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bellswlw · 1 year

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˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ in the morning ⇨ e. williams

ellie williams x afab!reader

wc: 1.2k

masterlist

summary: as the sun begins to rise, Ellie's hands begin to set lower and lower under the elastic of your underwear until she wakes you completely.

cw: fingering (r!receiving), soft orgasm (r!receiving), kinda top!ellie, fluff and so much touching.

a/n: this was supposed to be like 500 words and is totallyyyyyy not based on any real thing totallyyy 100% fiction….. hope u like it gn! not proofread.

It's 7 am.

The sun has slowly begun to creep up from behind your window, leaving a blinding haze the moment you crack your eyes open and shift against Ellie in your too small of a bed.

she mumbled something against your neck, her head snuggled deep within it before kissing it once.

Her hands were warm on your stomach, hugging you from behind and under the covers you were sharing.

It was below freezing in the room, and even with Ellie's body pressed against you, you shivered when your foot was exposed for too long and you had pulled it back under; touching your leg in the process.

You groggily took a hand from its stiff position under your chin and clasped it with hers. A warm hum vibrated against your skin when Ellie realized what you'd done.

A smile quickly forms onto your lips just before it fades to a slouched line, your breathing falling even as you drift off.

Sometime around 8, the sun has risen further in the sky bringing its shine into your room and heating the top of your head.

"'s so bright," you murmur into Ellie's chest now, nuzzling yourself as close to her as you could to avert the sudden warmth of your scalp the sun had brought. Ellie didn't mind though, the warmth felt nice under her chin.

She didn't say anything that you could understand, just slouched an arm over you, drawing you closer while one leg draped over you pulled the back of your bare thigh closer to her.

You only had a shirt and underwear on. Her as well, although she was in a white tank top and boxers. A slight difference.

She whispered something to you, inaudible at first, but you felt her chin move above you so she must have said something.

"Hm?" you croak, your grip tightening against Ellie's waist, nearly begging to bring her in closer to you. So close that your bodies mend as one, the blistering sun beating in through the window hot enough to do the job easily.

“‘nna feel,” she says again, but the only word you can make out is feel, so you ask her through a whisper to repeat herself one more time.

She clears her throat before she speaks again, and her hand rounds over the shape of your ass, softly letting her fingers graze over the cotton before she gives it a lazy squeeze. "You." is all she says now. And you feel your voice squeak a response.

"Yeah," you say before you mindlessly slot a knee between hers.

The sound of Ellie's heart begins to bold in your ear, its soft and steady beat quickly picking up into a strand of dun dun dun's that make you slowly reel your hand back from around her stomach and place it against her chest, almost as if to soothe it. The sound draws your back, far enough into the mattress that you’re asleep again, just like that.

And it's around 9 that the sun has fully risen, completing its cycle just moments before you let a small gasp slip through your lungs as you feel Ellie's hand slowly creep below the band of your underwear.

You hum against her, her warm skin striking a match against yours when the pad of her two fingers swarm your clit with dizzying circles. They're slow, but effective. Causing you to breathe deep and absentmindedly start to spread your legs for her.

Ellie's right hand continues to move against you before she feels your leg rest against her knee, and silently ushering to let it fall wider she opens her own and pins yours between both of hers.

You let out a sleepy moan, slowly beginning to feel the slick that is starting to form between your legs. Ellie does too because just a moment later, she lets her hand fall flat against you and collects some before dragging it up your folds to tell you you're already so fucking wet.

Ellie's fingers find their place against your clit, beginning to swipe back and forth quick enough to knock all the shallow breaths you had just begun collecting and try to grip onto the fitted sheet of your bed.

Her fingers grazed over and over and over that burning nub, picking up her pace before kissing your neck that had lit itself on fire with her touch. Like you were a piece of paper, so fucking fragile and catching ablaze with the flicker of a lighter.

Your hands are desperate, trying to reach for any part of ellie you can grasp. Her hip catches your fingers first, then resting against the fabric of her boxers that are bunched into your fist as she continues swiping against you.

The moan floats from your lips before you're ready, and the wetness floods through you as Ellie suddenly realizes too, her fingers easily slipping through your drenched folds and curling just at the right angle to drive your eyes open. She's already staring at you.

