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dietcane · 24 days ago

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⚢ barbed wire baby - dirty little secret

cw: dead dove, do not eat !!, age gap (ellie is late 30's, reader is 21), elements of domestic violence, toxic relationship, death, themes of organized crime (gangs/mafia/drug cartels), cheating, bribery, abuse (physical, drugs, alcohol), mentioned gambling, bloodplay, strap-on usage, heavy manipulation, dark!ellie, spitting, rough sex, oral sex, depictions of mental instability. more to be added!!

synopsis: as the adrenaline becomes more and more overwhelming, so does the danger. stakes are higher than ever. dingy prison cells, double entendres whispered through jail phones. knowing glances exchanged with prison guards. her modern day bonnie to her clyde. your life weighs in the balance. you know ellie has pull inside and out. you have to decide if you're willing to risk everything for her. are you?

DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

⤷ m.list | a/n: first chapters are soo short. lengthy ones soon!

Time rolled by quickly following the day of Ellie’s conjugal visit. Thirty minutes felt like five, hours felt like ten. Mindlessly slugging around Ellie’s too-big mansion. Cold hallways, impersonal decor, and ceilings that made you feel miniature from the sheer height of them. Following daily routines like second nature- brush teeth, shower, skincare, make-up, fix hair, attend whatever Ellie’s scheduled you for. Meaningless little things. Charity events, small outings so you’re not stuck in the house, fancy dinners with people of her caliber. Dangerous people, that is, adorned in thick Armani suits with glinting watches from brands that you’ve never heard of in your life.

Days become weeks and weeks become months. Life is a blur. Not much to keep in mind when you're being puppeteered from behind iron bars. Ellie has made no effort to get herself out or vy for a retrial. Content with the schedule she’s been abiding by for the last one hundred forty-two days.

Her men aren't dormant, though, despite her absence. Tirelessly working, arranging deals, carrying out hits, the usual. Trudging through the endless, eerie halls covered in blood. Bloody footprints caked into the tiled floors, seeping into the divots of grout and the stark paleness of the slabs of granite. Distinct screams sounding from the basement, the exhale of air from the suppressor and the heavy thunk of cold bodies hitting the concrete floor.

You didn't leave your room most days if Ellie didn't schedule or force you to attend one of her “graciously” planned events or activities for you. Majority of your days were spent in bed, pajama shorts around your ankles and panties long discarded, just trying to alleviate the pent-up arousal impending in your stomach. It didn't work much. Ellie knew your body much better than you did. Couldn't get yourself over the daunting brink while plagued with nausea. Nauseous from the cloying, sterile scent of bleach and hospital grade cleaning supplies. Nauseous from the coil of guilt and disgust roiling in the pit of your stomach every time you walked past the heavily guarded and locked basement door. Trapped away beneath thick deadbolts, nightlatches, and a series of biometric locks. Overkill, you think. One of Ellie’s best guardsmen- her right hand man, honestly- keeps an eye on this door- Abby Anderson. A heavyset blondie with striking blue eyes that tend to wander. Broad arms covered in scars and faint hair. She's not bad-looking. Stark opposite to Ellie, though.

Today, unfortunately, the basement guard has been swapped out with your usual bodyguard- Dina- and now you're under Abby’s watch. She’s gruff when she barges into your room, dress and cardigan clutched into her fist, arm extended. Your skin is sweat slick where you’re bare and naked in the middle of your bed, a spot carved out into the sheets. Knees propped up and spread. Your fingers are curled in between your thighs and they’re dripping with your own slick. She doesn't even look at you.

Your fumble to sit up, blanket pulled over your lower half, plagued with bouts of embarrassment and horror. You drag your dirtied fingers over the comforter, trying to even make yourself look even the closest semblance to presentable. Her eyes don’t even bother to look at you now. Eyes that once trailed over you whole and unashamedly- for a moment that brings you an inkling of comfort. It’s nice to think for a moment that she doesn’t want to see you vulnerable. Not without your permission. But then your brain oh-so helpfully supplies you all of the vague memories of Ellie leaving you out on display for all of her soldiers and men to see. One time? Completely bare with only a thick, leather collar hanging around your neck. Early on into the relationship. Mouthed off at her. Rattling off nonsense with an attitude just to be annoying. To be stubborn. Ellie wasn’t a fan of back talk. Or spunk for that matter. Made you sit at her feet like a dog. Of course you mouthed off about that too. For an entire week, she made you sit with the suffocating leather collar and leash. All while adorning a black eye, of course.

