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writteninkat · 20 days ago

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Nesting Season | Daryl Dixon x Reader

synopsis: In the safety of Alexandria, survival is no longer your priority—living is. You’ve started cooking real meals, folding laundry with clean soap, and yelling at Daryl for tracking mud into your house. But with every soft, domestic habit you reclaim, Daryl finds himself falling harder—and imagining a future where you’re barefoot, pregnant, and his.

w/c: 5.6k

warnings: unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, creampie, impregnation, talk about pregnancy, daryl develops a breeding kink

a/n: i need to see daryl as a dad. biologically or through adoption, idfc

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You didn’t realize how much you missed the sound of a wooden spoon clacking against a pot until Alexandria made it possible to cook again—not just boil, but cook. Real food. Garlic sautéed in oil. Dough rising in bowls. Crackling butter, eggs cracked into hot pans. You had spices now. Not many, but enough. Enough to make you feel human again.

You stirred the soup gently, humming to yourself, bare feet cold against the tiled kitchen floor. The windows were open, and somewhere down the street, Judith was laughing. That kind of laughter—the kind that didn’t sound like it came from someone holding their breath—was new. A rare luxury. You soaked in the sound.

Your little house wasn’t much. It had peeling baseboards and that one light in the hallway that flickered if you stepped too hard. But it was clean. Yours. You’d hung mismatched rugs, lit candles with no scent left in them, fluffed pillows that didn’t quite match, and named the little houseplant on the windowsill “Martha” just to remind yourself to water her.

And for some reason, lately, Daryl Dixon kept showing up.

“Got ya wrench,” he said gruffly from your doorway, holding up a rusted tool with one gloved hand.

You looked over your shoulder. “Did I… ask for a wrench?”

“Nah. Figured y’might need one eventually,” he muttered.

You quirked a brow. “You sure that wasn’t just an excuse to show up during dinner?”

He shrugged like it was possible. “Smelled somethin’ good from down the street.”

You pointed your wooden spoon at him. “Boots off.”

Daryl glanced down, pretending not to notice the trail of mud he’d already left behind. “Shit. Sorry.”

The next time he came by—two days later—he left his boots on the porch without a word.

It became a routine neither of you acknowledged. You cooked. He showed up with something—an old book, a fixed knife, once even a box of instant pudding mix he’d found “for later.” You stopped asking why. You just made enough food for two.

“Soup again?” he asked one night, eyeing the steaming bowls on your table.

You handed him a spoon. “Be grateful. It’s chicken this time.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “Damn near gourmet.”

“You ever cook, Dixon?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking far too comfortable for someone who never officially moved in. “Cooked squirrel once over a campfire. Burnt the ears off.”

You choked on your drink. “They have ears?”

“Yeah. Cute little ones. Not anymore.”

You laughed so hard you snorted, and Daryl grinned at the sound—barely, but enough.

Sometimes you’d catch him watching you. Not in a weird way. In a way that felt… reverent. Like he wasn’t quite sure how you were real. You’d be folding laundry on the couch, sleeves inside out, warm fabric tucked under your chin. You didn’t look your best—your hair was tied up in a half-falling bun, you had a smudge of flour on your cheek, and your socks didn’t match.

Still, his eyes lingered. Especially on your hands.

He didn’t know why he kept imagining them folding something smaller. Softer. Baby-sized.

Didn’t know why the thought made his heart twist like that.

One afternoon, you were putting away canned goods when you realized your shelf was suspiciously full. You stared at the neat row of tomatoes, peas, beans.

You turned toward the man fixing your porch light without being asked.

“You been sneaking in food again?”

He didn’t look back. “Ain’t sneakin’. Just settin’ it down.”

“Daryl.”

“Y’run low on stuff. I notice.”

You crossed your arms, trying to hide your smile. “You know, if you wanted an excuse to move in, there are more subtle ways.”

That made him finally glance at you. His ears went pink. “Ain’t movin’ in.”

“Sure,” you teased. “You’ve only eaten here five nights this week.”

“Six,” he corrected under his breath.

The next day, you caught him sniffing your laundry.

Not, like, creepily. He didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He’d picked up a folded shirt to move it and paused, his brow furrowing.

“Daryl?”

“Huh?” He looked up, startled, the shirt still in his hands.

You smirked. “That mine or yours?”

He glanced at it like he couldn’t tell. “Yours, I think.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat. “What soap d’you use?”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“Smells… real nice.”

Your lips curved up slowly. “You mean I smell real nice.”

He went bright red. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He dropped the shirt and muttered, “Ain’t askin’ no more favors.”

“Yes you are,” you said, grinning. “You’ll be back tomorrow.”

He tried to hide the way the corner of his mouth lifted. “Tch.”

One evening, while you were both on the porch—he was fixing your railing, you were drinking lukewarm tea—you caught him saying it.

“So,” you started casually, “you just go around fixing everybody’s house?”

“Just yours,” he said. Too quick. Too natural.

You blinked. He didn’t seem to notice.

He finished hammering in a nail and leaned back on his heels. “Was thinkin’… ya might wanna repaint this part of—” He paused, then frowned. “—your house.”

You gave him a look.

“What?” he asked, suddenly cautious.

“You were about to say home.”

“No I wasn’t.”

You grinned. “You were! ‘Your home.’ Admit it.”

He stood up, scowling. “Ain’t gotta admit shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

He muttered something under his breath about “smartass women” and stalked back inside—barefoot.

You followed him in, cheeks warm.

That night, when he left, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual.

You leaned on the frame beside him. “Y’know, you never knock.”

“Door’s always open.”

“Only for you.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Eyes soft beneath the rough edges.

“I ain’t used to this,” he murmured.

“To what?”

“This,” he said, nodding at the warm kitchen, the folded laundry, the candles melted low on the table. “Quiet. Bein’… wanted.”

You rested your hand on his arm. “Get used to it, Dixon.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

When you shut the door behind him, you could still smell the flannel he’d left on your couch.

You picked it up, held it close, and whispered into the empty room, “You already live here, dumbass.”

From the street, Daryl glanced back once before walking home.

Or, maybe—just maybe—not home.

Not yet.

But close.

So damn close.

It started with sandwiches.

At first, just plain ones—peanut butter, or if you were feeling generous, ham with a thin slice of tomato. Then they got fancier. Little notes tucked in foil. An extra fruit wrapped in cloth. One time, you even snuck in a brownie and drew a tiny, lopsided squirrel on the napkin.

You didn’t expect him to bring anything back. But he did.

A bottle of honey. A tiny carved bear he claimed “just showed up.” A beat-up paperback with half the pages intact.

“Found this in a glovebox,” he said one afternoon, tossing the book onto your kitchen counter.

You turned it over, lips twitching. “A Beginner’s Guide to Making Soap. Is this a hint?”

“Nah,” he said, though you caught the way his eyes darted toward you. “Jus’ thought ya liked that kinda shit. Feels… homey.”

You pressed your mouth to hide a smile. “Thanks, Dixon. I’ll be sure to whip up some lavender body wash next time you stomp in here smelling like smoke and bear traps.”

He chuckled—low and gravelly. “Ain’t my fault. Nature likes me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nature wants you to shower.”

The rhythm between you and Daryl wasn’t something you planned. It just… settled. Like dust on windowsills, or the way the kettle always whistled five minutes before he knocked.

He never asked for food. Never requested anything. He just showed up, sat down, and quietly accepted whatever you handed him.

And in return, he gave.

Little repairs around the house. Odd tools left on your porch. And one particularly cloudy morning, a shelf.

He was on his knees, screwing the last bit of wood in place beneath your window when you padded in with a mug of coffee.

“You building me furniture now?” you asked, sipping slowly.

He didn’t look up. “Ya said ya ain’t got no place for them cookbooks. Figured this’d work.”

You stared at the sturdy thing. Real wood. Sanded edges. No frills, just strong and clean.

“You made this?”

“Didn’t steal it, if that’s what yer askin’.”

You bumped your hip against his shoulder, grinning. “We’re practically married at this point.”

That made him freeze.

Just for a second.

Then he cleared his throat and rose to his feet, brushing sawdust off his jeans. “Yeah, well… ya bake good.”

The wound was stupid.

Barely a scratch, really—just a scrape along his upper arm from a rusted fence post. But it bled, and he grunted about tetanus, and you rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache.

“Sit still,” you said, holding the wet cloth to his skin.

He flinched.

“Drama queen.”

“Ain’t dramatic,” he muttered. “Y’just heavy-handed.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

You sat on the edge of the kitchen table, close enough to smell the pine on his clothes, the sweat on his collar. His shirt was half-pulled down around his arm, bunched up awkwardly against his chest. Every time he moved, the fabric lifted just enough to show a line of taut stomach, scarred and sun-kissed.

Your fingers slowed.

His eyes flicked up—watching you, not the cloth.

“Y’almost done?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded, but your hand didn’t move. “Yeah. Just…”

The room felt quieter than it had a moment ago. Like something was leaning in. Like the walls knew.

You looked up, and he was already looking down—at your mouth.

And there it was.

That pause. That almost.

Your breath caught.

But then he blinked, and the spell broke, and you shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Stop fidgeting, Dixon, you’ll get blood on my floor.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Ain’t the first time, probably won’t be the last.”

Later that week, while folding your laundry, you found his flannel again.

Still draped across the arm of your couch. Still worn and warm.

You held it up, burying your nose into the fabric. It smelled like firewood and wind. Him.

You didn’t ask if he left it on purpose.

You just folded it and left it on your bed.

“Here,” he said one evening, holding something small and metal between his fingers.

You looked up from your stew. “What’s that?”

“Knife. Cleaned it. Sharpened, too.” He pressed it into your palm. “Just in case.”

Your throat caught. “Daryl…”

“Don’t mean nothin’,” he mumbled quickly, backing off. “Y’know. Jus’ in case I ain’t around sometime.”

You closed your hand around it, blade snug in the leather sheath. It was small, light, but deadly. Like him.

“I feel safer already,” you said quietly.

He shrugged, but his ears turned red.

That night, you stood together in your tiny kitchen, washing dishes side by side.

You handed him a plate. He dried it.

You reached for a cup. He bumped your hand with his elbow.

“Careful,” you teased. “I’ll sue.”

He snorted. “For what? My crossbow?”

“Damn right. I’ll mount it above my new bookshelf. Like a trophy.”

He smirked. “Still think we’re married?”

You paused, fingers submerged in soapy water. “What, you think we’re not?”

He didn’t answer.

You turned, dish towel in hand, ready to tease him again—but he was already looking at you.

That same stare. Soft, wide-eyed, awestruck.

The towel slipped from your fingers.

Your shoulders brushed. His hand was on the counter, fingers just inches from yours.

You were close enough to kiss.

You were close enough to want.

Your lips parted slightly—but then he blinked, looked away, and rubbed his jaw with a muttered, “S’gettin’ late.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He left a few minutes later without taking his flannel.

And this time, you didn’t move it.

You curled up with it on the couch, heart fluttering against your ribs like it wanted out.

He didn’t say much the next morning. Just nodded when you handed him a sandwich, tucked it into his bag, and slung his crossbow over his shoulder.

“You comin’ by for dinner?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

He hesitated at the door.

Then, real soft: “Yeah. Reckon I am.”

He stepped out, but didn’t quite shut the door behind him. You could still hear his boots on the porch.

And just before they faded, you caught it—quiet and rough, like a secret spilled from his chest:

“Ain’t that somethin’…”

You stood frozen, dish towel still in your hand, heat rushing to your cheeks.

You didn’t know if he meant the sandwich. The shelf. The almost-kiss.

Or you.

Maybe all three.

But yeah.

It was somethin’.

It started with a vision he couldn’t shake.

You, barefoot in the kitchen. The morning light soft and golden, filtering through linen curtains you hung just to make the place “feel less apocalypse-y.” A coffee mug in your hand. One of his old button-downs barely buttoned over your chest, hanging loose over your thighs.

Your belly round, swollen, alive.

The image hit him like a punch to the gut. Not because it was hot—though it was—but because it felt like something sacred. Something he had no right touching.

He blinked hard and looked away, jaw tight.

You were just standing there. Coffee in hand. Bedhead. Sleepy eyes.

Messy and real.

And his, if he ever dared to claim it.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Didn’t mean he didn’t think about it.

Didn’t mean he didn’t ache for it.

“You okay?” you asked, voice raspy from sleep.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Jus’… starin’ off.”

You moved toward the stove, yawning into your shoulder. “You want eggs or oatmeal?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the way your shirt dipped at the collar. The way your hip swayed as you reached for a pan.

God help him, he wanted to walk over, wrap his arms around you from behind, and press his hands to the curve of your belly—his baby under your skin, your soft sigh in his ear.

He hated himself for it.

But he wanted it anyway.

The rain started around noon.

By four, the power cut out.