Your breath hitches when she pumps quicker, sending a hot thrill through your spine and up your throat with a series of shallow breaths that echo in her ears like a song. Her favorite melody.

"Ellie," you breathe, and she silences you with the soft feeling of her lips on yours.

"Shh." she whispers against you, and your eyes hood with the dizzying sight of hers. The emerald green and small hue of hazel that ringed her pupil.

A soft fuck, muttered from your lips a moment later when her hand had shifted against you again and collected more of you in her hands, letting it slide down her fingers and pool against the top of your cunt.

Ellie's slender fingers are musical- striking chord after chord of moans out of you that resemble her favorite song, your voice soaking into her brain like a catchy chorus that is bound to stick around on the inside walls of her head until she can hear it again.

And when she does, there's a click inside that reminds her this is it. You know this sound well.

And she does, oh she does. Because it's not long after that your eyes are clenching closed and your breathing falls heavy with every quick swipe against your clit, rolling you over that edge of an orgasm until you're clenching around nothing and murmuring Ellie's name like it's your own.

"Ellie, Ellie, Ellie."

And she places a piece of hair that has fallen in front of your face back behind your ear and lets her hand linger there until you grab a hold of her wrist to help you come down from your dreamy high.

"I got you," she says, and her voice is so soft, coating you in goosebumps the second it relishes in your ears.

God, she was so good to you.

"That's it," she hums. And her pace begins to slow, meeting you with the rise and fall of your chest as you fall further and further.

One last moan exercises out of you, leaving you to quickly realize what just happened.

And realizing how much you were sweating. the back of your legs were coated along with your chest and exposed collarbone, and you quickly began to cook from the inside out- you needed to cool off.

"Let's take a shower," you whisper, looking up at Ellie who had the same love struck grin plastered across her face that you did.

She nodded once, and then planted a sloppy kiss on your cheek before you broke into a low fit of giggles.

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fleuraimer · 1 month

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…. perhaps a harry x reader blurb to spare 🤲 i will take anything u want to give me. fluff or smut or both or neither ❤️❤️❤️❤️ u rock and my name is also evelyn so i feel bonded to u

u've absolutely made my day with this evelyn :((( i hope you like what i've concocted bestie, she's kinda all over the fucking place, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy <33

wc: 2k

cw: not much, super fluffy, mildly (perhaps majorly) suggestive. not suitable for ramadan!! not proofread. lmk if i missed anything pls!!

Spring is here.

Fucking finally.

All the seasons were lovely to Y/N, each offered something the others didn’t—couldn’t. But spring was different. Special.

Like him.

Like Harry.

Perhaps that’s why her love for it blossomed like the tulips lining her bedroom window; there was something about seeing her usually soft boyfriend get ten times softer as leaves started to sprinkle branches, blades of grass flashed a vibrant green once more, and the sun kissed the earth that got to her tender heart.

It was especially difficult to not melt when he’d planned a small outing for them, centered around the perfectly warm weather. Instead of waiting until nightfall and driving to some stuffy restaurant (although their dinner dates were never anything less than exquisite), they walked hand-in-hand down the boulevard in broad daylight, gentle wisps of wind the only thing surrounding them, as well as the quiet conversation of other passersby.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to. They were perfectly content to relish in the mere presence of one another—soak in the rays of sun, and warmth. Love.

Thumbs gave mindless, delicate strokes against the back of palms, rucking up rings, kissing knuckles in apology, and putting them back in place, just to repeat it all over again. The knitted fabric of Harry’s cardigan is soft when it brushes against Y/N’s bare arm (she decided that it was absolutely perfect weather to slip on her favorite flowy sundress, cinched at the waist and flared at the hips, printed with obnoxiously serene-looking flowers and hummingbirds, with a square neckline that farmed the intricate necklace Harry bought her for their second anniversary quite stunningly), but his hand in hers was softer. Better.

Said hand tugs on hers, urging her away from the beaten path and into the ravine of tall, never-ending trees—willows and oaks; sycamores, birches, and maples, too. She resists, no less. Looks down at the cobblestone beneath her soles, and the cute kitten heels that (in her humble opinion) tie her whole spring-era look together.

She pouts.

And then a head of chocolate obscures her view of the pristine, white triangle toes. A hand placed both respectfully and salaciously on her ankle, coaxing her foot to slip from its confines, makes her breath catch in her suddenly dry throat.

