasn’t just gonna, y’know, spiral alone in my apartment or anything."

You both knew that was a lie. But you laughed, and something in her posture relaxed. "Okay," you replied, smiling. "Yeah. Let’s go lightbulb hunting."

Ten minutes later, you’re both in Ellie’s dusty old truck—windows slightly cracked, and a faint smell of pine from a crooked air freshener hanging from the mirror. She was gripping the wheel like she’s trying not to white-knuckle it, sneaking occasional glances at you when she thinks you’re not looking. You’re pretty sure you caught every single one.

At the hardware store, the lightbulb section was far more overwhelming than it had any right to be. You stood in front of it together, baffled by the sheer number of wattage options.

"Why are there so many types?" you whispered.

Ellie whispered back, "capitalism."

Eventually, you grabbed the right one (after way too much debate about warm vs. cool lighting), and Ellie casually picked up a few things for herself. Chips. A soda. A pack of sour candy she pretended not to want until you caught her staring at it for a solid minute.

"You’re definitely a sour candy person," you said as she tosses it into the basket.

Ellie shrugged, cheeks pink. "You're saying that like it’s a bad thing."

You shook your head. "No, just… makes sense."

"Yeah?"

"Yep," you said softly, smiling. "It’s cute."

She froze. Didn’t say anything for five seconds. Then muttered a very quiet, 'Oh.' You pretended not to notice how red her ears go.

BACK AT YOUR apartment, it took about eight minutes to screw in the new bulb—and then you were both just… standing in your now-lit bedroom, staring at the glow like you’ve just witnessed a miracle.

"Let there be light," Ellie said reverently.

You laughed and flopped back onto your mattress dramatically. "I owe you my life."

She leaned against the doorway, hands in her hoodie pocket, watching you with the kind of soft smile she probably doesn’t even realize she’s wearing. "You don’t owe me anything."

You glanced at the clock. "You hungry?"

Ellie paused. "Me?"

"No, the bookshelf." You smirked. "Of course you, dummy. C’mon. I’m starving. And you did save my spine."

She tried to brush it off with a joke—'I do take payment in pepperoni'—but you could tell she was secretly thrilled.

Twenty-five minutes later, a pizza box was open between you on the living room floor, two paper plates balancing precariously on a stack of books. You’d strung up some fairy lights that Ellie offered to 'totally not judge you for owning,' and now the room is bathed in warm, flickering gold.

You were sitting cross-legged, a slice in hand. "God, I didn’t realize how hungry I was."

Ellie smiled behind her cup of soda. "You looked like you were gonna pass out when I showed up earlier."

"Honestly? Close."

There was a pause. She glanced at you, then down at her food, then back at you. "I’m glad you let me help," she says.

"Yeah?"

She nods, playing with a corner of the box. “I don’t… really do that. Talk to people, I mean. Not right away. But you’re… easy."

You rose an eyebrow, smirking. "Easy?"

"I mean—you’re easy to talk to,” she blurted. "Not like—not in a bad way. You just—shit. That sounded wrong."

You burst out laughing. "Relax. I know what you meant."

She groaned into her hands. "Kill me."

"Never," you laughed. There’s a lull after that. A comfortable one.

You leaned back on your hands, stretching your legs out toward her. "So what’s your story, Neighbor Ellie? Mysterious girl across the hall. Fixes furniture. Gives rides. Loves sour candy."

She gave you a look. "You clocked all that in one night?"

"I’m a fast learner."

She exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. "Okay, well. I moved here a couple years ago. Work in a CD store. Play guitar in my free time. Live a thrilling life of talking to no one and watching horror movies until 2 AM."

"Wow," you deadpanned. "Truly a menace."

She smirked. "I contain multitudes."

You nudged her leg with your foot. "I think you’re cool."

Ellie went so quiet after that you worry you went too far. But then she said, soft: "I think you’re pretty cool too."

Neither of you moved for a second. The pizza was getting cold, the lights were flickering softly. She was staring at you like you hung the stars, and your heart’s doing something very inconvenient in your chest.

IT WASN’T HARD TO figure out where Ellie worked. Not like you stalked her or anything—she just... mentioned it. Casually. In passing. And it stuck with you, that offhand comment about shifts and sorting and 'old people complaining about the price of CDS like it’s 1985.'

And okay, maybe you were a little too curious. Maybe you had a free day and a really good memory. And maybe there weren’t that many record stores in town to begin with.

You checked out the first shop—a dusty little place with an impressive jazz section and a guy behind the counter who looked old enough to have invented jazz. No Ellie. The second one was sleek and modern, curated for aesthetic Instagram posts, with alphabetized playlists and diffused lighting. Also, no Ellie. But the third one… That’s where you saw her.

She was behind the counter, alone, hunched over a small stack of CDs, scribbling something onto tiny sticky notes with a black pen clutched between ink-smudged fingers. Her hair was tied up in a low bun, loose strands falling into her face as she worked. She was mouthing the words to whatever track was playing overhead—some soft, rock ballad you didn’t recognize—but it made the whole place feel hushed, intimate, like stepping into someone’s favorite memory.

You stood near the entrance for a second too long.

Ellie glanced up and froze. Her pen paused mid-word. You caught the brief flicker of surprise on her face—like she wasn’t expecting to ever see you here, like this part of her life was separate and you’d somehow wandered past the invisible boundary.

But then her expression shifted, softening into something unreadable. The corners of her mouth twitched like she was trying to decide whether to smile or run.

She settled on a weird middle ground. "Oh," she said nonchalantly. "Hey."

You raised a hand, suddenly hyper-aware of your own body, your posture, the fact that you hadn’t really thought through what you’d say when this moment came. "Hey. Fancy seeing you here."

Ellie blinked. "In my place of work?"

You laughed, and she smiled for real this time. "Right. I was just... exploring the neighborhood," you lied. "Didn’t realize this store was so close."

She nodded slowly, clearly not buying it—the store was a twenty-minute drive from the apartment complex— but was too polite to call you out. "Yeah? You into CDs?"

"Definitely," you said, scanning the shelves like you weren’t about to have a heart attack. "I mean, I personally prefer vinyls, but yeah, CDs are like, super retro. Very... round."

Ellie snorted. "That’s one way to describe them."

You wandered closer, pretending to browse, your fingers grazing the spines of old cases. She watched you, but not in a judgmental way. More like she was trying to figure you out.

"Do you work every day?" you asked after a moment.

"Nah," she said, leaning on the counter. "Just a few days a week. Tuesdays, Thursdays, sometimes Saturdays."

You nodded like that wasn’t valuable information now burned into your brain. You grabbed a Fleetwod Mac CD, and took out your wallet to pay. "Cool," you said. "Guess I’ll have to stop by again."