You lit candles like it was second nature, placing them carefully in jars, tea lights on the counter. Daryl stood in the doorway watching you, arms crossed like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Cozy, right?” you said, holding a match to a stubby wick.

He grunted. “S’quiet.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Ain’t bad. Just… loud.”

You tilted your head. “That sentence made no sense.”

“Did to me,” he mumbled.

You handed him a candle in a chipped ceramic mug. “There. You get ambiance.”

He took it, blinking at the tiny flame. “Ain’t this a fire hazard?”

You smirked. “So is your attitude.”

The storm outside turned from steady rain to thunderous sheets, rattling the windows and howling through the gaps in the frame. The wind shoved hard against the house. You pulled a blanket around your shoulders, sitting on the couch cross-legged. Daryl paced once, then settled across from you in the armchair.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Just candlelight and stormlight and the quiet.

Until you said it.

“Why do you keep coming back?”

His head snapped up.

You didn’t say it with malice. Just curiosity. Just soft and warm and real.

“You’re here almost every day,” you continued. “You fix things. You eat here. You sleep on my couch when you think I don’t notice. But you never say why.”

Daryl stared into the candle like it owed him answers.

“Dunno,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Bullshit.”

He shrugged. “Ain’t got nowhere better to be.”

“Liar.”

“I ain’t.”

You raised your brows. “So you just happen to bring me coffee filters and screws and dried lavender you found in someone’s abandoned sock drawer for no reason?”

His lip twitched. “Weren’t a sock drawer. Was a glove box.”

You smiled, but it faded quick. “Daryl. Just say it.”

“I don’t know,” he said again, voice harder now. “I jus’… it’s quiet here. Y’don’t talk too much. Smells good. You make real food. And I—shit—I like it, alright?”

You sat back, blinking at him.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and muttered, “Ain’t mean t’get loud.”

You didn’t flinch. You just said, “You’re already a part of this place. Of me.”

He looked up.

You gave him a little shrug. “Whether you realize it or not.”

The candle flickered between you.

You reached forward to adjust the glass jar around it, and your fingers brushed his.

He didn’t pull back.

You didn’t either.

His hand turned under yours, rough palm meeting your skin.

Warm. Solid. Familiar.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You let your gaze drift up to his—those stormy, uncertain eyes, like he was at war with something inside himself.

“Daryl,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to want something good.”

He inhaled through his nose, shaky.

“Ain’t used to it,” he said. “Wantin’ somethin’.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause if I want it, that means I can lose it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full—so full it felt like the room was pulsing with it.

You didn’t let go of his hand. “Maybe it’s time to stop thinking you don’t deserve it.”

He didn’t answer.

But his fingers curled around yours.

And that was something.

You stood a little while later, candle in hand, heading to the kitchen to check on the rainwater leak above the sink. You were halfway there when you felt him behind you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just lifted a hand, brushing your hair from your cheek.

Calloused fingertips against soft skin. Barely a touch. But it made you shiver.

You turned to look at him, and the candlelight caught his face just right—softened him. His brow furrowed in thought, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

You said it for him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled. Shaky. Relieved.

“You promise?” he asked, voice almost broken.

You nodded, stepping in just enough that your foreheads almost touched. “You already have me, Daryl. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Outside, the thunder rolled.

Inside, you stayed quiet.

But your hands stayed locked together until the candle burned low.

Your lips hovered over his, waiting for him to make the next move—wanting for him to make the next move. He stared up into your eyes, hesitating.

You closed the gap for him, pressing your lips into his. Dry and unmoving, you tried getting him to open up. Parting your lips, you lap at his lower lip once, twice—until he's parting his lips and taking your tongue in his.

Your tongues dance for dominance, Daryl's hands crawling lower and lower until they're rested on your hips. You suck on his lips, arching uour back to press your breasts against his hard chest. This action has the bowman grunting into the kiss, hands squeezing at your hips.

Your hands find themselves cupping his cheek and jaw as your greedily take and take and he just lays there and lets you.

As the pleasure builds inside you, so does the desperation. You're breathing harshly, your sex growing wet and hot, demanding for any kind of friction. So you give yourself exactly that.

You move your hips slowly, grinding down on Daryl's growing member. Heavy breathing fill the room as you grind harder onto him, the hard material of his jeans accentuating the feeling of bliss.

Your head starts growing light as you throw your head back, hips quickly moving back and forth as you chase after your high.

Daryl grunts and pants underneath you, eyes trained on your moving hips. His eyes shift up at yours as he looks at you through his lashes.

You smirk down at his desperate expression, planting your hand on his chest as your hips move faster. "Could you—" Daryl grits out, holding your hips down. Unable to move, you tilt your head to the right, waiting for his next move.

With his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands stay glued to your hips. The tension is thick and buzzing in the air—waiting for something, someone to move.

Then Daryl's hands move to hook your panties to the side, exposing your needy cunt. He presses his thumb onto your sensitive clit, making you roll your eyes back. He starts drawing circles, making you roll your hips.

"God, yes." You breathe out, pushing Daryl to add two more fingers, pressing onto your sex. He looks up at your for permission, only to be met with desperate eyes.

Daryl smirks, pushing his digits easily through your slick walls. A low moan leaves your chest as your hips slowly move back and forth, gringing onto his open palm.

Your fingers move nimbly to undo the last buttons of your shirt, exposing your bare breasts underneath. You can feel the way Daryl's hand hardens as soon as his gaze lay on your breasts.

Hand on his nape, you pull at him. "Open your mouth." You mutter, pulling him closer. He immediately follows your order, taking your nipple into his mouth. You let out a satisfied breath as his warm tongue circles your hardened bud.

He takes your other breast in his free hand, playing and tugging at your nipple. The stimulation from both the bottom and the top has your euphoria quickly rushing over at you.

Your moans quickly become louder as you grab and claw at the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Your digits curl and tug as your orgasm washes over you, making your back arch and your pussy walls flutter around Daryl's digits.

You lift and lower yourself as you ride out your ecstasy. It quickly washes off, bringing you back to the present.

Looking back down at Daryl, you can't help but giggle at how desperate he looks. "Mmmm, your fingers are amazing." You move your hips into a slow circle, lifting them up.

Daryl's digits easily slip out of your cunt as you move into him, closing the gap between the both of you. You taste him once more, notes of cigarettes and musk filling your tongue.

Daryl's hips move on their own, pressing against your dripping cunt. His lips slowly move toward your neck, biting and nipping and leaving small marks until he reaches where your shoulder and neck meet.

His hands move quickly, undoing his belt and pants. His breathing is ragged and quick, but you don't point out his neediness.

"Condom?" You whisper, making him freeze.

He slowly looks up at you, eyes searching your face. You can practically see the wheels in his head turning as he thinks of another way through this.

"No..." He whispers back, still thinking of a different solution. You smile, pressing your lips into his. "Good." You watch as his eyes grow wide with your unexpected response. "Had to make sure."

"What do you—" You cut him off by taking his cock in your hand, pumping it a few times before lowering yourself on it until his head is pushing up against your ready folds.

You cradle his head, looking into his eyes before you continue lowering yourself. His size isn't something new to you, but you could never get used to his overall size. He was thick, filling you up completely, so much that it's hard to breathe.

When he's completely inside you, he stalls for a moment, holding you in his arms. He loves staying still inside you, just feeling the way your cunt pilses and grips around him.

He pulls back, only to roughly thrust in again. That first act pulls a surprised moan out of you until he's ramming his length in and out of you, his cock has the right curve to hit that bundle of nerves you love.

His hips snap at you roughly, forcing your tits to bounce and your moans to become more high-pitched, more whiny. And God knows Daryl loves hearing you come apart because of him.

With a new-found motivation, Daryl flips the both of you, pinning you to the couch. He grabs at your thighs, parting them even more to give himself more space to work with.

"God, yeah." He breathes out, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his jaw grows slack. His eyes arebshut as his hips move mechanically, as if he isn't thinking about anything else, anything at all, really.

With his head thrown back, his hips move selfishly for his own pleasure. You love how he uses your body greedily, but you don't dare tell him so he doesn't overthink his actions.

His thrusts become faster, more shallow; like he's moving less to feel you and more because he's—

"Close," He grunts, "I'm so fucking close." He's almost slurring his words as he thrusts into you, obviously nearing his release.

You gather your breasts together, looking up at him with wide eyes and scrunched brows. "Daryl?" You call out, his head snapping in attention to you. "Put a baby in me?"

The second he drinks in your lewd look, you immediately feel his release coating your walls. "Is—Is that what you want?" He hiccups, hips going still as he finishes releasing inside you.

"Want me to put a baby in ya?" He breathes into your neck, hand wrapping around your neck. Squeezing lightly, a grin stretches across your lips.

You love bringing this side out of him.

He straightens himself out, his hips resuming to deeper and slower thrusts as he regains his composure. "Hmm? That what the lil' lady want?" He mocks, tilting his head to the side.

His gaze digs into yours, moans spilling from your chest as he slowly reels upur own high in. His movements are slow but languid, building up the tension until you're ready to snap.

"Please, please!" You whine, digging your nails onto his shoulders as he squeezes your left breast. He stares at your nude body, legs eagerly open for him.

"You look ready to be a mommy." He chuckles, grunting as he feels his own release quickly approaching. "Tell ya what—" He breathes out, "Come with me," He looks into your eyes, "And I'll make sure you won't have to worry 'bout no period cramps for nine months."

The thought of him so willing to impregnate you is what pushes you over the edge. Unprepared and incredibly sensitive, your walls clamp down at his dick. Daryl groans as he releases inside you for a second time, your walls milking him dry as you pull him closer.

You can't get him close enough.

He keeps you plugged full until you've completely ridden out your orgasm, slowly pulling himself out. You feel his release slowly dripping out of you.

"Need ya pregnant by tomorrow." He mumbles into your neck, making you giggle.

"That's not how it works, Dare!" You squeal, his fingers tickling you as he slowly wraps his arms around your waist. He flips the both of you once more, settling you on top of him.

You yawn, the sense of home and peace overcoming you. It's like a big, warm hug. It's Daryl.

You look up at him one last time, studying his features, memorizing your favorite ones before letting your lids fall shut.

He woke up before you did. He usually did.

Even in Alexandria, with safety stitched into the walls and comfort stacked in jars on the shelves, Daryl’s instincts still buzzed before dawn. But for once, he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t sit up and scan the corners.

He just lay there.

Watching you.

You were curled up under the quilt you insisted on keeping even when the nights were warm, one leg poking out, hair a wild mess against his arm. Your breath was steady. Soft. There was a crease by your mouth from the pillow, and you had this stubborn little frown, like even in sleep you were fighting something.

He reached up and gently ran a finger across your cheek.

Didn’t know why, but the sight of you—real, messy, completely unguarded—made his chest feel too tight and too full at the same time.

He’d never had this before. Never thought he could.

Peace.

Warmth.

You.

He could’ve laid there forever.

But then you stirred, mumbling something unintelligible and blinking up at him.

“Mornin’,” he said, voice low and scratchy.

“God,” you rasped, stretching with a dramatic groan, “do you always look this good at sunrise, or is that just my dumb luck?”

He snorted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Pretty sure it’s the other way ‘round, sunshine.”

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Come on. Let’s make something that doesn’t come out of a can.”

You cooked like it was therapy. Barefoot, hair up, music humming from the old record player someone scavenged last month. Daryl didn’t know the song—it had twang and heartbreak and something about wildflowers—but it made you sway around the kitchen like you were dancing just for yourself.

Or for him.

He stood behind you, cutting up potatoes. Clumsy but focused.

“So,” he said slowly, like the words might spook you, “what would ya name a kid if ya had one?”

You dropped the spatula with a clatter.

“Jesus, Daryl.”

“What?” he shrugged, defensive but not really. “Just askin’. Ain’t like I’m handin’ ya a ring or nothin’.”

You gave him a look. “Uh-huh. That a proposal in disguise?”

He flushed, ears turning pink. “Ain’t what I meant.”

You grinned. “You’re blushing.”

“Ain’t.”

“You so are.”

He turned back to the potatoes, grumbling, “Well, you didn’t answer.”

You bit your lip, stirred the eggs. “I dunno. Something sweet. Maybe something old-fashioned. Nora, if it’s a girl. Eli for a boy.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Nora Dixon. Got a nice ring to it.”

You turned, arching a brow. “You just assigned your last name without even blinking.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, smirking, “ain’t givin’ ‘em anyone else’s.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flutter.

Later that day, you were on a supply run near the edge of town—clearing a half-looted baby store you’d always skipped, assuming there wasn’t much worth salvaging. Most shelves were dust and crumbled boxes, long since picked over.

But Daryl stopped dead in the middle of an aisle.

You turned to find him staring at something.

A crib.

Wooden, pale. A little dusty but intact. A tiny mobile still hung from one corner, faded stars and clouds gently turning.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up to it, gave it a little push, and watched it creak back and forth.