Her kind eyes glaze over, ever so slightly.

“Y’don’t have’t—”

“I want to, Bellissima.”

Her shoe slips from her foot with a soft clatter on the ground when he manages to pry her sole from the earth, but it barely registers in her brain. In fact, everything else seems to fade away into the lovely spring that encompasses them when Harry guides his hand further up, along her fleshy calf, and leans in to place a chaste, staggering kiss to the bridge of her foot.

She wobbles, but they both know it’s not because she’s been left to balance on one foot.

Harry smiles, faint—the crater in his stubbled cheek is nearly invisible—and nudges his nose along the smooth skin of her leg.

He works diligently (as diligently as one can when removing a shoe) to rid Y/N of her footwear, relieving her of any worry or pain.

He looks pleasantly boyish when he looks up at her, smiles all cheeky, and winks for good measure. Kneeling on cobblestone in a worn pair of jeans, suede, dirty Adidas, and a vintage band tee that smells of stale coffee, Chanel No. 5 (one of many preferred perfumes of Y/N), and sex no matter how many times they run it through the wash; the green of his seafoam eyes twinkling in the sunlight, sunnies pushing his hair back, and yet one rogue curl still bends and twirls with the wind, falling in a perfectly aesthetic spiral when it settles…

Soft. Boyfriend. Hers.

Her Harry.

He stands to his full height, and they’re much closer than she’d thought they would be, but she’s certainly not complaining. Where before she stood at (about) Harry’s collarbone, now her head barely reaches the underside of his pecs. Her neck strains to keep eye contact as he slips his free hand back into her awaiting palm, the latter of which occupied with their stuffed picnic basket, and now her precious kitten heels.

“Need me to carry you?” He asks, ready to suffer at least a week’s worth of back pain if it meant he’d keep that love-struck, glowy, adorable (subby, stupid, filthy) look on his girl’s face.

Y/N’s eyes widen subtly, though enough for Harry to notice, and he can’t help but have to stifle a chuckle at her bashful demeanor.

“No, thank you,” she squeaks, and now she’s the one tugging his hand, urging them into the abyss of greenery, away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

The grass feels soft, ticklish, between her powder pink painted toes; she feels her lips stretch into a small grin because of it. They walk idly until they find a soft patch of vividly green grass directly under a tree, kissed fleetingly by the rays of sunlight peaking through the gaps of branches and leaves.

Harry lets his hand fall from Y/N’s (and can’t help but feel slightly colder because of it) to unpack their picnic basket. He grabs the signature red gingham picnic blanket from its place in the basket, releasing its folded form with a flourish. The material floats gracefully through the air until settling on the grass, near gingerly with the way it stops at just the very tips of the blades.

He kicks his chin toward the blanket in invitation as he settles on top of it himself, beginning to remove the contents inside their basket. Sandwiches, fruits, veggies; assorted cheeses and meats, cake, and, arguable most important, wine. He wastes no time in popping the cork from the rouge, pouring a generous amount into each of the pinot noir glasses he’d carefully tucked in the picnic basket.

Y/N kneels onto the blanket, walking on her knees until Harry is within reach, and his incessantly grabby hands are (surprise, surprise!!) grabbing her. He hands her her wine glass and sets his off to the side for the time being, sliding his bear palms up the full of her thighs, the swell of her bum, small of her back…

She shivers as they pet down again, nails biting at her hips to grip and pull her into his lap.

“Too far,” he grumbles, nuzzling in the space where her neck and collarbone meet. He peppers soft kisses along the strong bone, inhaling the natural, overwhelming scent of her. His girl.

Y/N goes easily, sipping slowly at her red wine while her free hand comes up to his hair, fingers threading through the fluffy tendrils. She snatches his sunnies away when they block her half-hearted scalp massage, muttering delicate apologies when the bend of them gets stuck in his hair and he hisses at the sting.

“Sorry, Baby,” she winces herself, chucking the damned glasses onto the blanket when she’s gotten them loose, kissing along the crown of his head to soothe any ache.

She sips more, tart grape hitting her tongue, sugary plum sliding down her throat, strawberry slicking her lips. She’s borderline greedy with the way she downs it, but they’ve got nowhere to be. Only here. Just here. Now.

