Requesting Ellie Williams Taking Care Of Sick Reader Because I Was Just Sick

requesting ellie williams taking care of sick reader because i was just sick 😍

| a/n : hope ur feeling better !! writing this as i'm also sick so it fits | c/w : swearing bc it's ellie

ellie taking care of sick reader :

-her methods are just a little bit fumbly because she's just used to complaining a lot when she's sick but not really doing anything about it

-but of course it's different when it's you, everything is different when it's you

-you're tucked into bed and she's so sweet, telling you to let her know if there's anything she can do to make it better and you're like "anything?"

and ellie, ever the dutiful girlfriend, presses a kiss against your forehead and softly replies, "yeah, babe, anything."

-but then you're blinking at her and smiling and she knows what you want and she's trying not to roll her eyes and groan at you because honestly she had just gotten comfortable and of course you're going to request that she plays the guitar to soothe you to sleep or whatever the fuck

-she does it though obviously because she's sweet and she loves you, even if she huffs and puffs about it just a lil bit

-she'll insist on taking care of you, even despite your futile protests of not wanting her to get sick in turn. you might bicker for a little bit and allow ellie to stick around and help but she cannot get too close

-ellie follows the agreement for about ten minutes (longer than she thought she'd last tbh, go ellie) before her body is squished against yours in bed, her arms wrapped around you and her lips pressed against your skin

-if it's tlou universe, you might give her a hard time about being around you because you don't want to spread around whatever you have and she's just like "i'll be fine, i have a strong immune system" and you're like ugh ellie you're immune to cordyceps not the damn flu, or whatever you had caught, ellie was pretty sure you had gotten it from jesse. she heard him cough on patrol and side eyed him

-still ellie is stubborn and insists she'll be fine, she's been through worse

-when ellie inevitably gets sick though she's all "you got me sick" as if she hadn't been selfishly clinging to your feverish body at night

she felt a little guilty because she knew you didn't feel well but also jackson winters are so cold and you were so warm

-ellie's just so careful and gentle about it. how strongly she cares for the people close to her shines through in how she treats you when you're sick, even if it's just a cold

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me when i lie but it’s okay cuz no one saw it 😮‍💨

hey stinks…. i swear the next chapter of beyond love will be out by saturday or sunday at the latest !!! 😣 i’ve been very preoccupied with playing alan wake recently so i haven’t made much progress but im back in the zone now 😈 🔥

This is how many bullets they shot on a fucking kid.

ur writing speaks to me<333

THANK YOUUU 💕💕💕💕💕🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Hey, Ellie, You There?

# 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐓? : ellie williams x fem!reader

# 𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐒 ! : Only dirty things inhereit her mind when she notices you wearing the panties she bought you on this recreational trip to Tokyo. It's all she's thinkin about, that thought-provoking lace of desire. Wants to try it, bite it, lick it, spit it, pull it to the side, and get all up in it.

# 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 : honestly struggled with this one as there's no angst and i've got the itch to write purely angst and fluff, but.. hey.. a little smut never hurt anyone! anyways this is my piece for the brat challenge in this discord server, join if you want to partake in stuff/get sneak peeks on fics.. thanks to @caraphernellie for proofreading <3

# 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 ! : mdni, smut, modicum of plot (take this with a grain of salt), oral (r!receiving), established relationship, absolutely pussydrunk!ellie, switch!ellie (subtop leaning), no decorum, modern universe obviously so riley + jesse never died (yay for riley appearance), mostly just about the smut, messy messy, yeah, petnames used: baby, babe, good girl.

WC: 3.6k+ | MASTERLIST | IMPORTANT | DON'T BUY TLOU

IF EYES COULD UNDRESS

Ellie had never flown outside the States before October.

Japan in autumn is the perfect pocket of time for visiting, loyal tourists say. Noting its capricious spirit; falling back shoulders-first into the hot, cicada summer, which if anything the clicking whines mock the brutal sweating, palming bottles of imitation winter to outwardly parched necks, and stumbling brittle into the cold, pearl-white cries of clouds, aching the bones of everything tangible; it becomes obvious that you should land somewhere in the middle. Autumn is medial there, despite leaning gently towards the glossary of the year.

October was designated the month of living it up.

Letting loose in a foreign country.

Talk of escaping Jackson—while not a serious, eloping sort of hustle you whisper inside dark gaps of midnight—kept inspiriedly sparking and sparking from Jesse until he could condition everybody to a date, place, and gathered cough-ups and petty cash he could scrape from his home floors.

She, of course, freshly mulleted and on the lookout for your infinitely loving days, galloped after you. You go, she goes.