"No, uh, don’t worry. It’s on the house." Ellie scratched the back of her neck, eyes darting to her Casio watch. "You, uh... wanna hang out after I’m done? My shift ends at five."

"You sure?"

"You don’t have to. I just thought—I dunno, maybe we could go get coffee. Or you could show me your superior taste in 'very round CDs.'"

You grinned. "I’d like that."

Ellie looked down, then back up through her lashes. "Cool. Yeah. Cool."

You ended up spending the next half hour pretending to look through racks while sneaking glances at her—and she, in return, kept stealing glances at you in the reflection of the display glass. And when five o’clock finally rolled around, she practically flew out from behind the counter, tugging on her jacket and fumbling with the sleeves like she was nervous. Which, honestly, made two of you.

THE COFFEE SHOP Ellie picked was small, local, and mostly empty by the time you both got there—quiet enough that your conversation didn’t have to compete with the noise, but not so silent that the pauses felt heavy. The barista gave Ellie a little nod when she walked in, like she was a regular, and Ellie just muttered a soft 'hey' back before holding the door open for you.

You sat by the window, your cups warming your hands, and the conversation came easier than you thought it would. Ellie was shy, yeah, but not in that way where she tried to disappear. It was more like she was deliberate. Careful. She listened to you like you were saying things worth remembering.

She told you about the weird guy who always came in looking for jazz CDs they didn’t have, and how she’d once spent two hours reorganizing the punk section just because she couldn’t stand the way someone else had done it. You talked about the move, the disaster of trying to assemble your own bookshelf, and the apartment above yours that sounded like a zoo with a drum set.

Ellie laughed at that one, and you caught yourself staring just a little too long at the way her eyes crinkled when she did it. You suddenly felt the urge to count every single freckle that was marked in her face.

Somewhere between a refill and a shared chocolate chip cookie, she glanced at the clock and said, "Wanna come over?"

"To your place?"

She scratched at the back of her neck. "I mean, only if you want. No pressure. I just—I have this CD collection I was talking about and, uh... coffee shops close eventually."

You tried not to smile too obviously. "Sure. I’d love to."

Ellie’s apartment was quite similar to yours—after all, both were from the same block, but something about it was undeniably her. The couch was beat-up but clean, the walls were decorated with band posters and a couple of hand-drawn sketches you didn’t ask about yet, and her windowsill had a few neglected plants that were somehow still alive.

"I wasn’t really expecting company," she said, kicking off her shoes near the door. "Sorry if it’s a little... messy."

You looked around. "Ellie, this is better than mine by far."

She shrugged, clearly flustered, and motioned for you to take a seat while she made herself busy putting on a playlist— just background enough to not distract from her own nervous energy. With your drink still in hand, you wandered to the shelf near the TV, running your finger along the neatly organized spines of her CD collection. "So this is the shrine."

"Hey, don’t mock the shrine," she said, coming to stand beside you. "It’s got history."

You glanced at the rows and rows of titles—some familiar, others completely new to you. "What’s your holy trinity, then?"

She paused, seriously considering it. "Green Day, Radiohead, and—don’t laugh—The Smashing Pumpkins."

You blinked. "Why would I laugh?"

"I dunno. People always think I’m gonna say something cooler. Nirvana or something."

You smiled. "I think that is cool."

Ellie ducked her head and muttered, "Yeah, well... you look cool, so I’m trusting your judgment."

You turned toward her, and right as you opened your mouth to say something, you felt it—a warm splash of beverage sloshing right onto your top. You looked down at the spreading stain and groaned. "Oh my god. I can’t take me anywhere."

Ellie reacted fast, already rummaging through a basket of laundry near the couch. "Wait—here. I, uh, I’ve got something you can wear."

She tossed you a hoodie, worn and soft and a little big. The same one she wore the first time she saw you. You pulled it on without thinking—slightly mortified, and very aware of how it smelled exactly like her. It was stupid. It was just detergent and something like cedar and maybe... her shampoo? But it hit you like a memory you hadn’t made yet, and when you looked back at Ellie, she was definitely flustered.

"You okay?" she asked, voice a little tight.

You nodded, tugging at the sleeves. "This is so comfy. You might never get it back."

Ellie laughed nervously. "That’s, uh... fine. You look good in it."

The sentence hung between you for a beat too long. You turned back to the CDs. "Show me your favorites."

And she did.

You sat cross-legged on her living room floor while she pulled out album after album, fingers brushing the covers like they were sacred texts. Time slipped away. The music got quieter, the light outside faded to black, and before either of you realized it, the clock on her microwave blinked 1:04 AM.

"Oh shit," Ellie said, glancing over. "You’re probably exhausted. I didn’t mean to keep you here so long."

You rubbed your eyes, yawning. "I am tired. But like, in a good way. I had fun."

Ellie stood awkwardly, hovering near the door. "Do you want me to walk you back?”

"It’s literally ten steps ahead."

"Still," she muttered, fidgeting with her fingers.

There was a weird, sudden stillness. Not uncomfortable exactly—just... charged. Like you’d both walked to the edge of something without realizing it, and now neither of you knew what to do. You stood in the doorway, Ellie’s hoodie still wrapped around you, warm from her and too soft to take off just yet.

"I should go," you said.

"Okay," Ellie agreed, voice quiet.

You could feel it—just beneath the surface—the shared, unspoken thing you both wanted. The maybe. The what if. But neither of you crossed the line.

Instead, you gave her a soft smile and a breathy 'goodnight,' and Ellie rubbed the back of her neck and murmured it back. When the door finally closed behind you, your heart thudded like you’d just run a mile.

Back in your apartment, you curled into the matress that laid on the floor, still wearing her hoodie, surrounded by the quiet hum of the night, and told yourself you were fine. That you’d get another chance. You didn’t know Ellie was sitting on the other side of the wall, wide awake, hoodie-less, and thinking the exact same thing.

THE NEXT MORNING, you woke slowly. And the first thing that you felt was Ellie’s hoodie. Still wrapped around you. Still warm in the chest, even if the sleeves were cold now. You’d never meant to fall asleep in it, but you hadn’t been able to make yourself take it off either. Not when it still smelled like her. Not when it felt like the last piece of her you got to keep before things got too real. Before either of you dared to name what last night had almost been.

You sat up, groaning at the way your spine protested after crashing half-sideways across your bare mattress. One arm still tucked under a throw pillow, hair wild with sleep. You ran your hand through it and stretched—and that’s when you heard the voices. Muffled at first. Laughter. Two people in the hallway, maybe just outside your door. You froze.

One of them was Ellie. You’d recognize her voice anywhere by now. That low rasp that turned warm when she laughed. And she was laughing—louder than you’d heard her in days. And the other voice? Feminine. Confident. Light and teasing.