She twists in Harry’s laps to grab one of the homemade BLTs, offering the half she won’t stuff her fat gob with to Harry, which he politely accepts. They munch quietly, sharing soft smiles and love-sick kisses in between bites. Conversation is sparse, but not bad. Never bad. If anything, the weight of their words is heavier because they’re so few and far between.

They both like it that way, anyhow.

When their feast has dwindled down to nothing but a few fruits and cakes, Harry fishes his phone from his pocket, and reaches in the picnic basket to grab his trusty pair of wired headphones. Hooking them up to his phone, he looks expectantly to Y/N. She raises her brow, never one to move unprompted.

Harry smirks, “Come, Bellissima.”

Her heart flitters, her stomach flutters, and her eyes round out (Harry tries not to think about how fucking easy—). She crawls back to him, in a way that is unnecessarily intimate and innocent, and simultaneously astoundingly nasty, but he tucks the image into the deep, deep, dark recess of his mind so he doesn’t get arrested for public indecency. Saves it for later (call it his spankbank).

He tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear before handing her and earbud, and lying down on his side. She follows, the two inserting the device into their ears at the same time. Her head instantly floods with staggered strings and piano, static, and then bass. Saxophone and acoustic guitar being delicately plucked, followed by a heady, gentle voice, similar to Bowie (but never as iconic).

“About You,” she whispers to him, her lips quirking.

Harry nods. Smiles, “The 1975.”

As the music progresses—the subtle vibrato of Matty Healy’s croon, the crescendo of each instrument and sound blending together to create one beautiful, extravagant, mind-bending symphony—Y/N swears she can see all five oceans in his eyes. The clear, breathtaking reefs, the lines that separates it from the rest of the water, dividing the calm from the chaos, the serene from the danger. She sees the deep, the unknown she wishes the dive further into, explore and discover, treasure for nothing but her own heart. And the seafoam that crashes up against the shore, the way it bubbles with joy and glistens in the light of the sun at the horizon, ever so fleeting as it washes back down the grains of sand.

She sees it all.

“S’pretty,” she mumbles, scooting closer as much as she can.

Harry wraps the arm not tucked under his head around her waist, pulling her closer. His eyes flit dazedly between her two.

She may see the ocean, but he sees the sky. The constellations, laid out for him beautifully, his for the taking. His.

He nods, “S’pretty.” Bumps his nose childishly against hers, smiles softly, triumphantly, when it scrunches up. His eyebrows pull together in the center, and he huffs a breath through his nose, “S’fucking gorgeous, Stellina.”

His mouth is on her before she can ask for a translation (there’s only some many Italian pet names a girl can recall) tongue prodding at the seem of her lips until they give way and he can slide the wet muscle against her own. She tastes of their shared wine and vanilla buttercream, and he tastes of fresh peaches, mozzarella, and tangy balsamic vinegar. And yet, somehow, it mixes together to create something new, something better, arguably. He fits her bottom lip between his two, nipping and sucking at the plump flesh, pulling breathy whimpers and faint moans from his lover. His grunts and groans in response are no less self-deprecating (they were both, admittedly, getting extremely hot over a couple of third date level kisses).

Neither paid it much mind, however. Especially not when Harry flips around so he’s lying on his back and she’s pressed firmly against his torso, belly’s melding, chests grazing. Y/N can’t stifle her soft gasp at the heavy weight of Harry against her inner thigh, but she can’t reprimand him, for she is no better—there’s a puddle in the gusset of her panties.

“Harry,” she whines, lashes fluttering when his hands find the swell of her bum and squeeze through the flimsy fabric of her sundress.

“G'na take y'home now, Bellissima,” he husks against her open mouth, tongue flicking at the swollen mess. “Fuck you the way y'deserve for being such a good girl today—” She bristles, rocking into him and crying out softly because of it. “—and if y'keep it up, we’ll go to tha’ cute little flee market y'keep tellin’ me about, yeah?”

She’s being bribed with his (impeccable; divine; otherworldly) cock and her love for all things vintage.

“Can we go to the botanical garden, too?”

Harry snorts, issues a teasing spank to her bum that makes her squeal, but smiles, nevertheless. “Sure, Baby, whatever y'want.”

(Impeccable; divine; otherworldly) Cock, a flee market, and a botanical garden?

She’s in heaven. In happiness. In full bloom.

She fucking adores spring.

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