Her nose is turned up like it's inconveniencing her to even be in your presence. You swear that she even wipes her hand on her tactile weapon belt, slung heavy around her hips, when your fingers graze the back of her hand. You feel like you’re beneath her. Her expression is bored and her tongue is prodding into her cheek. You’re staring. Freckles, scarred cheek, blue eyes, pretty lashes. She’s hot. But you keep it to yourself.

“Not sure Els would really appreciate you finger deep with no panties around her guards, yeah? Keep it to yourself, pretty.” Her voice doesn’t sound how you’d expect it to. You expected her to be harsher, more brute-like. It’s slick. Like one of those dommes in videos you’d tumbled over in the depths of the internet- late at night and pent up. Slick with a honey dew seductive caliber. You deduce the fact you definitely want Abby Anderson- your wife’s right-hand man- to jump your bones, even if that’s the last thing that ever happens to you. The thought plagues you with guilt, but you try to mediate it with the excuse of ovulation. Wife is incarcerated, you’re frustratingly warm, and you’re ovulating! You’re clearly not yourself.

Silence has become severely familiar to you. One of your closest adversaries. Bleak nights spent sitting on balconies, silent alongside nothing but the stars and the moon to keep you company. Some nights you lay in bed and just think. Thinking about how life would be if you had heed the warning about Ellie’s bars. Bars tucked into shady, yet so lively corners of New York City. Maybe you’d still be in school, continuing your major. Slumped over psychology textbooks with shitty plastic chicken flavored cup ramen and half melted pints of Ben and Jerry’s- a frivolous purchase for a broke, barely scraping by university student. I mean, come on, nearly five dollars for a pint? Breyers sells the same thing for the same price for way more! But hey, cramming for exams with the bliss of a thirty minute affair with a spoon a five buck delicacy. Burnt coffee from communal coffee pots, sticky countertops and mildewy showers shared with halls of girls and snuck in friends and boyfriends. Truly a romanticized experience for you. Silence always brings you back here. Brings you back to every moment where you’ve dwelled over every decision you’ve ever made. Thoughts of how every single choice you’ve made led to over choices. Butterfly effect and the whole nine yards. The silence is deafening, suffocating and all consuming.

Ellie’s favorite black Mercedes SUV is silent. The interior is cold and dark, windows are up, and the AC is steadily blowing, just at the settings how Ellie favors it. Just enough to prick the hair up on her arms and wake her up when she has to force herself through grueling business proposals at ten in the morning almost every day of the week. The dress and cardigan she pulled for you today doesn’t do much to alleviate the pulsating blow of chilled air throughout the car. A white poplin and lace MiuMiu dress with a boring white shrug and a pair of pale slingback pumps from Dior. The color is reminiscent of what you think a decaying ballet pointe shoe would look like. Reminiscent of pointe shoes that have been carved and shanked and dulled at the platform. Wilted at the wings and vamp. A pale, dusted pink. Pointe shoes that have been on relevé much too long and turned and piqued for years. So much emotion and grace muddled into the color of a pair of bleak pair of heels. You hate it. It’s stiff and expensive, just how Ellie wants you to be.

You’re in the backseat alone, though. Abby driving, gun perched in her lap, clutched with her left hand. Ambidextrous, maybe. Her right hand rests lazily against the bottom of the steering wheel, occasionally steering towards exits and down dirt-pathed back roads. Another guard, Caitlyn, is in the passenger seat. Killer aim from what you’ve gathered amidst brief presences in Ellie’s meetings. Caitlyn wields snipers and shotguns in steady hands trained on frantic targets and never misses. She’s lethal. Ellie’s favorite contract killer- her perfectly trained mercenary for hire. Her eyes are tired and deadpan where they meet you through the rearview mirror. Dark blue hair- odd choice for their field of work- with lighter, yet calculating even more blue eyes. Scanning, analyzing, horrifying.

