Work Header

But I'm *Not* A Cheerleader!

Work Text:

Back in high school, she used to like to joke, "If Jennifer Garner wanted to raise babies with me, I would learn to like babies so I could raise babies with Jennifer Garner."

She's straight. Really. It's just—hello, Jennifer Garner. Even straight girls have to appreciate the idea of being married to Sydney Bristow.

Okay, first she'd have to kill Ben Affleck and then star in a movie with Jennifer Garner, but yeah.

The killing Ben Affleck part doesn't happen. (It's a little sad. Ellen kind of hates his face, even before blind hateful jealousy had entered the picture.) But the starring in a movie thing—that's actually happening.

Like, right now.

She's on set, sitting in a couch to rest her back from wearing the pregnancy suit all day while she has her lunch. And somewhere outside, is Jennifer Garner. Shooting some scenes. After which she will be shooting some scenes with Ellen, and it's like—yeah. Ellen doesn't know what it's like.

Surreal, or something.


"Oh, hey you're in here," Jennif—Jen, says, smiling tiredly. (Ellen can't keep referring to her as "Jennifer Garner" in her head the entire shoot, it's bound to come out loud in conversation at some point and totally embarrass her.)

"Yeah, it's um" she shrugs self consciously, "you know, my trailer."

"Mind if I crash on your couch for a little bit? I'm a bit exhausted for the drive home."

"Oh! Yeah! Mi couch es su couch!" Ellen bounds up and waves a hand at said couch, and tries to look helpful and not awkward in a I-was-maybe-premeditating-the-murder-of-your-totally-fugly-husband kind of way.

"Thanks," Jen falls into the couch, grins at her, grateful, and blinding. With the dimples. That's what it is, really. It's the dimples that really get you. Seriously. The woman has dimples that make you forget things.

Important things. Like how to not stand around and look awkward in your own trailer thinking useless things like why am I so gay oh my fucking God.


"Are you alright?" Jen asks her, concerned face making Ellen's knees do stupid things they haven't done since high school, for chrissakes.

She nods. "It's just the suit, it gives me actual backaches," she says, and adds stupidly, because interactions with Jen inevitably make her stupid, "Without, you know, the baby. Which is good. I mean, not that babies are bad. I mean, I love babies. Okay, I don't. But you know, I will! Someday. Um."

Jen laughs, and puts her hands on Ellen's shoulders. "Here, this used to help me." And proceeds to rub Ellen's back. Really. Starting at the shoulders, which hadn't even been hurting, really, but no way in hell is she going to complain, even if she were still capable of forming coherent speech, but then Jennifer Garner is working her fingers down Ellen's spine and down to her lower back, and pausing at the edge of her shirt questioningly to which, Ellen, of course, moans an affirmative, and then Jennifer Garner is sliding her hands up under Ellen's shirt to stroke her thumbs in circles on the skin of her back, and shit, she's reverted to using Jen's full name.


She agonizes over how to make it a routine occurrence for about half a week before it's already happening and Ellen's not even sure if she did anything.

Other than, apparently, start trading back-rubs with Jennifer Garner.

One of these days, she's going to do something stupid, like, lean forward and kiss the back of Jen's neck after brushing away the hair, or stroke too light and too suggestive with her thumbs down the curves of her shoulders, but she can't exactly articulate any of this as a reason for why she doesn't want to trade nearly-orgasmic backrubs of platonic bonding so she keeps her mouth shut and purses her lips in concentration whenever it's her turn to do the touching.


Which is why it's a little bit of a shock when Ellen's not the one that does anything first.

She thinks she might be hallucinating, a bit. She needs to actually sleep more at night since shooting during the day sort of takes away from substantial napping opportunities. Either that, or there are lips brushing down the back of her neck, over the bumps of her spine, circling around to the hollows of her throat. Oh fuck.

Are you hitting on me? she wants to say, because if you are, that would really, really, be okay. I mean. Okay, you're married, and that's bad. So you know, you shouldn't. But I mean, if you weren't, it would totally be okay. And holy shit my gaydar is fucking crap!

She swallows and leans back instead, arching her neck, and is rewarded by warm, open-mouthed kisses up to the line of her jaw, and a tongue curling around the shell of her ear. Ellen makes a strangled noise and squirms, at which Jen laughs softly, a little husky and God that's sexy.

"Just so you know, I'm pretending that the unrelenting sleep deprivation of the past week has led me to hallucinate, so please, please, please for the love of God don't stop." Ellen tells her.

Jen hmms into the soft skin behind her ear, and slides a hand up under the front of her t-shirt, fingers tucking into the inside of her bra, and Ellen possibly whimpers a little, legs falling open, preemptively hopeful.


Apparently, a girl can do more than dream.