Then—without a word—he bent down, lifted it, and carried it to the cart.

You blinked. “What… are you doing?”

He didn’t look at you. Just said, “Ain’t gonna be here next time. Someone else’ll take it.”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “You think we’ll need it?”

He paused. Just long enough to say everything without saying a word.

Then: “Hope so.”

That night, the crib sat in the corner of your bedroom, not built yet—just leaning against the wall like a promise waiting to be made.

You lay beside him in the low light, one hand on his chest, the other tracing lazy patterns across the thin scar just above his collarbone.

He was quiet. Tense in that way that meant his brain was working overtime.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded once. Then again. Then finally spoke.

“Ain’t never had a real home,” he said, voice soft. “Not one where I felt like I belonged. Always someone else’s rules. Someone else’s roof. Got used to leavin’. Got good at packin’ light.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just let your hand rest over his heart.

“But you,” he continued, “you make me wanna build one. Y’know? With walls I picked. With shit on the shelves. With meals that ain’t cold. With you in it.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, heart full to the point of aching.

“Daryl,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable.

You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his stubble.

“We already are.”

Then you kissed him—slow, deep, like sealing a vow you hadn’t even needed to speak aloud.

The next morning, you found his crossbow mounted on the wall.

You hadn’t heard him do it.

But there it was—above the fireplace, neat and proud and deliberate. Not tucked by the door like he was waiting to leave.

You touched the edge of it, smiling.

A silent signature.

This is where I stay.

The sun was setting when you brought two mugs of tea out to the porch. The air was warm and sticky, the sky painted in shades of honey and fire.

Daryl was already sitting there, legs stretched out, eyes on the horizon.

You handed him his mug and sat beside him, your thigh pressed to his, head resting on his shoulder.

For a while, you just breathed together.

No words.

No pressure.

Just that quiet kind of peace that only shows up when you’ve got nothing left to prove.

“So what now?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you when he answered, but his fingers laced with yours.

“Now?” he said, voice low and sure.

“Now we live.”

#daryl dixon #daryl fanfiction #daryl x female reader #daryl x reader #daryl x you #the walking dead #the walking dead daryl #twd daryl #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixion smut #daryl smut #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x female reader #the walking dead fluff #the walking dead smut #the walking dead fanfiction

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moonlight-joy · 6 months ago

Text

A Mystery Benefactor

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: The BAU team begins to notice Spencer Reid’s sudden upgrade in accessories—an expensive watch, a designer satchel—sparking curiosity. When Garcia delivers a package containing a luxury tie and a note signed Love, Y/N, the truth unravels: Spencer has a mystery benefactor—his wealthy girlfriend. The team demands answers, and the next day, you arrive at the office, effortlessly charming everyone. Over dinner, they interrogate you about your wealth, teasing Spencer mercilessly. Despite his embarrassment, it’s clear—he’s completely smitten, and you have every intention of spoiling him for a long time.

Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid

The first time the team noticed something was different about Spencer, it was subtle. A new watch—sleek, expensive-looking, but nothing too flashy. Derek Morgan had squinted at it during a briefing, noting how it gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

“New watch, pretty boy?” Morgan teased, nudging Spencer’s arm.

Spencer, who had been flipping through a case file, blinked and quickly tucked his wrist under the table. “Uh, yeah. Just something I—uh—picked up.”

JJ raised an eyebrow. “Picked up? Since when do you shop for anything that isn’t books?”

Spencer hesitated. He wasn’t exactly great at lying, so he just hummed noncommittally and went back to his papers. The team shared a look but let it go.

Then came the new leather satchel, replacing the beat-up messenger bag he had used since his first year at the BAU.

Emily eyed it curiously. “Is that… designer?”

Spencer looked down at the smooth, high-quality leather and gulped. “I… I don’t know.”

Morgan let out a low whistle. “Kid, that bag costs at least a thousand bucks.”

“That’s… that’s a lot, huh?” Spencer winced.

“Reid, where the hell are you getting all this stuff?” Rossi asked, giving him a knowing look. “Did you finally take my advice and start playing poker again?”

Hotch, though focused on his paperwork, raised an eyebrow at that. Spencer shook his head rapidly. “No! No gambling.”

More murmurs from the team. The mystery of Spencer’s sudden upgrade in accessories continued.

But it wasn’t until Garcia waltzed in holding a package that things got even more suspicious.

“Ooooh, my genius bean, something arrived for you!” she sang, setting a box on the table in front of him. It was wrapped elegantly, the brand logo discreet but expensive.

The team practically hovered as Spencer hesitated before peeling the wrapping away. Inside was a stunning silk tie in deep purple, along with a handwritten note.

Wear this tonight. Miss you. - Love, Y/N

Spencer’s ears went red.

Morgan snatched the note before Spencer could react. His eyebrows shot up. “Who the hell is Y/N?”

Emily leaned in. “Are we missing something? A girlfriend, maybe?”

The room went silent.

Spencer, realizing he was very much caught, fidgeted. “Uh…”

The team exploded.

“YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?!”

“How did we not know this?!”

“Wait, wait, wait. She’s the one buying you all this fancy stuff?!”

Spencer cleared his throat. “She… she enjoys treating me, yeah.”

Morgan shook his head, amused. “Damn, pretty boy. You’ve been holding out on us. Who is this mysterious sugar mama?”

Spencer groaned, hiding his face behind his hands. “She’s not a sugar mama. She’s just… well-off.”

“How well-off?” Rossi asked, smirking.

Spencer hesitated before mumbling, “Very.”

“Ohhh, we need to meet her,” Garcia grinned.

Spencer sighed, already regretting everything.

***

The BAU team didn’t have to wait long. The very next day, as they wrapped up their morning meeting, an unexpected visitor strolled into the bullpen.

You walked in confidently, dressed sharply, carrying a small bag in your hand. The team barely had time to react before Spencer spotted you, his eyes going wide.

“Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath.

Morgan, Emily, and JJ all turned at once.

“Is that…?” JJ started.

“Ohhh, she’s gorgeous,” Garcia whispered, fanning herself dramatically.

You smiled as you reached Spencer’s desk. “Hey, handsome,” you greeted, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “No. Way.”

Spencer coughed, his entire face heating up. “Um. Guys. This is… uh, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“Girlfriend?” Rossi repeated with amusement. “More like mystery benefactor.”

You chuckled, holding up the bag. “Actually, I just came to drop off his lunch. He left it at home.”

Hotch, who had been observing with a rare smirk, finally spoke. “So, Y/N, should we be expecting more luxury deliveries for Dr. Reid?”

You grinned. “I do like spoiling him.”

Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “I gotta ask—how did you two even meet?”

Spencer sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. “We met at a lecture I was giving a year ago. She—”

“I thought he was adorable,” you finished for him, smiling. “So I asked him out.”

JJ looked between the two of you, impressed. “And let me guess—he said no at first?”

You laughed. “Oh, absolutely. But I was persistent.”

Rossi raised an eyebrow. “Persistent and wealthy. Kid, you hit the jackpot.”

Spencer groaned, covering his face again.

Emily leaned back in her chair. “Alright, Y/N, I think it’s time for the real question. Just how well-off are we talking?”

You glanced at Spencer, who gave you a pleading look. Smiling mischievously, you reached into your bag and pulled out a set of keys, tossing them to Morgan.

He caught them and stared. “Wait. This is…” His eyes flicked to you in shock. “You drive an Aston Martin?”

You winked. “One of them.”

The team erupted into laughter and disbelief, while Spencer simply sighed in surrender.

***

That evening, the team insisted on taking you out for dinner to “interrogate” you properly. They chose a fancy restaurant, much to Spencer’s dismay.

Garcia, grinning, leaned in the moment you sat down. “So, Y/N, I have to know—what is it about our dear Spencer that caught your attention?”

You smiled at your boyfriend, who was already looking like he wanted to disappear into his seat. “Oh, that’s easy. He’s brilliant, kind, and the most fascinating man I’ve ever met.”

Spencer coughed. “I—uh, well—”

Morgan smirked. “And the fact that he looks like a model in a lab coat?”

You laughed. “That doesn’t hurt.”

Hotch, ever the observer, finally spoke up. “Spencer mentioned you were… very well-off.”

You sipped your drink before nodding. “That’s true.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Like ‘comfortable’ well-off, or ‘private jet’ well-off?”

You gave Spencer a knowing look before shrugging. “Somewhere in between.”

Morgan whistled. “Damn, pretty boy, you really did win the lottery.”

Spencer groaned again as the team laughed.

As the night went on, you fit right in with the BAU family. They teased Spencer mercilessly, but you could tell they adored him just as much as you did. And despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t stop sneaking little glances at you, his expression soft with affection.

By the end of the evening, Garcia threw her arms around you. “You’re officially one of us now, sugar mama.”

Spencer groaned. “She’s not a sugar mama!”

Morgan grinned. “Right, right. Just a very generous, very wealthy girlfriend who buys our boy luxury gifts.”

You squeezed Spencer’s hand under the table, smiling. “And I plan to keep spoiling him for a long time.”

The team cheered, Spencer turned bright red, and you knew this wouldn’t be the last time they teased him about you.

Please support my work with like and comment

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds x reader

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girlsworldillusion · 6 months ago

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so this is what falling in love is like?

Ominis Gaunt x Gryffindor Reader

Summary: “Ominis, what — what are you trying to say?”

He breathes your name huskily, and you feel your cheeks tingle with the heat of a fresh flush of blush.

“I’m in love with you,” he says earnestly, more whispering the words than saying them, his hand tightening in yours a fraction more, and all you can do is stare at him in utter shock.

Where a night of studying at the Undercroft grows into something much bigger than you expected.

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Word count: 9k

Artist: (x) @oladcnfthb

Author's Note: My first fanfic of the HP universe. Not the last, if I may have a choice. I hope you all like it, your comments will be greatly appreciated by this poor writer.

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

"And then I heard this girl, Grace Withey, or Whitney, I'm not sure now," the boy mutters thoughtfully before dismissing the question with an exquisite wave of his hand, "either way, she was asking if he had time to offer 'some much needed and much appreciated guidance in the Care of Magical Creatures', like she said. She claimed to be a disaster in that class, though it seemed like she was doing quite well before he arrived, if you ask me."

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh, but keep your eyes closed as you listen to Ominis report the detailed case of the latest romantic incident that simply fell into Sebastian's lap - emphasis on report, as this could never be classified as gossip. Ominis Gaunt has never stooped to the social stratagem that is the art of spreading gossip, as he himself makes a point of reminding you every time that possibility is remotely suggested in some witty comment.

After a long study session, you were both lounging carefree on the opulent burgundy couch set against one wall; a gaudy luxury that you fought tooth and nail to add to the cold expanse of the undercroft so that you could rest while you did some reading, or simply when you were too tired to return to your dormitories. Two tall stacks of books rested on the low table in front of you, some even open and scattered across the carpet on the floor, as well as piles of half-scribbled parchment, inkwells and quills. The flickering flames arranged in the braziers hanging on the walls provided an orange illumination that was both functional and comforting to the eyes. In the cushioned space between you two lay the remains of two boxes of Chocolate Frogs - his clearly opened in a much more elegant manner than yours.

Outside the castle the snow fell without stopping, freezing everything around with its cloud of crystals, but inside the walls you felt safe and warm.

"She was clearly interested in more than just his guidance on creature care."

Despite the suggestive tone, there's a soft smile on your lips as you says this, your feet swinging languidly on the tabletop where they're propped up on top of each other.

"No surprise there." He snorts beside you, a sullen quality to his tone that definitely wasn't there a few seconds ago. "This sort of thing always happens to him. And oh, he's so pompous about it too, really insufferable. It's obvious by now that he can have any girl in school, even some boys I dare say, and he's amply and unfortunately very aware of it. It's annoying that he has that kind of power, if you ask me."

This time you can't help the amused chuckle that escapes your lips, perfectly conjuring behind closed eyelids the sullen pout the man is surely making just by his tone of voice.

"Careful now, Gaunt, some poor unsuspecting person who hears you speak like that might interpret your words as jealousy." Your tone oscillates between a weak attempt at reprimand and amusement, enjoying poking the poor man. "What's wrong, haven't you been getting enough attention from the student masses?"

It was a teasing comment, intentional in the aim of maintaining the fun and pleasant atmosphere that surrounded them. But when a few good seconds pass without him saying anything in return, you slowly allow your eyes to open, staring at the Slytherin sitting next to you.

The first thing you notice is how tense his body is; shoulders rigid and head turned away from you, hands clenched tightly on his thighs. He looks uncomfortable in every tiny line of his tall body. He's not denying what you suggested and you've teased him enough times in the past to know that he should have done so already if he disagreed with your words.

"I would find such a notion rather unbelievable if that were the case, of course, since this is you we're talking about." You murmur slowly when it becomes obvious he's not going to respond, watching his every reaction intently as you fish for information.