Prison is not a place you enjoy frequenting. The drive there is tedious and tense, sandwiched between two women with years of experience and blood on their hands. They’re unapologetic with how they presented themselves. Brutish, rough, heavy. While Ellie was purposeful with how she carried herself. Kept home and work separate. Guns and knives tucked away neatly into locked cabinets and drawers, all hidden away in her heavily guarded and locked office room, where her guards were opposites. Constantly in their suits and tactile belts with guns strapped around ankles under slacks and pocket knives hidden under sleeves of custom-tailored and fitted suit jackets.

You’ve learned to dissociate during the drive from Ellie’s mansion to her tucked away hiding spot that she calls her reprieve from her everyday chores. Her reprieve from you, maybe. Your chest burns. The thought is sour and no matter how much you try to swallow, it doesn't let up. It's saccharine, cloying, excessive. Too much.

Your lungs feel like they're contracting faster than they can expand. In, out, out. You're gasping, almost. Silently. Caitlyn’s eyes find yours through the rear view mirror. She's judging you. Unimpressed, like she's shaming you. Furrowed brows pinched together in an expression of utter contempt. She's looking at you like you're a child. Like you're beneath her.

You're not crying, yet.

You're getting worked up over nothing. Rubbing the heel of your palm over your restlessly beating heart and over contracting lungs. Because maybe, just maybe, your wife sees your absence as a reprieve. Sees her heavily scheduled and monitored days and routines as a break from you. Basking in the solace of freedom from you. The solace of having someone so attached and dependent on you. Ellie was probably having the time of her life- her men inside with her, being puppeteered to cater to her whims to let her roam and reign however she’d liked.

You weren’t useful to her. Not like how her guardsmen were. They fought and bled for her. You were just… there.

You don't enjoy that. Jealousy and envy plague you paralyzed. You try to meet her eyes through the mirror again, but her eyes are trained on the street before the three of you. You shift in your seat uncomfortably. Sat in the middle seat of the second row in Ellie’s SUV, you get a clear gaze of them both. Yet, they pay you no mind. Why are you so invisible?

Shaky hands fumble through carved-out compartments on backseat doors. Rifling through pens and paper clips and other meaningless office supplies, your hand drags over one of Ellie’s switchblades she keeps in her truck. It's cold and heavy where it rests in the palm of your hand. Engraved with her initials. Abby and Caitlyn don't notice, don't spare you a passing glimpse, a tiny eye contact. Nothing.

You're alone on the road, no other cars around, only you, Abby, and Caitlyn confined to the SUV. Your hands and body move before your mind does. Before your consciousness.

Your hand wraps around Caitlyn’s head from behind the seat. She grunts in surprise and jolts. A strength in your arms erupts like never before- have you always been this strong? It's a three-second affair. Caitlyn’s head is held starkly against the headrest of Ellie’s Mercedes.

A firm swipe. It's jagged, unconfident. Not a surgical cut. It's done with shaky impulsive hands. A jagged line from the left carotid to her right. Caitlyn’s blood is warm where it trickles over your fingers. She’s not going to make it, you guess. Asphyxia or blood loss. Abby is cursing and trying to swerve to pull over. Caitlyn is gurgling and trying to grasp at her throat, but the wound is far too big and you doubt Abby’s attempt at a half-assed tourniquet will do much.

Abby pushes you back, flat against the seat. You sit there, staring at your hands. Blade flat against your thighs, still extended outwards, covered in maroon shades. Soaking wet. You touch your face gingerly. Trembling fingers drenched in someone else’s bodily fluids. You frown. Wipe your eyes afterwards. Wrong hand, you make the mental note, not to wipe with your left hand. You’re sat in the backseat, Caitlyn’s blood, smeared mascara, and eyeliner smudged around your eyes. Not a pretty sight, you’d bet. Ellie wouldn't like it.

Her blood has stained your sweater. Her blood cascaded down from the silver engraved blade, lacing around your fingers, and dribbling down your arm. There’s a puddle of it in her lap, steadily streaming into the seats. There are flecks of it on your dress. You realize that it’s not just Caitlyn’s blood on your dress.

A steady stream of it dripping onto your dress. Your nose is bleeding.

You’re not mentally present anymore. Your mind lags behind and the world keeps spinning. Why did you do that?

