Numb mornings cw: olderellie, studentreader, professorellie, angsty fluff a/n: just a little sample of what my actual professorellie fic will be about hehe. wrote this in a rush. 60s𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚎, that handles you like her little melancholic doll in quiet cold mornings, when the sheets are still warm.
The morning light in 68 is filtered through light curtains, letting the warm morning rays of sun in. You are the detached ghost in your own home, and Ellie is the only thing holding you together, the only thing keeping you from flying away.
You feel the mattress shift. Ellie is rising effortlessly, but she doesn't go far. She leans over you, her hand cupping your cheek, skin warm against your face.
"Wake up, my love," she whispers, the sound vibrating thru your senses. "Keep your eyes open for me, just for a moment."
You hum, a sound of protest, and try to bury your face into her flannel. She gently pulls you upright. You are limp, a doll with no strings, so she settles you on the edge of the bed. She stays there, cradling you, guiding you back into a dissociative state of mind. She presses a kiss to your temple.
"I need you to stay with me," she says, her voice firmer now, though still coated in affection. "Look at me, darling. Don't hide."
When you finally flutter your eyes open, she is there, composed, and entirely focused on you. She begins the ritual. She eases your nightgown off, the light cotton pooling to the floor, leaving you exposed and shivering in the lingering warmth of the sheets. She reaches for your bra, her touuch tender as she fastens it, dropping a feather-light kiss against your shoulder as she does.
She moves to your legs, sliding your long white stockings up with agonizing care, her hands firm, tactile. Every inch of skin she reveals is met with a soft pressure of her lips. She isn't just dressing you; she’s marking you. A kiss to the your knee, a kiss to your ankle, a trail of affection that anchors you to the present. You try to slump back to the sheets, but she catches you, her hands on your waist, correcting your posture. She pulls the brush through your hair, her fingers massaging your scalp, forcing the blood to flow, forcing you to be alert.
"Eyes on me," she murmurs, pinning your hair back with a silver clip. She leans over, her face inches from yours, her blue eyes searching your own, trying to find the spark inside you that’s currently dimmed by your exhaustion. "You’re going to be brilliant today, but you have to stay sharp for me. Can you do that?."
She helps you into your dress, her fingers lingering on the zipper, and then she’s kneeling at your feet, buttoning your flats after kissing your instep, staring up at your sleepy, serene gaze. As she stands, she pulls you into a final, suffocatingly sweet embrace. You cling to her neck, your fingers knotting in her hair, and she doesn't pull away immediately. She lets you hold her, letting you soak up her warmth, her cinnamon-ish, woody perfume, her steady heartbeat.
She pulls back just enough to look at you, her expression unreadable to anyone else, but to you, it’s a mirror. She gives you that look—the one that says you belong to her, and she’s already waiting for the moment the cycle repeats tonight.