You moved quietly, barefoot on the wooden floor, hoodie still draped over your frame like a second skin. You opened your apartment’s door just enough to let sound bleed in, and curiosity got the better of you. Just a peek, you told yourself.

You leaned into the silence of your own apartment, looking at the hall. And there she was. Ellie. Hair still damp from a shower, in a flannel over a gray tee and those dirty Converse she always stomped around in. She looked so relaxed, so casual—leaning against the stair railing, grinning in a way she never quite had with you. Her hand came up to push her hair out of her face, and she was looking at the girl beside her. Dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. Pretty. Effortless. Golden skin and a wicked smile and that kind of magnetic energy you’d always admired from a distance. She looked like someone who knew how to charm your mom and talk about records without ever trying too hard. The kind of girl who just fit.

She playfully shoved Ellie’s shoulder and said something that made them both burst into another fit of laughter. And your heart sank. Of course. Of course Ellie wasn’t single. What were you thinking? That someone like her—funny, sweet, handy, effortlessly cool—would just be floating around, unattached? That she'd invite you over, lend you her hoodie, stay up talking music with you ‘til one in the morning because she wanted something more? No. You’d misread it. All of it. You closed the door quietly.

Your face felt hot. Your eyes threatened to let out a couple of tears. You slipped the hoodie off and folded it, hands trembling just slightly, and placed it gently on the edge of the couch like it might burn you if you touched it for too long. Like it had just become hers again, not something you were allowed to keep holding.

And then you started getting ready. Quieter than usual. Slower. You told yourself you’d imagined it. That it didn’t matter. That it was fine. You’d just… back off. Respect the boundary you hadn’t realized existed.

Ellie noticed something was off that same day. No music playing. No lights on. Not even the faint sound of footsteps inside like usual. The little signs she’d come to expect over the past few days—gone. And the worst of all? You hadn’t texted her.

She bit the inside of her cheek as she walked down the street, bag slung over one shoulder, thumb hovering over your contact in her phone. She kept replaying last night over and over again in her head—the way you looked in her hoodie, how you smiled at her dumb music rants, how close your knees had been on the floor, how you hadn’t kissed her when you left. And how she hadn’t kissed you either. Too nervous. Too wrapped up in the fear of ruining something before it even started.

She walked into the shop, tossed her bag behind the counter, and barely had time to clock in before Jesse—her coworker, and unfortunately, her most observant friend—poked his head in from the back room. "Yo, Williams."

"What."

"You got the personality of a wet sock today. Did something happen?"

Ellie groaned. "I’m fine."

"What the fuck? You’re not. You sighed seven times during that one sentence. That’s a record, even for you."

She pulled the stool out and sat down behind the register, slumping dramatically. "It’s nothing."

Jesse raised a brow. "Is it about hoodie girl?"

Ellie snapped her head up. "What? How do you—"

"You literally texted me last night 'she’s wearing my hoodie and I might die.'"

"Okay first of all, fuck you. And second, I was emotionally compromised."

Jesse leaned on the counter, smirking. "So what happened?"

Ellie looked down, fiddling with the string of her hoodie. "I don’t know. We hung out, it was great—like, really great—and I thought we were gonna maybe... kiss or something? But then she left, and now she’s just—cold. Like, totally ignoring me."

"She see you with Dina?"

Ellie’s brows furrowed. “What?”

"Dee told me she went to pick up her speaker this morning. Maybe she saw you two together."

Ellie’s jaw dropped. "She thinks I’m dating Dina?"

Jesse just gave her a look. "Wouldn’t be the wildest assumption, dude. Dina is hot. And you two always look cozy as hell."

Ellie slumped back in the stool. "Shit."

"So go tell her." Jesse folded his arms. "Like, right now."

"I can’t just show up and be like 'Hey, by the way, that girl I was laughing with? Not my girlfriend!'"

"Why not?"

"Because it’s—" Ellie rubbed her face. "I don’t know, it’s embarrassing. What if she didn’t see me with Dina? What if I read everything wrong? What if she’s not into me like that?"

Jesse tilted his head. "Are you into her like that?"

Ellie didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He smiled. "Then fix it, you idiot."

But Ellie just sat there, heart caught somewhere between hope and dread, wondering how the hell she was supposed to explain the mess when you wouldn’t even look at her anymore.

FOR THE REST of the week, you did your best to act like everything was fine.

Avoiding Ellie wasn’t hard, exactly. Not at first. You slipped out early to grab coffee before she left for work. And you told yourself—again and again—that it didn’t hurt. That you weren’t letting your mind wander back to the way she’d smiled at you in her dim little apartment, the way her voice had gone all soft and reverent when she’d talked about her guitar and her favorite bands. That you weren’t still thinking about her hoodie, folded on your couch like something sacred, something almost yours.

But even so… you missed her. And she noticed. She wasn’t stupid, either. Every time Ellie walked past your apartment, her chest tightened just a little. She couldn’t stop checking—subtle little glances at your windows, your doormat, listening for footsteps inside. But she was met with nothing, just pure silence.

It had been nine days. Nine days since your almost-date. Since you wore her hoodie and sat so close she could smell your shampoo. Since you’d yawned around midnight and she’d practically panicked, blurting something awkward about how you didn’t have to go but also yeah totally if you’re tired cool cool yeah no worries. And she hadn’t even walked you to your place. Just stood there, heart in her throat, as you smiled at her one last time without kissing her. Now you didn’t even look at her. And Ellie? Ellie didn’t know how to fix it.

That evening, a thunderstorm rolled in with no warning. It was more chilly than you expected, and by the time you realized, Ellie’s hoddie was back like a second skin. You tried to lie to yourself, thinking you were too tired to open the winter clothes box. But in reality, it was just to feel it again. You’d tried to settle into a book, when the lights suddenly flickered… and then went out. You sat in stunned silence for a beat before peeking out your window and confirmed what you feared—the whole damn block was dark. Not a gleam streetlamp in sight.

And the worst part? You didn’t have a single candle. So you were swallowed by black-pitched darkness. You were just settled back onto your couch, the book long forgotten by now, when someone knocked. A soft, tentative knock. You froze. And then came her voice.

"Hey… It’s Ellie."

Your heart did a little jump, stupid and immediate. You stood slowly, suddenly all too aware of your pajama shorts and the way your hair had half-dried in soft, tangled waves.

You opened the door. Ellie stood there holding two thick candles—one already lit, the other one tucked under her arm—and a slightly sheepish expression. She was wearing a red flannel, straight jeans, and a pair of black Converse. Her hair was tucked messily behind her ears, her freckles barely visible in the low light.

"Power’s out," she said.

"Yeah. I noticed."