“Ellie’s going to have a time with you later. Can’t imagine how she’d feel when she finds out you ganked the chick she’d been banging for the past year and a half.”

For good measure (or overkill, honestly) you shiv the blade into the back of the headrest where Caitlyn is sitting. You earn a sickening crack in return. If she wasn't dead before, she is now.

The shower is ice cold. You couldn't move the entire way home. Manhandled by Abby into the house, heavy boot steps followed by meek clinks of heels. She had to undress you since you wouldn't move.

The water going down the drain is a painful scarlet. Swirls around your toes and leaves streaky lines down your body.

The once-white porcelain shower floor is now like a soaking wet canvas. Drenched in water color reds and pinks and faint traces of orange-red variants. Swirled and dragged down to pool around the drain. A faint ring resides there. Mocking you. You killed Caitlyn. In a fit of rage. Like a child. A petulant child so worked up with unbridled rage that they’d resorted to violence. Unstable and unable. It’s embarrassing. You close your eyes. Maybe shutting them out will block out the mockery of the blood drying around the drain, to shield you from the backlash of your actions. To play as a fortress against the impending breakdown festering underneath your surface.

Caitlyn’s dying expression is burned into your retinas. Melded to the backs of your eyelids. You see her when your eyes are open, when they’re closed, even when you try to dissociate yourself out of the world. Out of the world and into the back of your mind when nothing can bother you, just your everlasting state of peace.

Sickly, seeing that excited you. You know it’s wrong. Far more than wrong, really. The smile starts off slow, A small quirk of the corner of your mouth when you start to recount how her eyes glazed over. How her lips trembled and her nostrils flared. How her hands smacked weakly at your right hand over her forehead, holding her still. How she writhed when she squirmed in her seat as you dragged the blade across her neck. How warm her blood felt over your cold hands. The weight of the blade in your palm.

The smile becomes a grin- full teeth, all expression. A quivering smile, canines pointed. Then it becomes a laugh- hysterical, loud, full body. Abby’s large hands are stabilizing your shaking body. You can barely stand. The laugh is all consuming and it throws you off kilter. You’re leaning against her, soaking wet, blood stained face, and you’re laughing!

The tears followed shortly. Hysterical laughter followed by the onslaught of body wracking sobs. Abby’s hand grips your hair tightly, holding your face beneath the steady stream of the shower, You’re still laughing. Laughs and sobs quickly become sobs and chokes and coughs.

Her hand drags roughly over your face, dragging calloused palms over sensitive cheeks and rubs over dried blood in its path. She’s cleaning you- rather roughly, but cleaning you nonetheless. You can’t stop inhaling the water. A steady stream buffing over your eyes, down the slope of your nose and into your mouth. Streaming into your nostrils, settling down your throat. It’s cold water but it burns the lining of your throat like scalding hot water. What drowning feels like, maybe. Like a million tiny shards of glass are trailing down every lining in your body until they’re all covered and bleeding.

Abby yanks you back and you cough pathetically.

“Figured you needed a chaser after all that. Boss won’t like it if I brought her girl to come see her all doped up, hm? It’s not the adrenaline anymore makin’ you laugh. Just pure you. You sick fuck, probably enjoyed it, right? Baby’s first kill?”

Her voice is mocking and doing so much for you. It’s silken and honey-like and it rattles around your brain. Probably affecting the brain chemistry you have up there- or maybe the lack thereof since you just murdered one of your wife’s best workers and laughed about it afterwards. You swallow and adjust your footing. Avoiding eye contact. You decide you’ll jump her bones if you look her in the eye.

The water’s off now. You didn’t notice she did it. Too caught up in the whirlwind of your brain- scattered, messy, unattentive. The blood has long dried around the drain. Ring of Caitlyn’s life crusted around the holed steel circle. Red, blatant, and present. The goosebumps on your arms are starting to bud. Pricking up and spreading. Your fingers graze over your arms, fingertips dragged over soft bumps, almost like braille. The goosebumps aren’t just from the cold. Fleshy braille blossoming from the sheer recount of Caitlyn and the presence of Abby alone.

Your eyes fix on the drain. The smile is bigger than before. Standing in the porcelain shower, dripping wet, arms wrapped around yourself, smile wider than ever. And in that exact moment? You don’t feel an ounce of regret.