"What—wait, what are you talking about?" He looks a little dazed, tilting his head toward you just a fraction, but you continue your train of thought, taking advantage of the fact that you have his attention once more.

"Well, you're Ominis Gaunt. Not only do you have all that physical representation of cold elegance and an aura of royalty that your House so annoyingly likes to impose, but you're also a member of one of the most notorious families in the wizarding world. It's hard to believe that there isn't a line of lovestruck hearts out there just waiting for an opportunity to date you. I bet you're just as popular as Sebastian these days - you're just more discreet about it than him, obviously."

Your comment, although honest in every word, is made innocently, with no apparent justification for any fuss - just sincere curiosity about the question raised. And that's why you're taken aback by his reaction to you. Even though he remains frozen where he sits with all the grace and refinement of an enchanted lord from a fairy tale, the poor man's cheeks burn with such an intense blush that you quickly find yourself worried that he's about to have some kind of silent breakdown.

"I-it's not quite like that." He straightens his already perfect posture as he brings a limp fist to his lips, covering his sudden stutter with a subtle cough that, in and of itself, carries more pomp than you could ever achieve in your entire life - which, of course, only confirms what you've just said. "While my family is admittedly reputed in the wizarding world, I can assure you that it is not in a good way at all. And it goes without saying that everyone here knows it too. They vacillate between avoiding me as if I've been jinxed with a repulsive Slugulus Eructo or fearing me as if I'll Avada them at the slightest sign of movement. That in itself is a major romance deterrent, you know. I don't blame them, of course. My family's crimes extend to me through the bloodline, whether I like it or not. It's inevitable, really."

You part your lips, all too ready to interrupt what was proving to be the beginning of another session of misplaced guilt from the Slytherin, when you see him smirking. His pale cheeks are still stained with that pink dust, but his lips are stretched in a mischievous pull that actually disguises his embarrassment for a few seconds.

"Besides, although I am, as you well know, completely averse to the dark practices of the Gaunts, I confess to taking advantage of all that reputation, sometimes. It suits me at some very specific moments."

You tilt your head, giving him your best unimpressed look.

"Oh, I am quite aware of that. Your readiness to use the Gaunts' reputation for your own benefit was especially evident that night when you threatened to terrorize my last generation if I opened my mouth about the Undercroft. You certainly know how to make a good point when you put intention behind it."

It washes the smile from his lips so instantly it's almost comical, leaving behind only a kicked, embarrassed expression, the flush in his cheeks highlighting the constellation of beauty marks on his porcelain skin.

"I - I already said I was sorry about that, I was just -"

"Hey, hey, it's okay, it doesn't bother me anymore. I'm just teasing you." You cut him off with a sly smile. "Anyway, you're not going to get away from the real issue here."

Because, well...you really couldn't stop thinking about the suggestiveness of his previous statement. The possibilities - oh - were running through your brain nonstop. So, against your better judgment, and with your cheeks flush with heat, you find yourself pressing him on it.

"I don't understand what exactly you want to know." He mumbles, trying to cover up his embarrassment with a look of disinterest that is too poor to be taken seriously.

"You...have been with someone before, right?" This time you're deadly direct, no hints or openings for half answers. You had a question and you wanted to clear it up, your embarrassment in uttering such words wouldn't be enough to stop you. "Ah, intimately, I mean."

Obviously, it's not the kind of question that a decent lady would have asked a young man of such high prestige as Ominis Gaunt, you imagine. But after everything you've been through since you started your journey at Hogwarts, you feel bolder than the tolerable standard for young ladies, as if you'd lost some of your subtlety somewhere along the way. But how could you not?

More times than you can remember, you've been teetering on the brink of death, facing enemies who didn't think twice about whether or not you were too young for such things. More times than you can remember, you've been responsible for making decisions that would directly impact the lives of many people, even the wizarding world as a whole. The power in your hands, the skills and the often almost unbearable weight that such responsibilities brought to your life, made your mentality run miles ahead of those of your schoolmates - of society, in general. Inevitably, you felt that circumstances had forced you to develop a sense of urgency and raw honesty that even some adults lacked.

It was true that you lacked practical experience in some intimate matters - now mind you, you didn't exactly have a lot of free time for romantic interests and sex, too busy between the Keepers Trials, running tirelessly through the Highlands performing exhausting tasks for every poor soul who crossed your path - tasks that often culminated in your near death - attending the many classes during the day and the intensive study for the O.W.L.s in the library.

It was a true miracle when you managed to find time to sleep in your own bed in the dormitory - more often than not you were so exhausted that you simply lay down wherever you were and took a nap.

The fact was that you weren't exactly experienced in matters of intimacy, not really. There had been a few daring kisses here and there, of course. Even a few curious hands while you were snuggling with a Ravenclaw boy between the shelves of the library, hidden from Madam Scribner's watchful eyes. But you hadn't gone any further than that with anyone - even though the rumors circulating around school were that you and Sebastian Sallow had once been caught in an embarrassing and quite explicit situation in the Prefects' Bathroom. Which, of course, was a blatant lie. You had only been in the Prefects' Bathroom once and it certainly wasn't for any...carnal purposes.

You suspected that it was Sebastian himself who had started such rumors.

Either way, your lack of experience in the field had never bothered you much. Honestly, you didn't have the energy to bother yourself with it more than superficially. But you’d be lying if you denied that the prospect that Ominis, the most unfairly handsome and well-born boy you’ve ever met, might be as inexperienced as you is doesn’t offer a kind of comfort you didn’t even know you needed — as well as a funny thrill of anticipation in your belly.

You blink slowly as you stare at his handsome profile, bracing yourself for more of his cold scowls and frustrated huffs of impatience — perhaps even a sermon on how unladylike it is to ask such questions. He’s very good at sermons. Instead, however, you’re met with something else entirely. The upturned bridge of his nose is stained with blush, as are his cheeks. His unseeing gaze is turned away from you, his lips pressed tightly together, the corners slightly turned down. He looks…nervous? Distressed? You feel bad for pushing him like this. But as blushing and regretful as you are, the thought of what this means makes your heart beat faster by the second. The thought that you were right about your deductions after all makes your throat almost dry.

"H-hey, Ominis," you stammer awkwardly, but he still doesn't tilt his head in your direction. His arms are crossed over his chest like a physical shield, his entire posture screaming barely contained tension, making you slowly pull your feet off the table and adjust yourself on the couch so that you're sitting sideways to face him better. You take a deep breath, but Merlin, the air between you feels heavy now. It's strange, really; you don't think the two of you have ever been this awkward around each other, except for the first time you had a conversation - which was actually more of a threatening monologue on his part than a conversation per se. The regret of having insisted on this subject begins to weigh on your chest - a sincere fear that something that seemed so harmless to you a few minutes ago could be the cause of a crack in the bond you've arduously cultivated with Ominis is taking root in your mind.

You adjust uncomfortably the red hood of the robe around your neck, thinking that it wasn't worth trying to satisfy your curiosity after all - and let it be recorded for all that a Gryffindor knows when to give up their pride and admit to having made a bad decision, no matter how bitter the aftertaste is on your tongue. With a forced smile on your lips and a hand rubbing the back of your head, you silently pray that your next words will ease the heavy mood that has settled in the Undercroft.

"You know what? Let's forget about it. This is really none of my business and I'm sure that -"

"No." Ominis interrupts you shyly, impossibly redder than before and you immediately shut up, eyes wide as you stare at him with your heart wanting to fly out of your chest. "I've never been like this with anyone." The small tremor in his voice indicates how nervous he feels.

It would be comical if it weren't so desperate how by now you were already certain of this statement and yet it still manages to leave you completely speechless when it leaves his lips. The regret of having started this whole thing is ridiculously more overwhelming than before because you simply don't know what to say now that you've heard what you already knew all along. Thinking back now, what in Godric's name did you plan on saying in the first place? He would confess what you suspected to be the truth and then what?

Congrats, that's what you get for being so inappropriately curious.

"T-there was this girl in fourth year and we, well, she kissed me - but it was weird and a complete accident, it only lasted for a second and...and after that I never, you know...I've never been interested in anyone like that...at least not until -"

You think you might just burst into a ball of flames from how scorching your skin is, and Ominis is obviously as disturbingly embarrassed as you are because he's gesticulating with his hands and babbling nonstop, his nervousness causing him to reveal far more than you had initially asked, making both of you more awkward by the second.

Oh. Oh, Merlin. He hadn't even kissed anyone. At least not really.

What are you supposed to do with this information?!

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, sighing so deeply that his shoulders slump with the movement, deflating the way a balloon punctured by a needle would.

Despite your brutal state of embarrassment, you frown, leaning forward on the couch so that you’re a little closer to him. “Sorry? Why are you sorry? I’m the one who asked you things that didn’t concern me. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

Ominis gives you a shy smile that lacks any sincere joy. “I know, but still. I mean, I shouldn’t have — it’s weird for me to say these things about you, even though I’ve wanted to say them for a while. But I didn’t — I just didn’t want it to be this disastrous.”

In retrospect, you think this might all just be a trick of your overactive imagination. It's quite possible that you simply blacked out while Ominis was telling you about Sebastian's latest romantic endeavor - in his deep, soft voice - and that this is all just a dream.

It's a very plausible option, given that this has happened before. His presence, always so calm and controlled, combined with his mesmerizing baritone have guided you into a lethargic state of drowsiness more times than you can remember. It's just how he makes you feel - relaxed and safe.

Yes, that's what's happening once again. It has to be. Why, for heaven's sake, can't you have just heard what you think you heard, right?

But the way he stands there, serious features and a deep blush on his face, waiting for your answer with a visible degree of insecurity in his normally impassive being, is what makes you finally say something.

"W-was that about me?" You let out quietly, your racing heartbeat somehow accelerating even more, to the point where you question the harm this would do to your health. "When you said you've never been interested in anyone like that, at least until..." you continue, trying to bring some semblance of order to your thoughts, "was it me you were talking about then?"

It took a few seconds before he nodded once.

"I've wanted to talk to you about this for a long time. But there was always something going on - someone you needed to help, a poor creature needing to be rescued in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, a Goblin Helm to be recovered in a cursed cave far away from here..." he chuckles softly and you find yourself laughing back, shy and gentle, though a long exhale leaves your lips as you feel a bit of lightness begin to permeate the air between you two once more.

He reaches for you hesitant, but gently - oh so gently - places his cold hand above yours on the couch. You don't flinch or avoid his touch, though you still stare for a few seconds at the place where his long, pale fingers cover yours, trying to assimilate the unreal image that unfolds in front of you. And when your gaze rises and finally finds his face, it almost breaks your heart.

Realistically, you know he can’t see anything at all, but that becomes an afterthought in your mind as soon as you look at him. His eyes, bright, pale blue orbs like two moon-like spheres, are tilted and fixed at the exact same level as yours — and in this particular moment, you’re certain he’s seeing you, as impossible as that possibility may be. Swallowing the saliva that’s building in your mouth is suddenly a difficult task, but you force yourself to do it anyway.

"Ominis, what—what are you trying to say?”

You whisper slowly, as if the mere question is a secret between the two of you, the unexpected intensity in his cloudy eyes making your heart stutter as he continues to stare at you, his bushy brows furrowed in an expression that’s hard to discern. Suddenly, you realize how close you’re standing. Nothing but a small gap in the couch separates you, where your hands are clasped together and two boxes of Chocolate Frogs still rest. You can smell him, confunsing your mind as you unconsciously lean a little closer to him — fresh mint, chocolate, and something that reminds you of open parchment or the scent of the pages of a rare book.

He breathes your name huskily, and you feel your cheeks tingle with the heat of a fresh flush of blush.

“I’m in love with you,” he says earnestly, more whispering the words than saying them, his hand tightening in yours a fraction more, and all you can do is stare at him in utter shock. The expression on his face is vulnerable, evidenced by the furrowed lines of his brows in what looks almost like agony. But he’s also determined — a single-minded determination that’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. "It took me a while to understand it, but I think I've been since the day I met you, to be honest. When you arrived late to the Great Hall, out of breath and in a hurry, but still so ecstatic with everything around you - as if being brutally attacked by a dragon while trying to get to school was no big deal. You've been stunning to me ever since. It was impossible not to be completely enchanted by you."

You're at a loss for words, so you don't even try to find them, opting for silence as you repeat his words on a loop in your mind.

It's strange how you always imagined confessions like this should be made in front of silvery moonlit ponds or in lush meadows during the spring season or literally anywhere that could be considered even remotely inspiring for romance. Certainly not in secret spaces filled with dust, crates and training dummies like the Undercroft. But here you are; overwhelmed and speechless by a declaration made in the last place you imagined you'd receive one.

And oh Merlin, you want to believe him, to entertain the idea that someone as utterly adorable as Ominis could feel that way about you - even though you've never been able to explain to yourself how you really felt about him.