Tickets of your name and hers lived in your hearth-brown lockbox for a summer; the idea interested you easy, and whenever you go, Ellie is strung by a leash to; puppy-trained.

You knew your money set-aside was kept on your mind's line for one purpose and one purpose only: Tokyo, the plane there. But during a violet, tender spring morning, a few feet into the bathroom, you felt the crisp quiet crackle at your nape, and her body moor in to press you hotly.

“One trip to Tokyo..” she whispers. There was a drumroll pause and her right hand lifted between you and the mirror, a fingerhold of two tickets covering your face. “Coming up!” She had squealed it so softly quiet, so huskily, so promptly marked by a chuckle, you forgave her in that moment for securing the tickets under your radar. Forward your intentions.

Then, October and Tokyo came.

Her bag was a medley. Camera, comics, hair ties, caps, glasses, that stupid sock monkey, old crosswords Joel never consummated; aside essentials, and quite unessentially systemless; socks and sock monkey stored together. Okay, maybe there's a pun to it.

Where her mind took you two, however, was very organized and pre-contemplated.

Shibuya City. Fashion central, the ultimate juncture of crossroads, pandemonium at its greatest count, and it played deliberate cat and mouse with her wallet. Hand in hand, inside a lingerie store down the grand crosswalk, a surrounding of laces and ladies' ligatures in thought-provoking shapes ran her mind into the deepest gutter. One look at the darkest, laciest pair (with the little bows) of panties, and her hand was playing thumb-wars with her pocket for her wallet. You had the money! Had your reservations and expenses lined like stallions in a stable, but Ellie: a hades-bent girl bent on paying every picayune thing forward, insisted the ticket, and now this lacy thing of sex appeal, as a gift and nothing more than your sake.

Speaking of sex, one could imagine, “Just a gift to add to your humoungus collection, maybe more special though since I bought them. Think you'd look good in 'em, no?” is an evasive mouthful of wordage and awkward neck-rubs that really just translates to, “Wanna see these on you, babe.” Or maybe the puncture of her heavy breath and currant-redness of her taken expression eyeing as you hold the pair to your hips, low-lidded, lip-licked, read honestly instead as, “Gotta take them off you, yeah? Please?” Always a cherry-on-top girl.

Please, please, please.

Yeah, she bought them, and yeah, you'll wear them. Days after the threshold of your trip, tonight is the night. Bottom of the pit; living like a disaster; shots poured for everyone, by everyone.

Tonight, you tear new lace.

Laughter convenes at the place fruitions of humor normally do: the dining table. Low on the tatami, pillowed on the outskirts, it made a neat area of function for a messy laurel of people.

Dina, by far, was the messiest, most pell-mell in the manner she refurbished shot glass after shot glass for Riley: one amoung the rowdiest who challenged Jesse to a bet of 'who would fall off the wagon first; who could stay as sober as a judge?' Get a personal question wrong, you drink to your errors.

Two leaves in the laurel drank up the riveting theatrics instead, not so much the alcohol. Ellie and you, you and Ellie; mumbling about somethings in the dark of statures, rarely turning your eyes from the others at game—at least from your perspective. She could have been staking her seconds to count the hairs on your nape, writing lyrics over the features awake in her sightline, spilling her thyme greens and rainforest limbals into your skin, undressing your whispers. You wouldn't know.

Until she inevitably makes herself obvious.

“New earrings?” That crisp voice again, cracking where your head can only turn. She retires the singular silence with it, sparking up conversation with whatever she could muster, whatever she could see. “Kinda looks like a pair you already got.”

Ellie is pretty damn observant. Nothing goes unnoticed—not even the nominal shifts in your vast expression. So when you give her your eyes before your words, she knows there's an unspoken tease in sightly tensions. “Mhm. Wore everything I bought here so far to the concert earlier.”

“Yeah, noticed that too.”

Observation surpasses way beyond the slatted blinds of her simple lust. There is art, there is health. Her own eyes give themselves to thanking each meridian of your skin for being out to view tonight. She remembers every limb for midnight: the angle, the fragility, the firmness, limning for a page in her journal. An artist needs their intrepid eyes before their pens. She traces, and traces, down and down until her eyes find the shadow of lace.

She remembers that lace very well.

The corners of her lips crease up. “Those the panties I picked out for you?” Surprised with shy pride.

Her eyes drag from the beltline of your pants to where the lace pokes out, slowly undressing you. Then, her quiet thumb follows along, feeling over the drooping boundary of lace that sinks between and under your denim. All you can see are her eyes downturned, lashes and lids so focused, so content with the feel-good consequence of buying those panties. The things she could do with them heating her mind.

