A/N: Well, I really like this fic, and I totally set myself up for a continuation. So, I'm going to attempt to add-on to this, and I'd really appreciate it if you all would leave a review telling me what works, and what doesn't. Thank you. :-D So, enjoy!

I do not own Ella Enchanted. It belongs to Gail Carson Levine.

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With the towel still wrapped securely around her arm, Hattie rushed away from Blossom's manor, eager to get home…to trace over old wounds…

The pain that was ravaging her arm was dulled now, but blood still dripped down her arm regardless. She should have been worried; what if her mother or sister or stepfather was awake and downstairs? What would they say if she came home with a cut-up arm? She didn't want to find out.

Worse still, was Ella's voice--the sight of an orgasmic flush gracing her cheeks--the sights and the sounds kept replaying in Hattie's head. She tried to shake it off, but that was to no avail. Her mind was determined to be a little masochistic fucker, and she was not okay with that.

"He is such an asshole," she mumbled to herself. Great--she was talking to herself now? Lovely; that's the next step into total insanity.

"Stupid, insipid, completely gauche…" and to think, she used to have a total crush on him.

But that was forever ago; before Ella, and when Charmont had been a piece of meat; good-looking, rich--the Prime Minister's son. Now, he was nothing more than an insolent prick.

"Annoying son of a bitch," she went on, gripping her left arm tighter still. The towel and the sleeve of her dress were probably ruined now. But for once in her life, Hattie didn't give a shit about clothes. No, it was Ella that was occupying her mind. And she hated admitting it.

It was useless to deny it; how many times had she woken up in the middle of the night, Ella on the brain, and wet panties clinging pathetically to her hips? How many times had she thought of Ella while she touched herself? Too many to count.

And yet she still committed herself to denying it; and her denial was reflected in the scars that lined her body.

Hattie rounded the corner, and stepped onto her family's property. Her manor stood before her now, comforting and promising reprieve. She wanted nothing more than to run inside, dash upstairs, and throw herself on her bed. But, that would have to wait. She had to clean up first. The blood had begun to dry, and the (white) towel was soaked in her denial and desperation. How poetic…

She took a step--the heel of her shoes almost hitting the damp grass, when--

"Hattie!" It was Ella. She ambled towards Hattie, skirt rumpled, blouse wrinkled, and long, jet-black hair tangled. Hattie had to look away; she didn't want to see her, and to think about what caused her unkemptness. That would only make her want to drag a blade across her wrists….

Hattie vehemently shook her head.

"I'm surprised you left the party without shagging Stephen," Ella said, cocking an eyebrow. Hattie whipped around, hoping--praying to God, that Ella wouldn't notice her arm--

"I…felt ill." Hattie said, crossing her fingers, and hoping that her voice hadn't cracked, that her smirk hadn't faltered….

"Ill? I didn't see you drink anything." Ella probed. Hattie sighed; she was exasperated, and her arm was stinging again.

"Ella, please…"

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"ELLA!"

Hattie clutched her arm harder, and glared at Ella, blue eyes glittering with suppressed tears, face red with rage and embarrassment…panties damp with arousal.

She was alone with Ella--completely alone….

"Hattie--ugh. Fine. Move, I'm going inside."

But Hattie didn't move. She stood between Ella and the door, panting slightly, and clutching her arm so tight it hurt.

"Hattie, move."

"No," Hattie let her arm drop--the towel fell onto the grass, and the streetlamps shone on it just so, and Ella was able to see the bright red blood on the stark white towel…

"Hattie! What the fuck!" Ella hissed, glancing from the towel to Hattie's arm frantically.

"Ella, please…"

"What did you do?"

"Ella! Stop asking questions! Just shut up! Shut up!"

And Hattie hated herself in that moment; the moment when she lunged forward, mutilated arm reaching our and wrapping around Ella's waits--the moment when her lips pressed against Ella's. It felt good; like kissing the lips of a fucking goddess…

But there was no reciprocation. Ella just stood there. Apparently allowing Hattie to get everything out of her system…

"Why do you do this to me…?" Hattie breathed, lips brushing against Ella's; savoring the taste and the sensations…

"I'm not doing anything."

Hattie pulled away; "Of course not! You never do anything, do you?" Hattie was in hysterics. Ella had seen her arm…she had bluntly rejected her advances…what else could possibly be worse?

"Fucking perfect Ella, right? The martyr, always the martyr! With her bitch of a stepsister!" Hattie gestured to herself towards the end of her sentence.

"Hattie--"

"Hush, Ella, goddammit!"

Hattie turned away, and picked the towel up off the ground. "I'm going to bed. Don't bother me."

And Ella watched; she watched, stunned, while Hattie walked inside, closing the heavy front door behind her with a soft slam.