Ominis Gaunt has always been an enigma.

The Slytherin's obvious qualities are nothing new to you; his gentle disposition despite his aloof facade and the weight of his family's unsavory reputation, or his polite and gentlemanly manners towards everyone. But these were attributes that anyone with even the slightest interest in him could see, qualities that didn't set him apart that much from others you knew.

But the truth is that, with time and familiarity, you noticed other distinct peculiarities in Ominis.

Leaving aside his ethereal beauty and his tall, majestic physique, which, again, are very obvious positive traits about him, he was the most captivating man you've ever met. The patience he possessed towards others, the fierce loyalty to you and Sebastian, the fact that despite the long sermons that accompanied it, he was always breaking the promises he made to himself in favor to protect and support those he loved. His far above average intelligence, the way he annoyingly always knows the right thing to say - even, and especially, at the times when you don't want to hear it. And, of course, his most attractive side in your opinion: the unexpected softness in his dark nature - it's about him being able to frighten and silence an entire room with just his imposing presence and still be the one to comfort and care, with kindness and respect.

You certainly understood that Ominis was someone seriously conflicted. The way he sometimes tended towards a cold temperament, or how, at times, he let his emotions guide him to his dark and cold side, did not go unnoticed by you. But still, you saw how he tried hard to let his gentle side prevail in his manner.

But

Did noticing these little details that would normally go unnoticed by others mean that you reciprocate his feelings?

Well, you felt safe with him. Even safer than you felt with Sebastian. While the latter was undeniably a friend you held in high regard (and even a small crush, if you were honest) he did not give you the same sense of complete comfort and trust that Ominis did. With Sebastian you felt like you had to constantly prove yourself, like just being who you were was never enough for him. Now with Ominis...

And as you stare at him, open-mouthed, searching for the right words to respond to his unexpected declaration, you think that maybe that's why you've never been able to put a name to what you felt for him. There was no heady, bubbling, flowery passion to announce any feelings, like there had been with your other brief flirtations before - or even with Sebastian. There was only the warmth, the relief, the peace of feeling whole and completely safe.

The feeling of knowing that if you were in a life-or-death situation and could count on only one person to save you, he would be the one to come to your rescue.

Godric

Realization borns in your chest to the point where you feel like you could float, like the feeling after eating a mouthful of Fizzling Whizzbees. Suddenly, you feel like you have so much to say, but you don't know how. Ominis, as usual, is much more eloquent:

"You wanted to know if I've ever been intimate with anyone, and my answer is no." He seems more hesitant, as if his hopes have been diminished a bit along with your prolonged silence, but his voice is still soft - as is the grip of his fingers on yours. "I've never been intimate with anyone because the only person I've ever wanted to be with was you."

All the air in your lungs leaves you in a sharp exhale, the warmth of deep admiration, affection and trust filling your chest and making your heart beat wildly. Overcome with emotion, you look once more at his hand holding your smaller one, opening your mouth, fumbling for the words in a confusing jumble of vowels and consonants.

"It's okay," Ominis assures you with a sad smile, his large milky eyes slanted downward, staring blindly at where he feels you squeeze his fingers. "I know it's a lot to take in at once. I don't mean to pressure you into anything, I swear. I just, I guess I just needed to tell you how I feel. But I understand if...well...I really understand that you don't feel the same way." His thick eyebrows sink, his face hardening slightly, as if he's already prepared for your rejection.

"Ominis." His name is a sigh from your lips. Touched. Longing.

You don't know how exactly what was supposed to be just another night of studying has brought you here. All you know is that you intend to enjoy every moment of this unexpected confession, eager to discover what new paths it might lead to.

The heat of Ominis so close combined with the way your heart had raced as you focused on his perfectly flushed lips, and how his scent was making your head spin, made you suddenly feel more impulsive than ever. And that's saying something considering your history of questionable choices.

You decide to go for it.

"Can I kiss you?" You ask in a frail whisper as you realize that nothing you could say would be enough to make him understand the emotions you're feeling right now.

His head snaps up at the question, his eyes wide and his lips parted.

"W-what? I mean, yes. Merlin, yes you can -" he breathes quickly, his pale skin stained with a deep blush, his orbs darting aimlessly. "But I've never actually kissed anyone - I might not be as good at it as -"

You cut it.

"I seriously doubt that."

This only makes him blush harder and you almost regret what you said, rushing to save him from the situation.

"B-but I can show you how, if you prefer."

You’re almost breathless at this point, vaguely reminding yourself that you’re no queen of the experience either, but when he nods eagerly, everything flies out the window and it’s like the pulsing muscle in your chest has given up on this whole adrenaline show and simply stopped beating.

Well, that’s it, you think as you push the boxes of Chocolate Frogs onto the rug with trembling fingers and move closer to Ominis until your legs are touching.

You’re almost facing each other on the couch now, his breath fanning your face, gentle and soft, and you stare for a moment into the milky expanse of his eyes. Pale skin dotted with a few beauty marks, perfectly sculpted jaw, elegant nose, flushed lips slightly parted.

For a moment, shame takes over you to the point where you almost turn around and beg him to pretend none of this happened. Almost. But his thumb lovingly caressing your knuckles is what grounds you in this moment once again.

You wouldn’t be a self-respecting Gryffindor if you gave up on your goals over a little embarrassment, would you?

“Right.”

You gently cup Ominis’ jaw between your fingers, delighted when he immediately leans into the touch, unable to hide the small hitch in your breath as you feels his heart rate spike as press on a pulse point.

You lean closer to him than you’ve ever been before, your noses not even four inches apart, his minty breath tickling your face. "Close your eyes, please,” your voice trembles weakly and you wet your lips before continuing, your skin so heated that you’re sure Ominis can feel the flames emanating from it without even touching you, “and then just do what feels right, I guess – let your body guide you.”

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore, but there he was, bathed in the flames of the braziers and the partial darkness of the Undercroft; his long, thick eyelashes fanning over his flushed cheekbones as he does exactly what you say, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in your life.

He keeps one hand covering yours to stroke your fingers back and forth, his other hand, however, is on his own thigh, clenched into a tight fist – like a restraint. Restraint for what? You’re not sure. But the possibilities still conjure a swarm of butterflies in your belly.

Ominis leans in a little closer, almost unconsciously, parting his lips and inhaling audibly as you exhale a soft sound. Your hand slides down the sharp line of his jaw, stroking the curve of his ear with your thumb until you rest your fingers delicately on the back of his neck, guiding him to extinguish the last few inches that separate you as you let your own eyes drift closed. With a tentative brush of your lip against his, you press forward, sealing your lips and your heart with his in that moment.

The first touch is nothing and absolutely everything you imagined.

You sigh.

For the first second you freeze, afraid that you have no idea what you would do now that you finally felt Ominis Gaunt's plush lips on yours, but apparently your previous advice to him is very convenient and your instincts take over the worry almost instantly.

Your lips mold between his like a perfect fit, soft and moist, his heat invading your mouth in shy puffs. You melt almost immediately, letting the kiss remain chaste - a firm but soft pressure, with gentle movements over his.

All tension drains from your body because this is familiar; sweet, warming your body from the inside, like drinking butterbeer with friends in front of a fireplace on a cold winter's day - comfortable, safe. But it also gives you an anxious tingle that makes you unconsciously squeeze your legs together; your stomach twists and turns with funny somersaults, the swarm of butterflies more agitated than ever.

Having your lips collide with his, the softness and fresh taste he exudes, you realize how much you miss this - even if it's the first time you're experiencing it with him. So much for emotional incoherence.

Ominis breathes a shaky, heated breath into your mouth, fingers releasing your hand to grip your wrist in an almost desperate gesture.

You're the first to pull back, suddenly dizzy, blushing even more when he chases your lips for a few inches before stopping himself. Through half-lidded eyes, you watch him slowly begin to open his too, a dazed look on his face, with panting lips and rosy cheeks that make him look both childish and incredibly sinful at the same time.

"O-Ominis," you whisper, panting as if you've just finished climbing one of the mountains in the Highlands. “That was…”

In a game-changing moment, he furrows his brows and locks his jaw once before parting his lips to say, “Can we do this again? I mean, do you want to… will you let me do it again? Like, right now?”

Despite your earlier determination, you find yourself whipped by the abrupt change in his tone. At the restless eagerness in his breathy voice, at the possessive grip on your wrist. How, in the blink of an eye, the tables seem to have been turned and he’s the one taking control now. But inexplicably, your own greed for more collides with his and you find yourself nodding, before remembering that he couldn’t possibly see your silent consent.

“Yes, please…”

Unlike you thought, he doesn’t immediately pull you to his lips. What he does, however, stuns you more than any alternative. His fingers, long and elegant, adorned with a few rings that are surely worth more than your life, close around the sides of your waist as soon as the words leave your lips, hoisting your body off the couch with such blatant ease that it would surprise you if you didn’t have more shocking things to deal with at the moment. Like, for example, the fact that he made you sit facing him.

On his lap.

You gasp, absolutely mortified, but, removed from all logic, you make no move to escape his grip; allowing your legs to remain parted on the sides of his thighs, hips against his, hands gripping his broad shoulders for stability.

Ominis, unlike you, seems quite at ease with the awkward position he’s placed you in, releasing your waist to tentatively raise his cold fingers to your burning face, pale blue eyes intensely and greedily locked on your features - features he could never see. Not in the usual way.

“I can?”

Deeply disturbed by the way he’s looking at you and how quickly things have climbed, you can’t find the words to respond, choosing instead to take both of his wrists in your delicate, trembling fingers and guide his hands to your face. You try to control your rapid breathing as his fingers trace the angles of your eyebrows and jaw and the soft roundness of your cheeks and chin, the icy feel of his rings prickling your skin. His eyes slowly close, his brows furrowed in concentration, as if he’s replicating the image of your face in his mind.

“You always smell like honey and lemon tea leaves.” He murmurs with a satisfied hum, and your eyelashes flutter along with your heart as he traces the arch of your eyebrow and then the line of your nose. Your mouth falls open unconsciously when his fingers touch the softness of your lower lip, and it’s Ominis who gasps this time. You watch in embarrassed ecstasy as his face darkens with a blush, the muscle in his jaw twitching once more, his thick eyelashes fluttering over the apple of his cheeks.

You nervously smooth the green hood of the robe around his neck, playing with the texture of the fabric to distract yourself from the intense emotions that threaten to make you faint.

“Your heart is beating so loud I can hear it from here,” he says softly, tracing the delicate cupid’s bow over your lips, a mischievous tug at the right corner of his mouth.

Your eyes widen a little as you let out a shy giggle, still pretending to maintain a confidence that has surely flown out the window long ago. Ominis once told you that since he lacked the fundamental sense of sight, his other senses have been immensely enhanced over the years, including hearing. And, well, your heart was beating so loudly and unkindly as the quickening footsteps of a Graphorn.

The thorough exploration stops for a moment so he can gently cup your jaw between his thumb and forefinger, and you feel the slightest pressure toward him. He pulls you straight to him.

Your faces are almost touching once more. You feel his soft breath on your cheek, hear his light but greedy intake of breath. His grip tightens the tiniest fraction.

Soft lips press against your cheek.

He doesn’t rush at all. The kiss lingers. A warm, syrupy sensation spreads through your body. Your hands tighten in the fabric around his neck. His lips press a little deeper, the tip of his nose nudging your temple affectionately. A warm sigh blows over your flushed skin before he pulls away. His fingers trail, impossibly soft, along your jaw in comforting movements as he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, your other cheek, and another to the tip of your nose. His contradiction shocks you as much as it always has; how one moment he can be shy and hesitant and the next the most confident and dominant person in the world.

“So beautiful, sweet girl.”

You’re about to scream, bubbles of affection and desire exploding in your chest, your fingers itching to pull him in for another kiss. Wanting — no, needing — his lips on yours once more. You don’t have much control left, though. He’s stolen your confidence and turned it into a messy, tangled puddle of wants. You know what you want, but you don’t dare take it. Not when he’s clearly calling the shots like this. You’re frozen, barely breathing, and only vaguely aware that he’s touching your neck now, tilting your head so your faces are pressed together as he push his lips to yours again.

Merlin, yes

This time you actually shiver beneath his fingers, a helpless noise rising from your throat straight to his mouth. His other hand tightens around your waist, and the one on your neck slides into your hair, his fingers digging into your scalp.

This kiss is clearly different from the last, bolder and hungrier from the first contact. And you actually find yourself questioning the veracity of his claim about being inexperienced at this, because by Merlin' sake, he certainly seems very skilled to you.

You assume this is another one of those inexplicable situations where he’s exceptionally good at whatever it is he sets out to do, even if it’s the first time he’s doing it. The thought almost irritates you, as it reminds you of your first kiss — the one that was an awkward, painful mess of teeth chattering and more saliva than there should have been. But just as quickly as the feeling appears, it’s gone.