She shifted her weight, and if she had noticed you wearing her hoodie, she chose not to say anything. "Thought you might need these."

You took the candles from her slowly, your fingers brushing hers in the exchange. Her hand was warm. You swallowed. "Thanks."

Ellie nodded, but didn’t move. She glanced into your apartment and then back at you, chewing the inside of her cheek. "You okay?" she asked. "You’ve been, uh, quiet lately."

You hesitated, trying to ignore the knot isnide your chest. She had noticed. Your heart beat against your ribs, stubborn and tired. "Yeah. I’m fine."

A pause. "You’ve been avoiding me."

Your breath caught as you looked away. "No, I haven’t."

Ellie tilted her head, gently, like she knew you were lying. "Okay. Cool, then."

"Do you wanna come in?" You mumbled, stepping back. Fuck. Why’d you even said that?

She bit the inside of her cheek. "Only if it’s okay."

You nodded once. "Yes. It’s okay." So she stepped in.

The candlelight made everything feel hazier, slower. Her shadow danced across your floor as she walked toward your living room and stood awkwardly near your bookshelf, hands shoved into her hoodie pocket. You followed her in, set the candles on the table, and sat.

Ellie sat too—but not too close. She glanced around, then down at her lap.

"I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable," she said finally, voice soft. "The other day. At my place."

"You didn’t," you said too quickly. She looked up. You wrung your hands in your lap. "I just… It was silly for me to misread the situation, I guess."

Ellie blinked, then blinked again. "What do you mean?"

You gave her a look. "You know. I saw you with the girl... friend."

Realization dawned on her face. "Dina?"

You didn’t answer. Great. She had a pretty name too.

Ellie let out a breath and leaned back. "She’s not my girlfriend. She’s—God—she’s like my sister. We’ve known each other since middle school. We were talking about Uncharted."

That made you look at her. "Uncharted?"

"Yeah, she was making fun of me for being obsessed with it, and playing the stupid game the whole night. It wasn’t flirting."

A small laugh broke out of you before you could stop it, quick and surprised. Ellie smiled—just a little. And then the room got quiet again. That flickering, charged quiet where neither of you really knew what to say next.

Until Ellie whispered, "You look really good in my hoodie."

You swallowed hard, but didn’t answer. Ellie’s gaze flicked to yours. Her cheeks were flushed, soft pink in the candlelight, but smiled anyway.

"I thought maybe you were gonna kiss me," she murmured.

You felt your whole face go warm. "I wanted to."

She blinked slowly. "Then why didn’t you?"

"I got scared."

Ellie’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Me too."

You looked at her then. She looked nervous, her knee bouncing like she couldn’t sit still. She was leaning in just a little—but not enough. Like she was halfway between running and staying. And then she said it, "can I try again?"

Your breath caught. You nodded once, biting your lower lip unconsciously. And this time, she leaned all the way in, her hands finding your cheeks. The kiss was soft, shy, and barely there—like both of you were scared it would vanish if you moved too fast. But then she pressed in a little closer, and your hand slid gently to her cheek, and she smiled against your mouth.

And when you pulled back, her forehead rested against yours. In the flickering candlelight, everything else faded. No hallway whispers. No misunderstandings. Just Ellie. Warm and nervous and real.

THE MORNING SUN peeked in lazily through Ellie’s half-drawn curtains. The green-eyed girl had been working her ass off last week, and still pleaded you to wake her up once you did, but you weren’t going to do it. She needed the sleep. So here you were now, bleary-eyed, standing barefoot in her kitchen and wearing Ellie’s Pink Floyd oversized shirt.

You were trying to figure out the ancient coffee machine she kept saying 'wasn’t that bad' when you heard the apartment door creak open. No knock. No announcement. Just a solid, casual entrance. You froze with one hand on your chest, wide-eyed.

"Ellie, if you’re gonna leave your damn wrench where I can trip over it, I swear to—"

You turned just in time for him to round the corner into the living room, carrying a paper bag and squinting toward the kitchen. He paused when he saw you. His eyes dropped to the oversized shirt, the unbrushed hair, your whole deer-in-headlights vibe. His brow lifted—just slightly—but it said everything. "Well," he said slowly, adjusting the grip on the bag, "you ain’t Ellie."

You cleared your throat. "Um—no. She’s still asleep. I think. Probably."

The man stared at you for another long beat, then sighed through his nose and gave a slow, skeptical nod. "Right."

And just like that, Ellie burst out of her room, hair a mess, wearing a tank top, some boxers and a mismatched pair of socks, looking completely and utterly disoriented.

"Oh—shit," she groaned, voice thick with sleep. "Joel. What—uh—what are you—what time is it?"

Joel raised the bag. "Brought you breakfast. And coffee. Thought I’d surprise you. Guess you beat me to it."

Your face was probably nuclear at that point. Ellie looked like she might combust from within. Joel’s gaze shifted between the two of you. He let out a grunt. "Well. I’ll be damned."

"I’m gonna—uh—bathroom. I’m gonna use it. Yours," you muttered, already halfway down the corridor. "Yep. Bathroom. Gone." You shut the door behind you and leaned against it, hand covering your face.

Out in the living room, there was a heavy pause.

"So," Joel began, in a voice that could only mean trouble, "you finally got your head outta your ass."

"Dude. Please." Ellie rubbed a hand over her face. "She’s not— I mean—we’re not, like… together together."

Joel arched a brow. "Does she know that? ‘Cause she’s wearin’ half your closet and looked quite comfortable in your kitchen."

Ellie’s mouth opened and closed. No response. No correction. Joel nodded to himself. "Didn’t think so."

"I didn’t say anything!" Ellie hissed, lowering her voice like you might somehow hear through the closed door.

"But you ain’t denying it either, kiddo." Joel said smugly. "Look, I’m not gonna give you the whole dad speech or... whatever. You’re grown. But if that girl’s gonna be hangin’ around, I expect you to treat her right. Like how I raised you. No ghostin’. No weird mind games. No—"

Ellie sputtered. "Jesus, Joel, can you not?"

"You like her or not?" He asked calmly.

She was quiet for a long beat. "…Yeah," she said, voice soft and barely audible.

Joel grunted, satisfied. "Then don’t be an idiot."

The bathroom door creaked open a second later. You emerged, trying your best to look composed despite the fact your heart was definitely doing somersaults.

Joel glanced between the two of you, and his face softened for just a second—like he was genuinely happy for Ellie. "Well," he said. "I should get goin’. You kids behave."

Ellie groaned, already anticipating some parting remark. "Don’t say it—"

Joel ignored her entirely, giving you a quick, amused glance. "Good luck dealin’ with this one," he said, jerking a thumb at Ellie like she wasn’t standing right there. "And bon appétit."