Your heels click as you’re walked down the corridor of the non-contact visit room by one of Ellie’s men, Jesse, and Abby. Similar outfit as your one from this morning, long vintage MiuMiu dress with the same dulled out ballerina-destroyed-pointe-shoe pink heels. No sweater this time- the only good one to go with this dress was currently blood stained and being bleached by one of Ellie’s many servants and maids- whole yadda yadda.

Ellie’s the only inmate in there. A row of double ended glass walls with phones haphazardly attached to the walls. She’s manspreading on the other side- hideous jumpsuit unzipped and hanging lowly around her hips, wife beater on display. There’s a cigarette hanging between her pointer and middle finger. She’s staring directly at you, just lazily smirking at you. You stand behind the chair across from her, on the other side of the glass. Abby slides behind you, pulling it out and gesturing for you to sit. Your eye catches the phone to the right of you. Ellie is still staring, analyzing. Looking.

Her right hand finds the black phone to her side and you mirror her action instinctively. Her breaths are light through the phone. You hold it up to your ear and avoid her incessant eye contact.

“Where’s Caitlyn, baby?”

A single eye twitch, barely perceptible if Ellie wasn’t looking at you so harshly. It gives you away instantaneously. Nausea washes over you quickly. Nausea, regret, guilt.

Ellie knows it too. The way she looks right through you. Makes you feel like you absolutely have to tell her every single secret you’ve ever held dear to your heart. Spill every single little meaningless thought you have just to appease her. You’re tense, paralyzed with guilt and everything underneath the sun.

“I don’t know why I did it. The way she looked at me, Els. Made me angry and it happened before I knew why. But, I don’t feel sorry. I can’t feel sorry,”

You tumbled and spewed off like a dam finally breaking. Every single thought streaming out of your lips without much regard. Only impulse. Adrenaline. So many words yet you couldn’t properly deduce it to one feeling. You felt sick.

Ellie takes a drag from the cigarette between her fingers. She doesn’t respond to you, just simply stares. The smirk widens, she’s smiling at you now. She doesn’t express disappointment or contempt. Just stares at you down the slope of her nose. Flicks the ash off the end of the cigarette onto the table beneath the two of you. The smoke warbles into the air, curling and warping in all of its ashen grey glory. You wrinkle your nose at the smell unconsciously and Ellie chuckles. A soft exhale of air. Real quiet. The hair on your arms prick at the sound and you cross your legs.

Your body suddenly feels warm. Ellie notices that too. Notices everything.

“Got Caitlyn with my blade, eh? Figured Abs over here told you about me an’ her, too. Did that bother you too? Does it bother you that I went to Caitlyn to fulfill my needs because you’re not enough? She knew how to shut up and take it when I needed it. You’re far too much at times, angel.” Her tone is heavy and brutal. You know it’s true. Your hands are trembling now and tears are pricking at your eyes. It does bother you.

Psychological warfare. One of Ellie’s strong suits. Knows how to build you up and tear you down tenfold. Tells you all the right things, says it how you want to hear it. Whispers those sweet nothings that really mean nothing to her. Nothing to her but everything for you. The ring on your left hand suddenly feels heavier than it ever has. Like it has enough weight to keep your hand flush against the table, paralyzed still. The band feels restricting, contracting and shrinking around the fleshy skin of your finger. It feels impersonal, now. Like it’s not meant to be yours. Like it’s meant to be for another. Maybe like it’s Caitlyn’s.

“Yes! I hurt Caitlyn and in return I feel no remorse.”

“Au contraire, sweetheart.”

You bang your hand against the table. Chest heaving in a fit of frustration. Ellie is looking at you like you’re a child. Just like how Caitlyn looked down at you. A petulant child with a knack for temper tantrums. Contempt. Contempt. Contempt. That’s all they see of you, right? You’re beneath them. Unworthy. Useless. You’re not going to be on their level, ever.

“First kill does that to someone like you, cutie. You’re just a walking pendulum of instability today, aren’t ‘ya? Sitting there all wet in your panties thinkin’ about how you hurt Cait. Am I right?”