Your head feels light and buoyant, and it feels a lot like being enchanted with a Wingardium Leviosa the exact moment his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. Then, all you can seem to hold in your mind is the sensation — the heat of his tongue in your mouth, the almost painful stab as he pulls your head back by your hair, the shocking, abject excitement that surges as he starts to act more roughly. You moan, and he wraps his arm around your back to pull you so close to him that your chests are pressed tightly together.

You’re not sure when you do it, but behind your closed lids you swear you see entire constellations exploding with the sensations he gives you with his kiss.

There’s a certain degree of inexperience in the way his tongue moves inside your mouth, but that’s nothing more than a tiny detail when compared to the absolute hunger with which he seems to want to devour you. His saliva, like all of him, seems to melt on your tongue with the most addictive mint flavor - and, deliciously, the lingering taste of the chocolate you both ate not long ago.

It’s all overwhelming, perfect but overwhelming, and the dizziness comes faster than you could have anticipated, making your movements slower and heavier. A wet breath, a grunt from him, another maddening kiss, lips seeking lips, soft cotton under your fingertips. Ominis’s robe feels like a lifeline, and you grab it with everything you’ve got.

If you focused on something other than the sensation, you might notice how heated you both are and how flushed you look. Maybe you could notice Ominis’ hand gently releasing the death grip of your hand on his robe to place the aching fingers on the back of his head.

Just when your nails unconsciously scrape his scalp to pull a few strands of blond hair between your fingers, Ominis parts his lips between yours to release the most sinful of sounds — something that lies somewhere between a growl and a moan, and the thing goes like a lightning bolt straight between your legs.

It’s you who pulls him back into a feverish kiss this time, wet, breathy sounds escaping you both between the clash of your tongues as you press against each other. You’re hyper-aware of how hard he is beneath you, his length straining against the fabric of his uniform pants, and you blush — but you want him even more. Delicately but purposefully, you catch his swollen bottom lip between your teeth to tug once before licking it, but Ominis gasps so loudly and closes his hand around your neck so unexpectedly that you actually choke on a startled, high-pitched sound.

Regardless of the adrenaline rush the action generates, or perhaps precisely because of it, you brace your knees better on the couch around him, rocking your pelvis against Ominis’s before you even realize what you’re doing, enjoying the strangled gasp he lets out despite the almost fierce grip on yyour throat.

“Again. Do it again,” he breathes against your lips, resting his forehead against yours, and you do. Ominis begins to move too, thrusting his hips up while you thrust yours down, getting into a rhythm that has you both gasping in the silence of the Undercroft, the flames of the braziers the only other noises to be heard around.

His hand slides under your shirt without any warning, over the soft skin of your stomach and to the edge of your bra before pushing it up and over your breast. The shock of his cold fingers on your heated skin is so much that you cry out, your nipple hardening in his broad palm as you push harder against him, and the shuddering gasp that leaves him in response has you aching to touch him too. And, by Godric, has the Undercroft always been this suffocatingly heat?

You pull apart for air as Ominis chases your lips with his, the feverish movements of your hips momentarily ceasing.

“Ominis…?” Your unspoken question hangs in the air between you, curious, thirsty to know how far you both intend to let this go.

His nose brushes against yours, his brows furrowed in anguish, his eyes pale and intense. “Every…Every single time I heard you, or smelled you near, I felt this. This desire. I’ve imagined you, like this, with me. So many times. It’s always been you. I want this so bad.”

“Y-yes,” you whisper as breathlessly as he does, your words a shared secret between you two and the darkness. “I want this too. I want you.”

He sighs in rapture, pressing his grip on your throat a fraction further, kneading his hand over your breast until he catches a nipple between his fingers, teasing the flesh with the cold silver of his signet ring. “Then don’t stop. Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

The commanding quality in his normally restrained tone coupled with his unusual choice of dirty language causes a spontaneous clench in the wet region between your legs. With unsteady fingers you snake your hand under his shirt, mimicking the same liberty he’s taken with you, and feel his back arch in response as you slide your soft and warm palm across the hard planes of his abdomen. With your other hand, you hold a silky handful of his hair, pulling him into a hard kiss as you roll your hips over him again - both of you moaning at the sensual grinding of your intimate parts.

“Baby, just like that -” he breathes shakily as he pulls away from the kiss and turns his head. At first you think he might just be hiding his face in the crook of your neck, but when you feel a pair of warm lips on the delicate flesh of that area your eyes flutter shut.

“Ominis,” is all you can manage to say as you tilt your head to the side for better access and hold him tighter by the grip on the back of his neck, rolling your hips to press yourself against the Slytherin as he begins to gently suck on the sensitive skin.

There are so many layers between the two of you. Ominis’s pants, his underwear, your panties, the heavy robes draped over your bodies, the uniform shirts. Barriers that at the moment only serve to prevent the actual touch of skin on skin. And, Merlin, you want so badly to feel his skin against yours, but you feel like you can’t rush it. Either way, neither of you seem to have the patience for the task at the moment, his mouth on your neck feeling so incredibly good that you can’t think of stopping him from continuing – not even so you can undress.

This intimacy with him already surpasses any practical experience you’ve had, any previous secret make out session. The adrenaline coursing through your veins is more than you’ve ever felt before – more electrifying than raiding Goblin and Ashwinder encampments, more than rescuing a Hippogriff right under Theophilus Harlow’s nose, more than completing a Trial from one of the Keepers. And the sheer euphoria and newness of it all, the overwhelming and unfamiliar sensations, his panting breaths in your ear, the needy grip of his hands on your body, his cock pressed greedily between your legs – and, most of all, the fact that it’s him, is pushing you rapidly towards your inevitable end. You’ll come soon, and for the first time, not from your own fingers.

Ominis licks a particularly hard bite mark he’s just left (in a place that’s going to be pretty troublesome to hide, you think) and pulls back a few inches as you both move together, leaving you alone to deal with the overwhelming image of his face carved in lust; the way his porcelain skin flushes and his kiss swollen mouth opens in a long sigh, pearly eyes half-lidded between his thick lashes as he grinds eagerly against you, the normally perfectly straight strands of hair now messy from your fidgeting fingers, falling across his forehead in a way that’s disturbingly sexy.

“I thought something like this would never happen. I never thought you’d want me the same way. Not someone like me.”

The way he speaks, breathless and feverish, yet so vulnerable and sincere, has you tearing up before you even realize it, sinking your fingers into the space between his chest, right above where his heart flutters like the wings of a Golden Snitch.

“Ominis...you’re so beautiful. You’re perfect. I-I’m so sorry I didn’t notice your feelings before. But I’m here now - you have me now.”

The breath seems to be knocked out of him by your words and you can taste his need as your mouths push together again in a slick mess of saliva and teeth - this time in the right way. Your own mind goes blank, any capacity for thought draining from you as he releases your breast to bring both hands under the skirt of your uniform, possessively grabbing the soft cheeks of your ass between his fingers to pull your body in time with his thrusts.

“Salazar, how can you be so good?” He groans as he breaks the kiss and shamelessly grinds your quivering pussy against his swollen cock, the fabric of his pants growing wet - as much his fault as yours. “Oh, I…fuck, y/n, harder. Harder, baby, please.”

You feel like your face is literally on fire, but you do as you’re told, grinding yourself hard against Ominis and watching with hypnotic attention as his eyes drift closed, his head tilting back against the back of the couch as his hips thrust upwards more roughly. The Adam’s apple in his slender, pale throat bobs with each hard swallow, his skin beginning to glisten with a subtle sheen of sweat. He’s so gorgeous, the sight of him ravished like this is so enchanting that it takes a few seconds for you to realize he’s mumbling something - and a few more seconds for it to sink in that you don’t understand the language.

Because he’s speaking in Parseltongue.

You don’t think he even realizes what he’s doing, considering his reservations about the dialect, too lost in the dizzying rush of pleasure. You are, however, hyperaware of the sounds that flow with hypnotic fluidity from his parted lips; harsh hisses, elongated chirps, vibrant trills of a pink tongue…

You may not understand what he’s saying, but you don’t need to be an expert in the speech to know that it’s definitely not something that should be said in public.

Your cheeks flush as he hisses something that sounds particularly filthy through clenched teeth, skin flushed and eyebrows furrowed in an almost irritated frown — which only makes him more irresistible to your eyes.

You can’t help the way your legs widen to their maximum limits, trying to mold your pussy to the thick line of his cock hidden beneath his pants as best you can.

“Yes, fuck, yes,” he whispers, seemingly back to normal speech (a part of you regrets this), his mouth opening in a guttural moan.

“O-Ominis—” You say, tasting his name in your mouth and it almost sounds like a question, but he fucks himself harder against you, clawing at the flesh of your ass to keep you in place, thrusting his hips into yours until you’re moaning louder — even with the barrier of fabric separating you, you feel it perfectly when the rounded head of his cock manages to hit the exact spot where your clit is.

“Louder,” he growls, lifting his head to you once more, chasing that beautiful sound that came out of your mouth like a starving man. “Let me hear who you’re rubbing yourself against like that.” He leans down and licks a stripe down your throat to your ear.

“Oh, Ominis—” You gasp louder, arching your neck to give him more acess. You can’t even finish your sentence, your lips parted in an “o” as his cock pushes against your pussy in the sweetest way. Your thighs are trembling now, and it feels so good, and you’re going to come, you know you will. “Please, please, you’re going to make me-” the muscles in your stomach are already clenching in anticipation, your back arching, and there’s a high-pitched sound wanting to rip from your throat and you know it’s going to be loud if you can’t control yourself.

“Come on, that’s it, just like that,” he rasps, and your moans grow more intrepid, until they finally turn into desperate gasps as you feel yourself one small step away from the edge.

It feels a little like going crazy, like being out of your mind, just using each other, fucking dirty and rough through your clothes, and you barely realize you’re digging your nails into the skin of his chest until Ominis’s head is jerking back, a sound that fluctuates between a moan of pleasure and pain leaving his lips — even as he murmurs a ‘keep going, please don’t stop.’

“Give it to me, my pretty girl,” he murmurs breathlessly, and you pull the blond strands of his hair between your fingers, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open with sounds that only make his grip on your ass grow greedier. Fuck, that feels good. “Come on, y/n, baby—”

His needy plea is what sends you flying over the edge. Within seconds, your eyes are watering hard, a spiral of lightning-fast heat hitting you as your pussy flutters and clenches around emptiness, the familiar wetness soaking your panties even more.

You cover your mouth a second too late, nearly choking on the scream you muffle into the sweaty palm of the hand that was once under his shirt, your orgasm ripping through your body without any subtlety. Neurons collapsing, couch creaking with the force of your movements, vision blurring and darkening at the edges - but Ominis isn't done with you.

When your drunken gaze flickers open to focus on his face, you notice how absolutely enraptured he looks, his pale eyes locked on your face as if he can actually see you in your breakdown.

Your body is limp and shaking, but you press your forehead against his as he struggles to keep up the pace now that you've given in to exhaustion. Your mouth is parted as he breathes in and out right next to your lips, eyes half-lidded. You lean in to kiss him gently on the lips as he thrusts hard into you, cupping his face to pepper kisses across his cheeks amidst his moans.

One of the hands on your ass comes up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head back so he can kiss your jaw. He thrusts into you hard enough that your body jumps up, but you hold on to him as best you can. Your bodies as entangled as they can be.

You even try to muster the strength to rock your hips against him, but his fingers in your ass tighten to keep you in place as he picks up the pace himself.

His fingers were digging into your flesh and your hair so hard it would have been painful in any other scenario. But not in this one. As it was, it was a reminder of how deep he was falling, how much he seemed to need this, need you, judging by his noises.

“Come on,” you whisper when you manage to slide your lips to his ear, both of you sweaty and flushed, your little fingers scratching the back of his neck in comforting motions as you encourage him to reach his limit, “come for me, Ominis. Please, please -”

It works. Ominis parts his lips almost immediately, giving a husky moan of release that makes your pussy quiver back to life, his larger body tensing beneath yours, shuddering once, twice. His pale, cloudy eyes look watery for a few seconds, and his perfectly chiseled cheekbones are stained with the most charming blush beneath the sweat on his skin — fuck, gorgeous, that’s what he is.

He collapses back against the couch completely after a while, his arms wrapping around your smaller frame to keep you clinging to him. Not that he needs to. You’re too languid to move. Too exhausted and spent to care about anything or anyone other than him.

His head rests against your collarbone, rising and falling with your ragged breaths. Your arms wrap around him, your hand still lightly stroking his hair. There are blond strands stuck to his sweaty forehead, and you do your best to brush them back when he looks up at you, though his eyes are still closed, visibly pleased with the end result of this study session.

His own fingers run through the unruly strands of hair around your face, brushing a few behind your ear with a gentle caress. He opens his eyes after a while, orbs cloudy and ethereal, but you swear you can see an infinite constellation of glowing dots on their pale screen.