You grinned. "Thanks for the breakfast."

"Take care," Joel said with a wink, then stepped out the door and closed it behind him with a soft click.

A moment of silence settled over the apartment. You turned slowly to face Ellie, arms crossed, squinting with faux betrayal. "You. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Me?" Ellie blinked, slightly offended. "What?"

"Don’t 'what' me, Williams," you said, marching toward her dramatically. "Your dad, or whatever he is—just walks in like he owns the place and finds me in your shirt, barefoot and barely awake, making a fool of myself trying to work that prehistoric coffee machine—"

"You mean the beautifully vintage coffee machine?" she interjected, raising a hand in mock offense.

You shoved her shoulder gently. "Don’t deflect! I looked like I had just rolled out of bed after a one-night stand!"

Ellie choked. "You didn’t! You—you look cute."

Your brain short-circuited at that for half a second, but you rallied. "I was wearing your clothes, Ellie!"

"I didn’t tell you to wear my clothes!" she argued, but her voice was breathless, half-laughing. "And you do look cute!"

You shoved her again, this time with both hands, and she stumbled backward into the couch, grinning as she caught herself.

"Oh, okay, so it’s my fault," she said, recovering. "Next time, I’ll just let you walk around naked. Note taken."

"You didn’t even try to explain!" you pointed out, still feigning dramatic offense.

Ellie held her hands up in surrender, though her face and ears were red. "Okay, okay, you’re right! I panicked!"

"You liked it," you accused.

"I did not—!" Ellie protested, but she was laughing mid-sentence. "Okay—maybe. Maybe a little. It was kinda… nice. I mean, not the surprise Joel part. That part sucked."

You hovered above her where she’d half-sunk into the couch cushions, breathless from all the mock fighting, face flushed. The laughter slowed between you both.

"It was nice," you echoed, voice soft now. "Him thinking I was your girlfriend."

Ellie looked up at you, suddenly quiet, her grin faded into something gentler, something almost vulnerable. "You didn’t run away screaming, so… that’s something."

You dropped your gaze, fighting a shy smile. "I thought about it. Then I remembered I still have your hoodie, and you’d probably come after me."

Ellie sat up a little straighter, nudging your knee with hers. "Damn right I would’ve. It’s one of my favorites, you know."

"You’re unbelievable."

"But charming," she added hopefully.

You tilted your head like you were thinking it over. "Eh. You’re on thin ice."

She reached over and poked your side, making you squirm. "I brought you breakfast."

"That was mostly Joel." You finally let yourself smile fully, sitting beside her and tucking your legs underneath you, shoulder brushing hers.

"But I didn’t stop him," she said proudly. "You’re welcome."

You laughed again, leaning your head on her shoulder without thinking. It just felt natural. Warm. Safe.

Her voice was softer now, almost a whisper: "You can… stay. If you want. A little longer. You don’t have to rush back."

You didn’t lift your head. "You sure? I might steal more of your clothes."

"I’d let you," she mumbled. Then, like it was the easiest thing in the world, she added, "they look better on you anyway."

Your heart flipped. "God," you murmured, eyes closing, "you’re such a loser."

"Yours though," she said under her breath.

perm taglist !

@valeisaslut @firefly-ace @sevslover @twopeoplee @mayfldss @elliesfavtoy @usuck @avalovesmus1c @samcvrpenters @mars4hellokitty @prettyinpink69 @yashirawr @furtherrawayy @maximumdreamlandcoffee @elliesfavgirlfriend @abcline006 @marieeeluvsyou @smaugayra @eriiwaiii2 @d1psht @creativedespaitr @leaaavesss @yasmilks

[seven-supernovas]

𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐆𝐲𝐦𝐫𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐜'𝐬

sfw+ nsfw hc's

cw: gymrat!ellie, afab!r, nsfw content, mentions of food/diet(very short tho), mentions of macros and protein(very short tho)

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

sfw

gymrat!Ellie who forces you to come with her to almost every session no matter the time of day because she wants you to stay healthy.

gymrat!Ellie who is really into boxing and will unintentionally keep you up all night when she's punching her bag outside on your shared apartment balcony.

gymrat!Ellie who rarely listens to anything at the gym because she's almost always with you but during those rare occasions where she's alone, especially at night will plop on her headphones and will only strictly listen rock and alt music.

gymrat!Ellie to further specify she's a big fan of Radiohead but when she's feeling more pumped she'll throw in some of your favorite songs.

gymrat!Ellie who doesn't maintain a strict diet but does now the macros and proteins of everything she eats.

gymrat!Ellie who unreasonably enjoys cookie and cream flavored protein powder. Like too the point where she got a Costco membership specifically to buy if from her favorite brand in bulk.

gymrat!Ellie who slightly injured her arm and was ordered by her doctor to relax for a couple of weeks but decided she could still do legs.

gymrat!Ellie whose gym attire is always old baggy tops and sweats. the shirts close to ripping a hole or already have one. To that all she says is "Who am I trying to impress, its only the gym."

gymrat!Ellie who only buys brand name gym clothes/items if she needs a specific thing or if you want to match with her.

gymrat!Ellie who states that contrary to popular belief that ON's and ASICS aren't as nearly comfortable as her tried and true grey converse's.

gymrat!Ellie who enjoys getting smoothies from a spot near your gym. Somehow she aways ends up drinking half your drink because she says "Your's always taste better than mines".

nsfw

gymrat!Ellie who very much loves using her strength in the bedroom. Boxing you in. Using partial of her body weight on you. Gripping your body. You name it, if it has anything to do with using the strength she's earned in the gym she's with it.

gymrat!Ellie who realized a year into taking the gym seriously that she can pick you up easily and now teases you with it.

gymrat!Ellie who can't choose if legs or arms is her favorite day because with strong arms she can easily lock you in and hold you up when she's eating you out. But with legs she can lock your face in when you're eating her out. Choices choices.

gymrat!Ellie who's favorite part of gym days with you are when you two shower together at home. A simple shower always turning into a two hour minimum sexfest.

gymrat!Ellie who is almost always waking around your shared apartment half or even fully naked. She just wants to show off her progress, what's the harm. She even encourages you to do the same. But you both know it's simply so the two of you have easier access to one another.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

original masterlist

more Ellie hc's

tlou masterlist

[satellitespinner]

MISERY LOVES COMPANY - TEASER. ⌖

“i owe you a black eye and two kisses, tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em”

1:00 AM, SATURDAY MORNING.