Fuck, if eyes could undress you.

“You mean the ones you took a gazillion pictures of me in when I tried them on?”

“Well when you put it like that—I mean, you looked good in them.” She scatters quick into a fluster, abashed to even face you now. “Fuck, shouldn't have said anything.” Her smile crinkles.

“Truth and drinking don't mix.” That in itself is a truth, spoken by none other than a young adult; the cliche age reckless abandon should inhabit the feasting teeth of. “Blame the alcohol.” You toss back another velvety shot, punctuating that accusation.

Guile is the furthest thing from Ellie. She could not be more public, more unsubtle about what that tangle of lace does to her. Make her stomach flip? Wash her freckles in bleeding raspberries? Still her thumb on your hip? Make her lovingly sick? The list grows as it goes, and each nuance pointed toward her surrender to simple lust; biting back, sucking breath one moment, avoiding your face and brushing her lips over your warm lobe the next.

Another confession falls from them. “Been thinking about them all day.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Yeah,” she squeaks weakly, voice barely attending.

Ellie can never resist a bit of lace.

Then, she softly droops herself with a bashful grin into where your neck carved room for her, laughing away her kisses. “Best present ever, I think.”

Spoiled, is how you felt. To have her feeding on your neck, blissful indulgence, sweating out sweetly in the corners of your jaw, which she gladly crept up to, you graciously sit still for her tongue. You go clean without pry; keeping an eye on the others at the table. They seem to be too entertained by drunken parlor games to notice. And that felt lucky, as her persistent thumb turns into hungering fingers, and soon enough her palms are kindly filling with and groping your hip, one finger tucked under the lace. Her signature; hesitantly asking you where she could get with this.

“Can't wait?”

“Sorry,” she uses her tepid breath to speak into your neck, weakly giggling. The vibrations of them ripple. “I can't help it.”

“Come on.” You climb your digits over her ductile knuckles, cradling her hand into yours. “Why don't we turn in for the night?”

“Yeah. Sounds good,” she spoke soft with eagerness, excitement, a little bit louder than the breaths before.

That thirsty sort of sensation in your hollows, your throat and your obscure, obscene and sordid thoughts that gulp to be filled with a desire come true; desperate breaths.

Yeah, she knows that feeling all too well.

Her crossed legs clasp in, and shovel under into a kneel, pushing herself as you beckon her to get up with a telling, ghostly tug. She straightens out and sticks close: close as you stand, close as you cross a few feet to part dirty, droplet-trickled shot glasses onto the counter, close as you say your goodnights.

Ellie kept quiet. Ellie went smoothly. She, pumped to the limits of her heart, drooped her head to the ground where her excited eyes could toss however, and wherever they want. Where she could glimpse into obscure corners, and think about it again. The lace; the baroque, busy, enticing and tasty lace. The fabric that has her teeth grinding into her lip as it builds a hot pressure between her legs. It hisses alongside her repeating thoughts.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Think I'm gonna head to bed, now. Lightweight over here breached her soberness already and won't stop drooling on my shoulder.” You even nudge it against her to puncture the emphasis, and the table understandingly laughs. “Night guys.”

“Night, enjoy the snoring!” Riley blurted, sarcasm-infused and drunkenly.

Yeah, totally going to sleep, totally checkin' out.

Mind your business everybody.

CAN SHE FIT IT?

What happens when the brain-slosh of a pussydrunk mess is met with the perfect bareness of a pretty bit of lace?

Ruination.

I said you would tear new lace, just not like the hostile, hungry and hopeless fantasy that sentence immediately evokes to mind. If anything, she might almost rip those panties off of you, but Ellie is a good listener; she submits you authority and mellows her lips at your thigh, inexplainably soft under your many holds, parched and waiting difficultly.

Your fingers poured through piles of auburn, looping, under and over, pulling and perching firmly on the very center. It offers you leniency. It promises you control. However, against good listening, in the palm of your hand is an eager girl with even more eager eyes, hooded and heavy, and that eagerness is trickling out in these little mumbles against your still thigh that you concieve only by their repitition. As expected, she is impatient.

“Please?” Ellie would say again, as every other rehearsal: pouty eyes, untie a kiss, watch you watch her, look down and mumble another plead, and her do her pouty beginning again.

Aching is the patience.

Fists bite at the sides of your hips. “I've been so patient. Babe, come on..” Her loose, open mouth drags along your skin, baring a manifestation of deprivation: a painful hiss. “Shit..”

“Aw, sucks, doesn't it?” You relish and adore this disgustingly, even your giggles are lighthearted and corrupt. God, what isn't to love about a girl on her knees, toughing it out to taste you? Absolutely nothing.