“I…” he begins hesitantly, his voice a little firmer now, though he still wets his swollen lips before continuing. “This meant a lot to me. You have no idea how much. But I don’t want to assume anything - I just, you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to - you know, don’t feel like you have to be with me just because I…” he sighs, swallowing hard, trying to find the words to say something you already understand.

“Shhh,” you place the tip of your index finger over his lips, chuckling softly when he blushes, “I may have taken a while to realize it, but I also want to see where this can lead us. I do, Ominis.”

He sighs in relief, as if he’s come up for air after a long time underwater, cradling your face between the broad palms of his hands.

"Salazar, that's so good to hear. I really didn't know how I was going to go back to acting like just friends after what happened, if it was your decision." He murmurs seriously, but his sharp features are relaxed as he rests his forehead against yours.

"Don't be so dramatic." You roll your eyes as weakly scold him, though your heart is warm and cozy inside your chest, embracing this moment for what it is - precious. "Didn't you hear what I said just now?"

He pulls back a few inches, his nose wrinkling slightly as he tries to figure out what you're talking about.

He's so cute.

You can't help yourself before you purse your lips into a pout and plant a tender kiss on the tip of his nose.

"I told you you have me now, little fool."

The smile he gives you in response is extremely rare; full and bright, two cute dimples on each side of the cheeks, showing off his perfect teeth; everything as charming as the rest of him. Even though he doesn't say anything after your declaration, seeing something so unusual directed at you already tells you everything you need to know. You sigh in excitement, letting him pull you by the nape of your neck for another kiss, pouring all the adoration he feels for you into the act.

Your skin is sticky with sweat, your hair a mess of knots, your clothes wrinkled and askew, the space between you a wet, embarrassing mess - the heat from both of your robes heating your skin to an almost suffocating level. But neither of you makes any move to separate, or even to pick up your wands and cast a simple cleaning spell - too enraptured with each other and so completely satisfied that you happily ignore everything else.

You feel so happy. And, most importantly, ready for what is to come.

Outside the castle, the snow falls without stopping, freezing everything around with its cloud of crystals. But here, in this dusty and unlikely place for romance, you feel safe and warm.

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verdancepackaging · 1 year ago

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sinsxo · 13 days ago

Text

will you marry me? ☆ itoshi rin ── ★ ˙🍒 ̟ !!

read more: masterlist — itoshi rin.

itoshi rin had been acting strange lately.

not in the way you’d expect, where he’d get all snappy and closed-off, but in this… odd, jittery way. pacing around while he’s lost in thought more than usual, getting distracted mid-sentence, staring off into space with this weird distant look in his eyes like his brain was playing a football match that you couldn’t see.

he wasn’t rude. not cold either. just… off.

weird.

he’d start reaching for your hand, then stop halfway like he forgot what he was doing. he’d zone out when you were talking, then blink and apologise. yes — rin, apologising, unprompted — and it was almost enough to worry you.

but you didn’t ask. because rin never did well with being cornered, and you’d learned that some things with him just needed time and patience. you knew that he’d tell you, in his own awkward, roundabout way, but only when he was ready.

so you waited.

then, out of nowhere, he asked, “are you free this weekend?”

it was awkward — really awkward — like he was choking on his own words. voice tight, eyes avoiding yours. telling you to, “dress up nicely. like, really fancy.”

you were confused, but you didn’t question him.

he booked a restaurant you’d never been to before. a quiet but luxurious one, somewhere high up with a nice view. private room, warm lighting, fancy decorations, expensive food, everything spaced out so no one could overhear. classic rin — always making sure you had your own quiet little bubble away from the world.

so you thought maybe it was just rin being rin — quietly making up for his distant moods these past few weeks.

you didn’t think too much of it.

but the whole time, his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. his fork kept clinking against the plate. he barely touched his food, barely spoke, just kept zoning out halfway, like his head was too loud and nothing could get out.

still, you didn’t push. you just reached for his hand when it rested on the table, thumb tracing slow, steady circles over his knuckles — trying to anchor him, the way he always did for you.

then, after dinner, after dessert, after his nerves had practically eaten him alive — he tugged you towards the balcony, mumbling something about how the view’s better outside. you followed without question, the cool air brushing your skin as you stepped onto the balcony, city lights stretching out forever beneath you. you smiled, thinking maybe you’d tease him about being secretly romantic.

then you turned around — expecting him to be standing there, maybe offering to take a cute picture of you or something. but no.

he was kneeling on the cold balcony floor, with what seemed like a velvet box in his hand.

he opened the box, revealing a beautiful, intricate diamond ring. and he was trembling so badly that it was practically rattling in his hands.

he cleared his throat, lips parting, brows tugging together like he was physically fighting himself just to speak.

“you make me… feel safe,” he started, voice low, shaky, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “like… like i’m actually… good at something that isn’t football.”

he winced a little, like that wasn’t what he meant to say.

“you’re the only person i ever want to see at the end of the day, and…” rin said, words getting faster, more frantic. “i… i want to wake up next to you, come home to you, build everything… with you.”

you felt your chest twist, eyes already stinging.

and then, “i want to marry you.”

his eyes widened immediately after the words slipped out, horror creeping into his expression. his grip on the box faltered as he scrambled to fix it.

“sorry, wait— i mean— please marry me.”

then a pause. a grimace. sheer desperation in his eyes now.

“shit— i meant… will you marry me?” he practically groaned, looking ready to curl up and die right there.

and you couldn’t help it. you burst out laughing, loud and sudden, because, of course this is how he’d propose — awkward, scrambled, completely overwhelmed by feelings he didn’t know how to hold.

you stepped forward, hands reaching out to cup his face, your palms cradling his cheeks, fingers slipping into his soft hair. and his skin burned under your touch. his jaw twitched, eyes wide and almost… terrified.

you leaned down just a little, smiling so wide it made your cheeks ache.

“yes,” you whispered, thumb brushing gently across his cheekbone. “of course i’ll marry you.”

you felt the shaky breath he let out, his whole body slumping in relief, like the tension had snapped clean from his bones. his hands stayed clenched around the little box, too stunned to move, mouth twitching like he couldn’t quite believe it.

you pressed your forehead to his, soft and close.

“you absolute idiot,” you grinned, “you had me worried for weeks.”

rin laughed — barely a sound, just a breathy, shaky little exhale — but it was the happiest sound you’d ever heard from him.

his proposal speech was messy, it was ridiculous.

but it was beautiful.

and stupidly perfect, just like rin.

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taurusdesign · 1 year ago

Text

Judith Living Room

Hi guys!

After 98 years later, finally new set is here! Thank you again for supporting me during this long time. You guys are the best! ❤️

The set consists of 60 items. It has a luxurious and at the same time modern style. Although I say living room, there is also a dining set included in the set. I think my favorite items are also this dining set. The reason for the large number of items is bookcases, I think. The most important feature of these bookcases, which have different sizes and variations, is that each of them has a version that can be embedded in the wall. And tons of books to decorate with. So you can also use them in built-in. You can even add rails to them and stairs to these rails. (Sometimes it can be impossible to place decor on objects embedded in the wall. And this one, you can enter the "bb.moveobjects on" cheat and decorate the object without placing it on the wall, then place it on the wall.) At the same time, there is a fireplace that is compatible with these bookcases. In the same way, there is a built-in variation of this fireplace. You can even add a Art Frame TV, which is included in the set, on top of this fireplace.

By the way, I have switched to a new color palette with this set. You can see the new colors in the picture below.

The other items included in the set are down below.

Bookcases (16 items in total)

Books (14 items in total)

Wooden Floors (2 versions)

Wall with Baseboard

Wall with Baseboard and Friezes

Wall with Friezes

Wall Full Panelling

Wall Paint

Wall Panelling

Wall with Wainscoting

Chaise Lounge (4 models)

Marble Coffee Table

Glass Coffee Table

Deco Bowl

Deco Boxes

Deco Large Painting

Deco Small Painting

Deco Vases

Dining Chair

Dining Tables (3x1 and 2x1 sizes)

End Table

Fireplaces (2 versions)

Frame TV

Hallway Table

Sculpture

Sectional Sofa

All items are base game compatible. You can find everything included in the set by typing "Judith" in the search box. Except walls and floors.

I think that's it. I hope you'll like it.

See you soon! 🥰❤️

Public Release 3.3.2024

(AVAILABLE FOR FREE)

DOWNLOAD AT

PATREON

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littlelovelunette · 2 months ago

Note

Would you be willing some headcanons for stalker sevika or ambessa? Love your writings by the way, I can't get enough 😋

LUNETTE’S HEADCANONS

Featuring stalker!Sevika and Ambessa Medarda !

— Content warning if I may: Stalking, blood, possible kidnapping and forced marriage

Stalker!Sevika

She watches you through the corner of her eyes, and whenever you catch her doing so, you've wondered if you're on her hit list or something...

Sevika doesn't bother hiding that she's staring at you, whether it's staring at you over the cards shes holding up, or her shot glass— she stares. Open and shameless.

Sevika sends you flowers and letters.

Letters... They're handwritten— cursive. Often phrased in a way that could make someone's heart stop beating. But you knew who it was from... Someone who had a hard time putting their feelings into words— Sevika.

Once when Sevika forgot to hide her Shimmer infused arm, it glowed in the dark and you knew she was there, but you didn't say anything. It's something you remember every other day, smiling to yourself because you knew it was so awkward for her.

Sevika mistakenly leaves her lighter at the window sill of your apartment, you find it and chuckle to yourself. "What an idiot."

Sevika maps out wherever you go and who will be there around you just to ensure you'll be safe around the Undercity.

She only shows up when you get cornered by two tall, imposing figures. Two men, high on something that definitely seems like Shimmer. Sevika doesn't need to do much, a faint whirring of her mechanical arm, an eye twitch— the men scramble to their feet and run for their lives.

You ask her out then, addressing her as your "guardian angel" in an attempt of ruffling her feathers. She only rolls her eyes, "Last Drop, 5 pm." And leaves.

Stalker!Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa stalking you is silent. Creepy. The sort of chills you'd get even when she's not there spying on you physically.

She sends you love letters which are often written in blood, they drip down the paper and stain the box it comes in. A box full of rose petals and a love letter written in crimson.

Ambessa has the best calligraphers write the letters for her.

She sends you the dress you eyed a moment too long at the boutique, a note that says— "The best for the best."

Ambessa sometimes books you very expensive spa treatments under an anonymous title, and the entire establishment gives you royalty treatment.

You always wonder who this ‘secret admirer’ of yours is but she covers her tracks quite well.

Ambessa has cameras around to watch your every movement, and she does so ever so often.

When the right time comes, she sweeps you off your feet and takes you to the Medarda Estate— you asleep in her strong arms. You wake up admist wealth and luxury— date aside. She asks your hand for marriage. She's known you long enough.

So, what if you say no? There is no ‘no’ in her books.

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dykebehaviour · 2 months ago

Text

TRUST FUND

H E A R T B R E A K

ellie williams x fem!reader

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶˚.

summary: after two years apart, you’re sent to an elite boarding school to escape your party-fueled lifestyle, only to discover your dorm roommate is ellie williams, your childhood best friend and first love. once inseparable, you two are now strangers carrying the weight of past heartbreak, family expectations, and simmering tension.

content: enemies to lovers, boarding school au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, oral r!receiving, fingering e!receiving, rich/posh lifestyle, emotional flashbacks, daddy issues, bratty/spoilt!reader, mean/stoic!ellie, hurt/comfort.

wk: 12.9k

a/n: okay this is a long one but oh how i loveeeee it. i hope you do too :)

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶˚.

the car that pulls up to saint anselm’s academy is sleek, black, and absurdly out of place among the autumn-stained gravel and wrought-iron gates. you sit inside like a trophy behind tinted glass, prada boots crossed at the ankle, one perfectly manicured hand twirling your cartier bracelet. the driver - your father’s assistant, because of course he didn’t come himself - pops the trunk and unloads your matching luggage with sterile efficiency.

“boarding school,” you murmur, glossed lips twisting. “grounded for having too much fucking fun.”

it should have been rehab. it almost was. but daddy couldn’t risk a photo of his daughter checking in at promises malibu, so instead you’re being hidden away, cleaned up, rebranded, like a messy investment portfolio.

you don’t even look up when the headmistress greets you.

you do, however, look up when the keycard slips into your palm and the words room 3c –ellie williams are spoken.

your stomach drops, glossy and full of sick nostalgia.