Your temples pound against your skull, the pen in your hand trembles with the rest of your body. the stacks of papers that covered your table were telling of your stress levels, bills, and grocery prices plagued your mind whilst your body functioned on autopilot.

you had just gotten your youngest to fall asleep, and were now trying your hardest to focus on organizing the absolute mess of your personal life. you probably should’ve given up for the night and gone to bed unfulfilled, but you didn’t. instead you filled out form after form, and scribbled down grocery lists for weeks to come. “fucks sake,” you mutter under your breath, even the sound of your own breathing was irritating you.

time moved as if the clock was scared to startle you, slowly and quietly. the blaring ringing in your ears was probably the only thing keeping you awake, barely alert, but still conscious. your lethargic state is disrupted when your phone begins to buzz on the table. you rushed to silence the ringtone, silently pleading that the abrupt sound didn't wake your kids.

the number was unknown to you, outside of your small circle of friends, you debated answering, just to ask who, and how. but you declined. gently tossing your phone onto the table. the buzzing stopped just as quickly as it began. and you prayed to god for some sort of silence. your moments of peace were short, however. cut off by the persistent caller attempting to reach you once again.

you scoffed and stood up from your chair, pressing the answer button aggressively.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” you whisper yell into the phone, trying your absolute hardest to keep quiet. the person on the other line coughs, “Who even is this?” they don't reply, all you can hear is their jagged breaths into the phone.

“Hello?” you press, your voice dripping with frustration, your head was pounding, your throat was screaming - you didn't have time for this.

”wait, don't hang up.” the person clears their throat, pressing the phone into their ear further, “Please.” the unknown woman roughly pleads with you, the rugged voice wasnt hard to distinguish from one you’ve heard many times before. although you hadn’t heard it in years, you knew.

you didn't have to hear anything else before you knew who it was, your heart dropped when the realization hit you. ellie. ellie that you haven’t talked to in years was calling you from what you suspected to be a pay phone.

“What the fu- ellie?” if you weren’t awake before this, you sure as hell were now. ellie laughs into the phone, an awkward tic that she did often.

“Yeah, hi. hey.” her voice cracked, you sighed aloud into the phone. your fingers massaging your temples to soothe the ache that hadn’t faded. if anything the pain had gotten worse, now seeping into the rest of your body.

“Listen im sor-” “where are you?” her breath hitches, her voice dripping with disappointment, insecurity replaces the blood in her veins, flowing all the way to her heart, where it would stay.

“The tipsy bison.” you scoffed, finally realizing the exact reasoning for her reaching out. “you’re calling me to come get you from the bar, ellie?” her silence is confirmation to her motives, you hear her sigh into the phone, twirling with the cord to distract her fingers.

you wanted to tell her to get fucked, to berate her for calling for the first time in years with the only intention of getting picked up from the bar. you wanted to so badly let her know how selfish she is, and how much you hate her. but you didnt. instead you silently grabbed your car keys and told her to stay put. hanging up the phone without a second thought.

you had just fought with your kids to go down, their room dark, and filled with silence. and you were not about to disrupt that.

[liztreez]

My first fave tumblr fic #imissu

ALL MINE ; INDEX

Summary;; Your unrequited love for Ellie Williams, your best friend, made you posesive of her to such an extent that you would hurt her "unintentionally", after all Best Friend Knows Better.

Chapter 1 🌥

Chapter 2 🌥

Hidden Scene

Chapter 3 🌥

Hidden Scene

Chapter 4 🌥

Chapter 5 🌥

Chapter 6

[isabelckl]

smoke and mirrors

messenger ellie williams x aristocrat fem!reader (victorian au)

set in the late 1800s, when paper was banned and all unsupervised communication was made illegal, memory couriers emerged in secret—risking arrest to carry spoken messages across divided cities and restricted borders. with your fiancé stationed in a province you can no longer reach, you're forced to rely on Ellie, a heavily tattooed courier working underground, to carry your words.

Part 2

You walked swiftly, head bowed, your boots scraping through the damp filth of the alleyway. The hem of your black muslin gown was already heavy with mud, and your cloak did little to guard against the chill creeping through the narrow streets. You hadn’t looked up once since slipping past the manor gates—just kept moving, heart tight in your chest, breath clouding in the cold.

You’d never done anything like this before.

No guards. No chaperone. No carriage waiting.

Just you, in plain clothes and a faded bonnet pulled low, hoping no one would look closely enough to recognize the face beneath. A lady of your station had no business in this district—especially not alone. But you had done it. You had escaped.

And all for a message. A foolish, reckless message.

But oh, what does one not risk for love?

Now you stood at the edge of a crooked cobblestone, staring up at the building before you. It was one of the few still upright on this side of the quarter—its brickwork scorched with soot, iron balconies sagging with rust, windows clouded by dust and ash. The guards of the Ministry had passed this way not long ago, their boots echoing like gunshots in the empty street—but even with them gone, you kept your head low.

This part of the city was no longer considered livable. Not by decree, but necessity.

Silence hung in the air like smoke, pierced only by the low groan of the wind through broken shutters and the faint hiss of steam pipes beneath the street.

They said the messenger could be found here.

You stepped inside. The front hall was dim and cold, lit only by a waning wall lamp and the pale gray wash of dusk that leaked through cracks in the boarded windows. The scent struck you first—smoke, damp timber, and something ink-sharp and stale, like forgotten parchment sealed too long.

As you moved deeper into the corridor, your gloved hand trailing lightly along the bannister, a woman came rushing down the stairs—her skirts disheveled, bonnet askew, a handkerchief pressed tightly to her mouth. She nearly collided with you. Her shoulders were trembling, breath coming in shallow gasps as if she’d been holding them in for far too long.

You stepped aside, watching her disappear into the shadowed vestibule below. Whatever news she’d come for, it hadn’t been kind. A death. A denial. A letter that never arrived, perhaps.

Your stomach twisted.

On the second floor, you passed others descending in silence—coats drawn close, eyes downcast, hands clutching thin slips of paper too carefully to be legal. No one spoke. No one looked at you.

Outside the final door, a queue had formed, bodies pressed along the faded wall in a kind of reverent hush. You joined it without a word.

A man two places down cast you a glance. You caught it from the corner of your eye and turned your head slightly, pretending interest in the cracks along the floor. You kept your expression blank. The bonnet helped, but not enough.

Minutes passed. Longer.

When the door opened, a signal without words, you stepped forward and slipped inside.

The room smelled of paper and smoke.

Stacks of yellowed pages crowded every corner—some bundled with twine, some spilling from crates, others piled like unstable monuments along the floor. It looked less like an office and more like a reliquary of lost things.

Heavy curtains swallowed what little light the outside world offered. Dust hung thick in the air. And at the center of it all, an old desk, and the oil lamp that flickers weakly stops it, its glow no brighter than a dying ember.

Behind the desk sat a woman.