She’s baiting you. Egging you on for a reaction so she can retaliate, with ease. Waiting for you to hit that brink so she can exploit it over and over and over again. You’re close. Temper rising, pendulum swinging. Rocking between emotion to emotion, each one on two opposite sides of the spectrum. Adrenaline coursing and rampaging to paralyzed with bouts of hysteria. Pendulum. Always swinging, save for the calm-before-the-storm moments. The moments when you remember how well acquainted you are with silence. How a part of you silence truly is. Those brief moments of quiet and solace and tranquility.

Ellie’s steady breathing is grounding you. Your nails have carved crescent-shaped scars into your palm. You rock back and forth in the chair and you’re vaguely aware of where you are. Your trembling hands grasp a little tighter around the jail phone. It’s cold to the touch. Freezing where it presses against your ear. Shaky, unstable, unfit.

But the thing is, Ellie is right. You’re angry and pent up and frustratingly wet in your seat. Your eyes find hers and she offers you a smile.

“‘S just us in here. No cameras. Put your feet up on your chair and give me a show. Show me how bothered you are. Flip the pretty little dress I bought you up so I can see everything, yeah?”

You push back in the chair you’re in. Tug your dress up, tug panties down. You reluctantly spread your legs, completely baren to the guards behind Ellie. The position is awkward. Fingers delving between soaked sticky folds, spreading and displaying, all for Ellie.

Your body is burning hot but your fingers are cold. Freezing, shaky. You’re hesitant. Dragging your fingers through your slick, swallowing back shaky whimpers. Her eyes are on you and that's all you want. It spurs you a little further, slipping the tip of your finger in. You gasp how Ellie likes it. You’re performing for her. A practiced art. Steady pumping of fingers and small drags with the pad of your thumb over your over-sensitive clit.

Ellie’s put out her cigarette now. Burning tip put out on the palm of the guard nearest to her. She’d never believed in ashtrays. More convenient to put it out on the nearest surface. Whether that’d be you, herself, a table, or even her soldiers.

Green eyes laser focus onto you. Unmoving, attentive. Momentarily, her eyes flick up to Abby behind you. In seconds, you’re livid.

You pull back. Fingers wiped haphazardly against lacy fabric. Panties snatched back up your legs in a fit of rage. Standing on your feet. Fists clenched and nostrils flared. Your fingers are sticky against your palm. You're faintly aware of how it feels. It grounds you more. Just slightly.

Ellie smiles, leaning back completely. The chair she’s in is tilting on its two back legs. She looks so fucking good.

She squints at you before clicking her tongue and standing up.

Her voice is loud enough that you can hear her through the reinforced glass.

“God, I’ve got to get you on valium or something. Acting like a fuckin’ baby.”

Your eyes start to prick with tears and you sit back down. You weren't a child. Grown adult. A woman. Who could control her rapidly swinging range of emotions. You were good. Stable.

Not a fucking baby.

A woman saddled with a temper that was kept in check. You could do that, right? Keep it settled and hidden. To appease Ellie. That's all that matters to you.

Validation. One word. Ten letters. Still such significant weight. It's all you want. Not money, not material, not the latest new fad- but Ellie’s validation.

That's what you were going after when you slid Ellie’s favorite blade across Caitlyn’s neck, right? Seeking out validation when you watched her eyes glaze over and the way her shaky hands tried to grasp at the steady bubble of the blood seeping from her carotids.

Seeking out validation when you stood underneath the freezing cold stream of Ellie’s shower. When you stared and watched the blood clawed its way out of your skin in streaky globs and spiralled around the drain. Watched it dry and settle and sink into the textured floor of the shower. Watched the drain pool with scarlet water as it released steadily.

Seeking out validation when you barely struggled against Abby when she held you underneath the water that burned your lungs. When you let her manhandle you under the steady onslaught of ice cold water and you smiled. You let her. Didn't argue, fuss, or fight.

All for Ellie’s validation, right?

She made you act that way. It was all for her. Whether she liked that or not.

taglist: @bambiaches @mabermaple @starrdelight @vahnilla @elliesfavtoy @sulliefimmie @oneinameliann @eriiwaiii2 @azxteria @l0veylace @valeisaslut @slutforabbyanderson @hitmehardmommy @billiegabbysyd @the-sick-habit

cmnt to be added or removed!!

- jadie loves u!

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