“wait,” you say, voice faltering for the first time in days. “she’s my roommate?”

the headmistress smiles like she’s got no idea what she’s just done.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

the room is luxurious. exposed brick walls, dark wood furniture, shelves lined with expensive books you know ellie has never read. one side is meticulously neat: black sketchpads stacked, boots lined up like soldiers, a jacket, that jacket, hung on a copper hook. the other side is empty, waiting for you to clutter it with designer chaos.

you haven’t seen ellie in two years.

not since you ghosted her that summer, the summer she told you she loved you and you said nothing back. the summer your father sat you down and told you to grow up, clean up, fix up. the summer you broke her heart and locked your own away in a velvet box with a gold clasp.

you recognise her before she says anything. she’s standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of that same worn bomber jacket, hair a little longer, jaw a little sharper.

“you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.

your heart jumps.

“hi, els,” you say, and you hate how soft your voice sounds. like it remembers her before you do.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK - age 12

ellie’s strung up fairy lights. they’re glowing soft above your heads as you sit with your knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed in your fists, eyes blotchy and red.

“i told my mom,” you whisper. “that i like girls.”

ellie doesn’t say anything. just nudges closer, blanket pulled up to her chin. there’s the faint smell of coconut from her shampoo. you bury your face in her pillow.

“she told me not to tell my dad,” you say. “said he’d ruin it. ruin me.”

ellie’s fingers brush your wrist. “he won’t.”

“you don’t know him.”

silence again, then: “i think i like girls too.”

your heart flutters. you look over at her. “really?”

she nods. “maybe just one.”

you don’t say anything, but you fall asleep smiling.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

back in the present, she doesn’t offer you help with your luggage. just moves around you like smoke.

“i’m not switching rooms,” she says flatly, dropping onto her bed.

you snort, tossing your cashmere coat onto your unmade side. “please. you think i want to be here? sharing a room with you? what is this, poetic punishment?”

she looks up at that, eyes narrowing like a blade’s edge. “you think everything’s about you.”

“it usually is,” you snap, then instantly regret it.

ellie turns away, jaw clenched. you see the flicker of something there; hurt, maybe. recognition.

you hate that she still gets to you.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

you meet the others the next day. ellie’s circle. a misfit trio of intimidating cool.

cat - razor-sharp, composed, somehow elegant even in a hoodie.

sarah - cat-eyed, sarcastic, always holding a lollipop and probably a secret.

and dina - kind, warm, always rambling on about her boyfriend jesse, who you gather is in one of the other exclusive private schools.

they don’t warm to you right away.

“didn’t peg ellie for a girl who’d room with gossip girl,” cat says.

“i’m not,” ellie mutters.

but then you start showing up to things. dinner. lit class. a party in the old astronomy tower with strobe lights and expensive vodka smuggled in through a trust fund’s worth of connections.

dina softens first. then sarah. cat just watches you, like she’s trying to find the seams.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 14

ellie’s mom dies.

you find out via text. you’re in monaco with your family, your father signing some oil deal, your mother shopping herself into oblivion.

you buy a flight back on your own credit card.

ellie's front porch is dark when you arrive at her house.

ellie opens the door to her childhood bedroom with dead eyes. her hair’s a mess. her hoodie’s swallowed her whole.

you crawl into bed beside her and wrap your arms around her waist.

“i’m here,” you say. “i’m not going anywhere.”

and for a while, you aren’t.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

two weeks into your exile, you go to a party that could’ve been a gala. champagne towers. violins and bass drops. everyone in designer, everyone pretending to be broken.

you’re drunk before ellie shows up, dragging dina behind her. her eyes scan the room like she’s already tired of it.

you’re on the balcony with a girl from eton who’s feeding you lines like they’re caviar.

when ellie walks past, you shout, “hey, roomie.”

she stops.

she smirks. “that your girlfriend?”

“ex–best friend,” you say, too loud. “first heartbreak.”

ellie’s eyes flash with something murderous. she walks away without a word.

you chase her down three songs later.

“what’s your problem?” you demand.

“my problem is you acting like none of it meant anything,” she snaps.

you’re nose to nose in the back stairwell. she smells like smoke and frustration.

“you think i wanted to leave?” you say. “you think i liked pretending we didn’t happen?”

“you ghosted me,” ellie says. “like i didn’t even exist.”

and then, without thinking, you grab her by the jacket and kiss her.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 16

it’s summer. a beach house your families share. you’re sunburned and exhausted, tangled in ellie’s sheets after a day in the waves.

the kiss starts slow. nervous. ellie’s hand shaking on your hip.

“you sure?” she whispers.

you nod. “you?”

she doesn’t answer with words.

it’s soft. scared. honest.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

back in the stairwell, the kiss is the opposite. All teeth and tongue and years of swallowed rage.

you’re breathless by the time you shove open the dorm room door, ellie’s fingers gripping your wrist like she can’t let go now, not after everything. your back hits the wall before the door even clicks shut behind you.

it’s not sweet. not yet.

it’s desperate.

ellie crashes into you, mouths slanting together in a kiss that tastes like vodka, spit, and anger. her hands dig into your waist; yours claw at the collar of her shirt like you’re trying to rip two years of distance off her skin.

you drag her down by the front of her sweater, panting, whispering, “take it off.”

she pulls away just enough to yank it over her head, tossing it to the floor. her tank top underneath clings to her like a second skin, the lines of her arms sharp in the low light. you’re already unbuttoning your blouse, your fingers shaking as she watches you with blown pupils and a clenched jaw.

when you get it off, ellie steps in, hands skimming your ribs, thumbs slipping under your lacy black bra.

“you always wore this to parties?” she mutters, voice low, rough. “knew what you were doing?”

your lips curl into a smirk. “wanted to drive you crazy.”

she answers by kissing you again, deeper, teeth dragging your bottom lip as her hands move down - unzipping your skirt, pushing it past your hips.

it slips to the floor, and you’re standing there in nothing but your bra and a soaked pair of panties.

“god,” ellie whispers. “still such a fucking brat.”

you shove her lightly toward the bed. “then put me in my place.”

that flips a switch in her.

she backs you into the mattress, hands on your waist, and throws you down. the moment your back hits the sheets, she’s on top of you, mouthing at your jaw, your neck, biting down just enough to leave something behind.

you gasp when her hand slips between your thighs, rubbing over your panties. you’re soaked, and she groans when she feels it.

“you’ve been wet since the stairwell,” she mutters, voice gravel-thick.

“you’re so fucking cocky now,” you pant, arching into her touch.

“learned it from you.”

her fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down, slow, teasing. her eyes stay locked on yours while she peels them off and tosses them aside.

then she’s between your thighs, pushing them open with her hands, kissing the inside of your knee, the curve of your thigh, your hipbone.

“you still smell the same,” she murmurs. “missed this. missed you.”

you barely manage to whisper her name before her mouth is on you.

your head falls back, a moan ripping from your throat. she licks a slow, wet stripe up your center, then flicks her tongue against your clit in small, focused circles. you grip the sheets in one hand and her hair in the other, hips jerking at the sudden intensity.

“ellie-fuck-“

she groans into you like she’s starving for it, arms wrapped under your thighs to pin you down.

she sucks your clit into her mouth, and you see white.

“i-i’m gonna-”

“do it,” she breathes. “come for me.”

you fall apart, legs shaking, moaning her name like a prayer.

she keeps licking through it, slower now, gentler, until your hips twitch and you gasp from the overstimulation.

she pulls back, mouth glistening, lips red and slick. her eyes are so dark now they’re nearly black.

“you always come that fast?” she asks smugly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

you pull her down by her shirt and kiss her hard, tasting yourself on her lips. “only for you.”

you grab the hem of her tank top and yank it up - she lifts her arms, letting you strip it off, then her sports bra.

you trail your fingers over her chest, biting your lip. “still think i’m a brat?”

ellie smirks. “you’re about to be a wreck.”

you flip her over, straddling her hips, letting your still-sensitive pussy grind down against the toned skin of her thigh. she exhales harshly, hands on your hips.

you reach down between you both, sliding your hand over her stomach, into her boxers.

she’s wet. soaked.

“jesus,” you whisper. “you were dying for it.”

“you have no idea,” she groans, eyes fluttering shut as you slide two fingers inside her.

she arches up into you, legs spreading wider, hips rocking. her moans are guttural, breathy; desperate in a way that feels almost sacred.

you kiss her collarbone, her throat, her mouth, while you fuck her slow and deep, curling your fingers the way you remember drives her crazy.

her head tips back. “fuck-keep going, i’m close-“

“look at me,” you whisper, kissing the corner of her mouth.

she opens her eyes just as she comes, her whole body seizing under you, mouth falling open in a broken gasp. you slow your fingers, easing her through it, pressing kisses to her jaw and cheek.

she’s still trembling when you pull your hand out and collapse beside her, both of you slick with sweat and flushed to the collarbones.

she turns her head, looking at you like she’s still trying to catch her breath.

you smile, brushing a lock of damp hair from her forehead. “hi.”

ellie lets out a breathless laugh. “hey.”

you lie there, still half tangled in each other, her leg between yours, your hand resting on her stomach. the only sound is your breathing and the faint hum of rain hitting the window.

you fall asleep in her arms, skin warm, heart steady for the first time in years.

you wake up alone.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

you don’t talk for two days.

then you break first.

find her sketching under the library archways and throw your phone at her.

“block me again and i’ll key your audi.”

she looks up slowly. her sketchbook’s open; pages of you, sleeping. lips parted. hair spilled over her pillow.

“i didn’t block you,” she says.

“right.”

“i panicked.”

“so did i.”

she looks at you, eyes softer now. “why’d you really leave?”

you swallow. “because i didn’t want you to be the reason my father stopped loving me.”

silence. then ellie stands.

“i would’ve loved you either way.”

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

things change after that.

not all at once. but slowly, like a fever breaking.

you move through school with a new rhythm. ellie starts letting you in again - hands brushing yours in hallways, whispered jokes over dinner. her friends become your friends. sarah teaches you how to braid your own hair. dina makes you playlists. cat tells you secrets in exchange for yours.

you’re not just rich anymore.

you’re loved.

and this time, you won’t run from it.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

FLASHBACK – age 16

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, still in your swimsuit under a towel, legs curled up. ellie’s pacing; slow, like she’s walking a tightrope.

“i need to say something,” she says, voice cracking a little.

you glance at her, confused. “okay…”

ellie stops, looks right at you, and for a second, she’s the girl you’ve known since you were eight. the one who made you mix cds in middle school, who held your hair when you threw up after sneaking your dad’s scotch, who kissed you for the first time in your bedroom under fairy lights when you were fourteen like she was terrified and certain all at once.

“i love you,” she says.

the words fall like a thunderclap. like someone pulled the sun out of the sky.

you blink.

“what?”

ellie’s already regretting it. “i know. i know it’s early - whatever. but i do. i’ve loved you since we were like fucking kids…probably. i mean, i didn’t know, then. but i do now.”

you don’t answer right away. you feel the blood drain from your face. something in your chest pulls tight - panic? fear? shame?

you stand abruptly, wrapping your towel tighter. “ellie…”

she stiffens. “don’t do that. don’t say my name like that.”

you take a breath. “you can’t just say that.”

“why not?” ellie’s voice rises, brittle. “we slept together. i know what that meant.”

“i don’t know what it meant.”

ellie flinches. “are you serious?”

you start pacing now, agitated, defensive. “we just-god, it was a moment, ellie. you’re making it into-“

“you cried,” ellie snaps. “you held my fucking face and told me no one ever made you feel safe before.”

you shut your eyes. “that doesn’t mean i’m ready to be in love with you.”

ellie crosses her arms tightly. “or maybe it means you’re scared of what people will think.”

you go quiet.

ellie’s voice hardens. “that’s it, isn’t it? you can fuck me behind closed doors, but god forbid anyone knows.”

you feel yourself flush, not with guilt - but rage. “do you have any idea the kind of pressure i’m under? my dad’s already suspicious. my friends-“

“your dad’s a fucking asshole,” ellie says coldly. “he’s spent your whole life trying to make you ashamed of who you are.”

“yeah, well, i can’t afford to burn everything down the way you do, ellie!”

the room goes dead silent.

ellie stares at you. her jaw clenches. “so that’s what you think of me?”

you swallow. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“no. you did.” she laughs bitterly, hurt blooming across her face. “it’s fine. i’m used to it.”

“ellie-“

she grabs her keys from the dresser. “it’s always me, huh? i’m the one who’s too much, too intense. i’m the one who loves harder.”

you want to stop her. you don’t.

she’s halfway out the door when she turns back. “you’re gonna miss me when i’m gone.”

you stare at her. frozen. scared. seething.

you say nothing.

ellie waits. one last chance.

you stay silent.

she leaves.

and two days later, when she texts you, you ignore it.

and the next week.

and the week after that.

eventually, she stops trying.

and you both go quiet for two years.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

one night, you sit in ellie’s bed together, legs tangled, her sketchbook resting on your knees.

“you ever gonna forgive me?” you ask.

she leans in, presses her mouth to your collarbone. “already did.”

you smile, fingers curling in her shirt. “good.”

because this time, you’re not going anywhere.

and neither is she.

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