Tattoos crept up her arms and curled across the backs of her hands, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of a worn linen shirt and the fraying edges of a charcoal waistcoat. She looked like someone who had watched the city fall and found it unremarkable—so long as she had ink, ash, and something to write with. A half-burned cigarette smoldered between two fingers as she scribbled something into a thick ledger, her expression blank, unmoved.

On the other hand, she held a dip pen—its brass nib glinting faintly beneath the lamplight as it scratched across the page, tip freshly stained with ink from the bottle by her elbow.

She didn’t look up when you entered.

You lingered in the doorway, bonnet tilted low, doing your best not to grimace at the stale tang of tobacco hanging thick in the air. You hated that smell. Your fiancé didn’t smoke—never had. You’d grown soft on lavender-scented letters and soap-washed hands, not this.

“I’d like to deliver a message,” you said, voice steady though your pulse betrayed you.

Her pen paused mid-stroke.

She didn’t look up. Just sat there for a moment, as if the sound of your voice had struck something deeper than she expected. Like it reached somewhere memory had been buried but not erased.

She merely raised a hand, fingers flicking in a slow, indifferent gesture.

Permission.

“For my fiancé,” you added, softer this time.

She laid the pen aside with care, brass nib tapping against the rim of the ceramic inkwell. Then she took one last drag from the cigarette and pressed it into the ashtray. At last, her eyes lifted.

Green, sharp, deliberate.

They caught on you and held, and the weight of her stare made your breath stall. Not because she was unfamiliar—but because she wasn’t.

It had been years. Not since before the restrictions. Before permits and boundaries. Before your world had been divided into the watched and the waiting.

Back then, your family’s estate still ran like a clock. Breakfast at seven, guests by ten, servants unseen after dark. Her mother had worked in your home as a maid. Her father was a courier, often seen trudging up the rear garden path, boots caked in mud, hands roughened by winter and labor. And Ellie? Ellie had been the quiet child who came with them on rainy afternoons, holding a ledger too large for her arms, waiting by the back steps until the parcels were signed for.

You had watched her from the drawing-room window. Outside and damp. And always beneath you—figuratively and otherwise.

Your parents would never have remembered her face.

But you had.

And now she sat behind a desk no proper young woman ought to approach, ink on her fingers, smoke curling around her shoulders—as if she'd always belonged there.

Her gaze swept over you—once, twice—slow and deliberate, like she was measuring you. From the laces of your boots to the edges of your modest traveling gown. Something flickered at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile. Not quite a scoff either. Just a shadow of amusement she didn’t bother to name. She looked rougher now. Harder. Like the years had carved themselves into her skin and left no room for softness.

“How old are you?” she asked, voice low and rasped from smoke and disuse.

You frowned, lifting your chin instinctively. “Old enough,” you answered, finding the question oddly misplaced.

She raised a brow—unconvinced, unmoved. She didn’t argue, didn’t speak. Just watched you with a look that felt far too knowing, like she was waiting for something true to fall from your mouth instead.

The silence grated.

“Pardon me,” you said, a measured edge beneath your words, “but I fail to see what bearing that has. I am here to send a message to my fiancé.”

Ellie leaned back slightly, the movement casual but not careless, then set the dip pen down beside the inkwell with the same precision as before. “I’m aware. That’s why you’re here.”

The tone—flat, edged, knowing—made your jaw tense.

She sighed, gathered a stack of crumpled papers from her desk, and swept them neatly to the floor beside her. “I ask questions because I must,” she said curtly. “Every word I carry is a risk. I’d rather know the nature of those I serve.”

Her voice was measured, serious in a way that left little room for courtesy. The calm sharpness of it matched her expression—cool, unreadable, nothing like the girl you used to glimpse from the window of your room. That girl, trailing behind her mother or father in silence, sodden boots and wide eyes—she didn’t live in this room.

You met her gaze. “I’m old enough. Perhaps older than you.”

The words cut a little too hard, sharper than intended, and you felt it the moment they left your tongue. The irritation hadn’t left, but something smaller and more brittle cracked beneath it.

“And I just…” You inhaled. “I just need to deliver something to my fiancé.”

Ellie tilted her head slightly. Pen returned to her hand—but she didn’t write. Instead, she stared at you again. And again, that quiet, brazen stare made your posture straighten instinctively. It unsettled something in you. Not because she was harsh, but because she was utterly unbothered. Steady. Still.

You weren’t used to being looked at like that. Especially not by someone like her.

“You look young to be wed,” she said at last, words unhurried.

You lifted your chin, letting your gaze harden. “I didn’t come here for your opinion.”

Your eyes swept the room again. So many papers—how many of them were love letters? Pleas? Goodbyes? Secrets? How many were from people like you, hoping for an answer?

She nodded once, a slight tilt of her head toward the space between you. “Very well. Speak what you wish me to carry.”

You hesitated.

She didn’t wait. The pen resumed its motion, its nib whispering across the page.

You stepped forward, carefully. “Tell him… I hope he is well. That his family remains safe.” You paused, throat tight. “That I miss him. Terribly. And that I’m still waiting. I will wait—until all of this is over. And…”

The words tangled.

Saying it aloud felt strange. Saying it to her—stranger still.

“…Tell him I love him.”

Ellie’s pen stilled.

She did not look up. Merely reached for her cigarette and lit it with quiet precision, the flare of the match briefly catching the edge of her cheekbone in gold.

“That is all,” you murmured.

She gave a faint nod, finally lifting her gaze. “In a place like this,” she said, voice low, “it is often simpler to forget than to send things meant to be remembered.”

The weight of it landed harder than you expected.

What did she know of such things?

You slipped a small folded note from your coat—along with a worn banknote and the delivery address, scrawled hastily on creased paper—and placed them on the desk without a word.

You turned, before you could leave, you stopped.

Something twisted sharp behind your ribs. The words rose before you could stop them.

You glanced over your shoulder, voice colder than you meant it. “And what would you know of love, in any case?”

Ellie didn’t so much as blink. She exhaled slowly, the smoke unfurling between you—thin, silent, unreadable.

You didn’t wait for her answer.

The door cracked shut behind you with more force than necessary, the sound echoing down the narrow stairwell. Those waiting outside flinched and turned. You ignored them.

You yanked your bonnet lower, boots echoing in clipped defiance as you passed.

Who says something like that?

Was it truly so difficult—to do your job without stripping hope from those who still dared to hold it?