You're fucking soaked.

“Yeah,” she scoffs, and jokingly reproaches you. “Sucks when my girlfriend is being a tease and won't let me help her out or anything.” Ellie figured all this necking and desperation-milking had done something to you—something she wants to fashion into persuasion, something she is on the precipice of, eyeing the lace over your crotch. “Fuckin' wet, aren't you?”

That sounded like a hard sell. Pointing out the obvious to win you over, but you play along loosely to pity her. “Mhm,” your hum vibrates through a smirk, inviting yet ingenious. “Is that what you mean by helping out?”

“Obviously.” Those fingers at your hips soften, and tuck into the waistband of your panties, easing it down an inch. “Can I?”

“Mh-mm,” you deny and shoo her hands off. “Through my panties first.” You station a thumb behind her head, nudging her closer to that lewd warmth. “Okay?”

She gulps, she quivers, and her mouth splits open, considering your request carefully. “Fuck,” she curses quietly, a curse she sinks into her damp, compliant lips as she corners in darkly. Drooping her tongue, half her face disappears into wet lace divine, and presses a hot stroke into you.

It felt increasingly fired, her tongue on you. Fabric trapped the summer of lust inside, so when she latched her own huffing mouth, and now is painstakingly savoring you through it, the tempature makes you keen; softly humming satisfaction. “Mhh, there you go, Ellie,” you shower your whisper all around her, watching her begin, begin without satanical abandon. “Just like that.”

Just like you asked.

She starts with a genuine hold-back. Her lips purse, and fit the shape of your pussy deeper in, moaning as she sucks the slick and disconnects her mouth to lick it from her drool, but she only goes that far.

Not a drop goes neglected.

She laps you again, and has to sink her eyes shut when your taste—barely there, stifled aromas of sex—overtakes her, and she has to clench her brows together, impulsively grunt, and bite your panties into a pull, giggiling when it snaps back. “Hmhm, can I touch you? Please?”

“No baby.”

Seduction is cruel. There you are, flaunting it in her face, and yet you still have the brass to restrict her. Ellie loathes it, but only partially shows that she does in wry smiles. “Really babe?” Her lips shift crookedly, and her thumbs prod themselves in the inner-top of your thighs; progressing sub rosa. “What do I have to do for this?” She enroots a kiss, just above your clit, smushing her buttony nose.

“Be patient,” you reply, and tug her head back kindly. An authorative gesture, one she winces and hazes her eyes at. “Show me how bad you need it first, yeah? Be a good girl?”

And, fuck, did you speak so sweetly; her brain might already be flourished in rot at this point. But then, you bring your hands away and tuck your waistband a whisper lower—barely lower than your navel, and her eyes narrow. She leaps right into sugar. Indulging vulgarly.

She litters you in kisses above the elastic, adorning your groin. “Mhh—mhh, 'm a good girl.”

“Whatever you say..”

Ellie reiterates. “Know I am.” Soft and muffled in the skin she would hate to leave unmarked, her lips leading shamelessly downward again. She soaks the lace with her tongue, and her slow, hot breath, melts the lace away in her imagination. Melts it away as she feels your clit, thumping on her warm toungework.

This made you content: watching her work in action.

When she swallows back her tongue after seconds of latching, you expect another persistant retaliation. But all you hear is the sound of her throat hawking, then her spitting. Smack-dab, right on your crotch. Frothy and trickling, she is quick to lather it through your folds, tip of her tongue pushing the lace in between. The noise, the lack of decorum, and pressure of her mouth alone made your hips twist with insufferable pleasure.

“Fuck..”

Possibly the dirtiest thing Ellie has ever done.

She can tell it weakened something in you, driving her to do it again. “Mhm?” she questions your reaction, and spits, using her fingers to splay your pussy and rub it through. Despiting your requests. “Did you like that?”

“Ellie—”

No answer to her meek, hopeful question can leave your lips before her head is searching for consequences again: shoving all of her that is restless onto your clit and moving side-to-side. Licking and licking, saving the saltiness of your arousal for late-night memories, she numbs your mind with the way her tongue drags and refuses to stop dragging. To unravel you, she wove in her own pleasure—confident, enraptured sounds—moaning into your pussy as if it were grinding into hers. With enough imagination, it was. But your timidly intoxicated minds combined make the best of your situation; dirty wanton and thin liabilities telling her to go beyond and lick you into a scream.

She makes you gasp, “Oh, Ellie..” and cast your head against the wall. Balance falls from you, finding support in gripping her hair. It came on so fast—the sensations, the thrill. It changes you like desire transforms an angel. Her tongue challenges, and challenges, and it feels like a replacement for the alcohol you never consumed. It rushes your blood.

It convinces you as intended.

That climbing tension in your stomach was not long tolerated. Eventually, the lace seperating you and her became an obstacle in your mind. “Fucking hell.” You make a split-second revision, sacrificing your game of denial. “Go ahead,” you say, intriguing her to glance. “Just fuckin' eat me, please.”

Shaky exhales pierce her throat, and when your leg pivots out for her access, she has to suck the air right back in. “Jesus, babe.” A cocksure smile crosses her lips, and an even more sure thumb pulls the tongue of your panties aside. “Took you long enough.”

“Shut up.”

Ellie lingered under you for a second to take in the raw sight of you, a glistening, excited mess. It all backfired; all of your denying and teasing had potent effects on you—maybe, you more than her, leaving you at the grasp of your evasions but simultaneously on the chase after your wantings. Arousal throbs uncomfortably in your core without forgiveness, and you couldn't be more glad now that your most favorite girl in the world is beyond aching to relieve it.

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Fuckin' wet.”

She kisses your cunt like a thankful prayer before you feel her tongue take the first, greedy, heady, long-drawn and self-indulgent lick of you. Her tongue swipes through, prodding the edge of your perineum and stroking up. Taking these savored laps of your slick and quirking her brows agreeingly. Bumping your clit mindlessly and making you shiver. Letting it pool and drip around her open mouth, so when she pulls away to show you her spit-strings of work, filthiness is what springs to mind.

Her bottom lip pulls through her teeth, cleaning up all your juices. Proudly. “Tastes so fuckin' worth it,” she whispers, and without a warning, she gets all up in it again. Forcing your legs even more apart with her head and her vigor, rolling those same aching circles into your clit and sending this delicious pricking down your calves.

“Yes—yes!” She ruins your voice. ”Just like that, good girl. Fuck..”

“'M' your good girl?”

“Y-yes, s-such a good.. mhh..”

Throat tight, lungs shallow, your words and your wails cannot catch up with each other. Despite the tipsiness, she is well fucking coordinated. In moments, there are faint, sloppy sounds of her licking you, giddy pressures of her fingers compressing parts of you, coercing you to come, right into her mouth. She makes you want to grab her head, and you do, roughhousing her into the neediness of your core.

“So good with that.” A treasured compliment from you speeds her up, having to tear her fingertips into the plump of your ass to keep her tendencies busy. Otherwise, they might end up somewhere on herself. “Fuckin' l-love you.. oh my god.”

Ellie flicks her tongue at an urgent pace, smacking your clit over and over, and directs her strangely ignited, northern-light eyes up, and they ask you wordlessly.

Are you close?

Mhm.

Fuck, babe.

Her eyes shut takenly.

A conversation of the eyes is all Ellie peered up for to impassion herself. Your legs clasp in, and she does nothing. She lets them. She invites them; rubs them, gropes them when your panties try to close her off. She glories in having your legs hug her, relying on her, inflicted by her. Even she, the product of all this pleasure, is shaky and involuntary, pushing on you as she tries to almost swallow you—swallow your pussy.

Then, she pictures that lace again in her mind, and she begins to beg.

“Please, please, please..” Having broken away to speak, she snaps back on you again, tugging and teething and exhausting the vibrations of her pathetic moans until you could feel them in your own. “Mhh, mhh, fuuck..” She makes out with your clit, wrapping her pretty pink lips and smilining so graciously; she knew this would kill you.

It does.

It faultlessly does. “Ellie, Ellie, Ellie..” Her perfect, practiced lips, which widen more when your hips twitch in overstimulation, get her where she wants. You arch into her, riding out your orgasm on her face, which she engages in. Winding her nose up and down until your cum lined each nostril, each lip corner, and made her smell like nothing but you.

Blissful indulgence, you say?

Definitely.

Ellie drags an unyielded lower lip up your slit, and one last time, whines into your sopping core. “Thank you, thank you, thank you..” Licking a final stripe as she emerges up from between your legs, tired-looking and red-cheeked, your thigh becomes her head's silky resting place. Acting like she went through trial and tribulation for this. She pants, “That was.. really amazing, huh? Yeah?”

You are responseless. Recovering? Overwhlemed? Dizzy in the eyes? None of those; you're only pondering what to do next with this bundle of limitless opportunity.

“Babe?” She jabs your thigh, foraging for attention.

As always.

“Hmm?”

Her hand molds into your hip, caressing slowly. “What now?”

Choices cross you quick. “Hmm, bath, probably.”

“Ooh, can I join?”

Always following after you.

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