[misaerabl]

MUTED 𝝑𝑒 - masterlist

✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚ gamer&commentary creator!e x influencer!u (enemies to lovers) SUMMARY : wc... ? ˙⋆✮˙ A lifestyle creator with a flawless feed. A reaction channel with a talent for starting drama. Your world is all soft lighting and subtle shade—Ellie Williams is loud edits, louder opinions, and a fanbase that lives for her chaos. You and Ellie were never supposed to cross paths. But one reaction stream, one too-perfect subtweet, and the internet writes its own narrative: a rivalry they can’t get enough of. You’re curated. She’s unfiltered. You go viral for routines. She goes viral for ruining them. It should’ve ended online—but now you’re stuck sharing a cabin, sharing space, sharing tension that won’t stay hidden behind screens. Ellie is frustrating. Fame is relentless. And somewhere between stolen glances and snarky remarks, the line between content and connection starts to blur. Because when everything is made to be watched, the most dangerous thing you can do is feel.

˙⋆✮ READ THE REST ON AO3!

PROLOGUE -- "not sorry"

ellie.exe is live...

The screen is dimly lit in cool purples and flickering LED strips. A soft lo-fi playlist hums beneath the click-clack of keys and the occasional irritated—

“Dude, seriously?”

Ellie, tucked into a hoodie and headset, squints at her monitor, brows furrowed in the way that makes her fans screenshot the stream and tweet things like “she’s so baby when she’s mad”.

She's midway through a stream of some hyper-buggy online multiplayer game her chat begged her to play. She’s not good at it. She’s not pretending to be good at it.

Which is, naturally, why thousands are watching.

“Okay, there is no way that hit me. Roll back the tape. That’s cheating. That’s hacking, actually. I’m reporting him.”

The chat explodes:

lmaoo classic ellie L NOOB.exe pls check out @/reader’s new vid tho omg 😭 she’d beat this game faster than u lmao grwm girl supremacy!!!

Ellie groans, tossing her controller onto her lap and reaching for the watered-down iced coffee she’s been sipping since the stream started. The condensation leaves a faint ring on her desk.

“Okay, okay—pause. I need hydration and emotional support.”

Sip. Grimace. Another sip.

“Wait, who are you all yelling about?”

The chat floods with one name: your username, a wave of heart emojis, thirst comments, and “SHIP??” spam.

“Reader?” Ellie squints at the screen. “The GRWM chick? Seriously?”

A few more keystrokes, a few clicks.

“Okay, I mean… sure. Gotta give the fans what they want.”

The game feed shrinks into the corner. A new window opens on her overlay—your latest video.

GRWM: Night Out Routine (Even If You Cancel Last Minute) 💄🍷

The video fades in. You’re cross-legged on your bed, silky robe slung off one shoulder, hair twisted up with a claw clip, all soft lighting and softer skin. You’re smiling at the camera, walking through a lineup of glassy skincare bottles like it’s second nature.

Ellie leans forward slightly. Just a bit.

“She’s giving Vogue cover, but also… does she even sweat?”

Chat starts twitching:

UR EYES R TOO WIDE STAND UP she plugs her sephora code every 3 minutes she’s got you in a chokehold already babe 😭

“Like, does her skincare budget exceed my rent?”

She pauses—lets the silence sit there a second.

“I’m not judging—I’m just confused. Does she live at Sephora?”

The chat absolutely loses it.

no bc the tension already you’re just in love just say it someone ship name this rn you guys are delusional. ellie hates people like her

Ellie lifts her hands in mock surrender.

“Chat, I’m not a hater—I’m just a broke, bitter lesbian. Calm down.”

She smirks. Just a little. The kind that makes her left cheek dimple slightly, which only makes her chat explode even more.

nah she’s BLUSHING for real

She minimizes the window. Boots her game back up.

“Anyway. I’m going back to getting absolutely smoked in this trash server. Thanks for the detour, creeps.”

But it’s already too late.

The screen recordings are circulating. TikToks are multiplying like bacteria in petri dishes. The fan edits are being born—dramatic music, soft fades, your skincare and her flustered commentary spliced together.

Meanwhile, on your end. Your phone buzzes with a flurry of DMs. Some from fans. Some from mutuals. All of them saying the same thing:

“girl... ellie.exe just reviewed your grwm and i’m SOBBING” “you gonna let her talk to you like that or...?” “you got her blushing on camera 😭”

You scroll. You find the clip. You raise a brow.

Fuck this girl. Fuck her.

You stare at your screen for a bit before hitting post on the tweet.

you @/yourhandle ✨ skincare hits different when your lighting source isn’t a 3am Twitch stream 😘

Your mentions explode. The war has begun.

You swipe through your mentions, catching glimpses of your own face edited onto Mortal Kombat fighters, people tagging Ellie and begging her to respond. You tell yourself you’re over it. That you’ve said what you needed to say. That she doesn’t matter.

And then someone DMs you again.

“uhhhh did you see her tweet 💀”

You open Twitter.

ellie @/ellie.exe some ppl act brand new just because the sun hits them once and they didn’t burst into flames. proud of you 😇

You blink. Read it again. Your jaw actually drops.

That smug, passive-aggressive, “not-a-reply-but-yes-it-is” tone practically has her signature all over it. She didn’t tag you. She didn’t have to. It’s as good as a shot fired.

Like she didn’t start this by coming for your routine with her crusty gamer hands and talking about you like you were a mall display instead of a person?

Oh, hell no.

You set your phone down. Pick it back up. Type. Delete. Type again. Your jaw clenches as you pace your room, bare feet dragging across a fluffy rug as the late afternoon sun pours across your floor—the same one she saw in your video. The one she smirked at like it offended her personally.

You finally hit post.

you @/yourhandle ✨ no hate to the gamers but if your selfcare knowledge is based on your reflection in a loading screen… maybe hush 😘

You don’t even wait to see the fallout this time. You toss your phone onto your bed like it burned you and go to pour yourself something strong and unnecessary.

By the time you come back, Twitter’s already turned your quote tweet into a meme. Your face on a skincare ad. Ellie’s on a GameStop receipt. Someone edited a fake YouTube thumbnail:

“GRWM to fight a gamer lesbian (gone wrong) (emotional)”

You try to laugh, but it comes out tight.

Your blood is hot. Not quite angry, not quite amused. It’s something in between. Something irritating and unfamiliar. Something that smells like obsession.

comments: “they’re gonna make out or kill each other, no in between.” “this is the weirdest foreplay i’ve ever witnessed and i’m here for it” “ellie.exe called her sensitive and now she’s dismantling her entire existence 💅”

You actually exhale a disbelieving, “Oh my God,” into your empty room.

She’s insufferable. Infuriating. Smug. And you hate—hate—the way her face lingered in your head after watching her watch you.

You were supposed to win this. You were supposed to make her shut up. So You make her... By Clicking the block button.

KEEP UP! KEEP UP!

prologue... (you are here!) - "blocked. not sorry" part 1. - "fuck the algorithm" part 2. - ??? + more!!! (next parts will be posted daily! see you tomorrow!, please comment to be added to the taglist!)