Manon Bannerman x Reader wc 5k warnings- fluff, smut
𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘴, 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘉𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨
The digital clock on the dashboard of your car flickered to 6:45 PM, the neon green numbers mocking you. You had been sitting in the parking lot of L’avenue for twenty minutes, clutching the steering wheel until your knuckles turned white.
Tonight was supposed to be the night. You’d spent weeks curating a vibe that was perfectly Manon. A reservation at the most gatekept bistro in the city, a vintage Vivienne Westwood piece you’d spent your entire savings on for her gift, and a playlist that embodied her to the tea.
Then, the universe decided to be homophobic as fuck.
The bistro had called thirty minutes ago to tell you their kitchen was flooded. The vintage shop messaged saying the courier lost the package. Even the weather was being extra—a miserable, grey drizzle that threatened to ruin your hair and Manon’s mood.
You decided to check your phone to see how much time you had.
Manzy❤️: Hi baby just finished the shoot. I’m sooo exhausted.
Your heart sank. She was tired, and you had nothing to show for it. No five-course meal, no archive fashion. Just a messy apartment and a frantic brain.
“I hope Saint Valentine is rolling in his grave right now.” you muttered under your breath.
When you finally got back to your place, you scrambled to light every candle you owned. You threw a silk throw over the couch and prayed the dim lighting would mask the fact that you were currently ordering overpriced takeout on an app.
When the door finally clicked open Manon stepped in looking like she’d just walked off a runway, even though she was quote on quote "exhausted." She was wearing low rise jeans and a white cropped tank. Her hair slicked back into a perfect messy bun, and those beautiful brown doe eyes that made you crumble every time.
"Hey," she said, her voice a low honeyed rasp. She dropped her bag and kicked off her boots, immediately closing the distance between you.
"Manon, look, I’m so fucking sorry," you started, the words tumbling out. "The restaurant flooded, the gift is in a warehouse in New Jersey somewhere, and I literally just ordered Ghanian food because I didn't have a Plan B. I wanted this to be like, the most Pinterest-perfect Valentine’s Day and I—"
You kept going and she leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, a look of amused fascination on her face.
"I even bought those expensive matches," you topped off, gesturing wildly at the coffee table. "The ones that come in the glass jar? I struck six of them and they all snapped because I was shaking. It’s a disaster. I’m a disaster. Maybe we should just reschedule Valentine’s Day to, like, March? Is that a thing? We can just pretend February didn’t happen."
Manon finally moved, closing the gap until she was directly in your orbit. You were still mid-sentence, something about the humidity affecting your hair when she reached out and caught both of your wrists.
The contact was like a circuit breaker flipping. You stopped talking, your breath hitching in your throat.
"Are you done?" she asked, her voice low and smooth, like velvet over gravel.
"I... I had a PowerPoint in my head, Manon. It was a 10/10 presentation."
"I'm sure it was," she hummed, not letting go of your wrists. Instead, she guided them up, draping your arms over her shoulders so she could slide her own hands around your waist. She pulled you in flush against her, the heat of her body seeping through your clothes. "But you’re hyperventilating. Take a breath for me."
You exhaled, your forehead dropping onto her shoulder. The scent of her—that signature mix of vanilla perfume and just her—acted like a sedative.
"I just wanted it to be perfect for you," you mumbled into the soft fabric of her sweater. "You’re always so... perfect. I wanted to match that."
"You want to match me?" She let out a soft, huffed laugh, her fingers tracing the line of your spine, sending tiny electric shocks through your nerves. "Baby, I spend all day trying to be 'perfect.' I spend all day surrounded by people who are constantly trying to impress me with praises and gifts. I don't come here for that."
She pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. Her expression had shifted—the sharp, editorial edge was gone, replaced by something dangerously soft, something reserved only for the four walls of this apartment. She reached up, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, and let her thumb linger on your cheek.
"I come here for this," she whispered. "I come here for you being a 'disaster' because you care too much. I come here for the Ghanian food that’s going to be cold and the matches that don't work. It’s the only part of my day that isn't scripted. I mean fuck, you ordered us Ghanian food? That means so much to me."
She leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the tip of your nose. It was agonizingly sweet, the kind of domestic intimacy that made your heart ache.
"Now," she murmured, her lips brushing against yours as she spoke, "stop thinking about the delivery driver in New Jersey. Look at me."
You looked. Her eyes were dark, focused entirely on your mouth, and suddenly the moment felt a lot warmer. Her hands slid lower, her palms pressing firmly against the small of your back, pulling your hips just a fraction closer to hers.
"I don't need a table at a bistro," she said, her voice dropping to a rasp that always made your knees weak. "I have you. And honestly? You look much better in this light than any restaurant interior."
"Okay, fine," you breathed, finally letting the tension in your shoulders melt. You reached for the remote, navigating past the prestige dramas and the fashion documentaries on her watchlist until you hit the familiar, blue-tinted thumbnail of the first Twilight movie.
Manon let out a theatrical groan, though she was already kicking off her socks and tucking her legs under her on the sofa. "Y/N, don't. I’m an adult woman with a reputation. I have a brand."
"Well your 'brand' currently involves a very specific obsession with the 2008 blue theme aesthetic and a vampire who sparkles," you teased, hitting play. "Sit down, Bannerman. You know you want to see the baseball scene."
The iconic, moody piano score filled the room, and the screen bathed the living room in that signature gloomy blue light. You pulled a heavy weighted blanket over both of you, and within minutes, Manon had practically melted into your side. Her head was on your shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your palm.
As the movie progressed, the irony started to slip away. You weren't even watching the screen anymore, you were watching her. Every time Jacob did something particularly cringe, Manon would let out this soft, melodic chuckle that vibrated against your chest.
"The wig," she whispered, pointing at the screen during a close up of Carlisle. "The budget for the first one was literally twenty dollars and a dream, I can't."
She started narrating the behind-the-scenes facts she’d definitely learned from going down one to many rabbit holes. She was animated, her hands gesturing as she talked about the cinematography and the corny dialogue.
You watched the way the blue light from the TV reflected in her eyes—those sharp, intimidating eyes that now looked bright and full of genuine, uncurated joy. This was the version of Manon no one else got. The girl who laughed at bad CGI and quoted lines under her breath with a smirk.
"You're doing it again," Manon murmured, her eyes flicking from the screen to yours.
"Looking at me like that," she said, though there was no bite in it. She looked almost shy. "The movie is over there, Y/N."
"The movie is mid," you countered, sliding your hand up to cup her jaw, your thumb brushing over her lower lip. "You, however? You’re the best thing I’ve ever seen. I love how much you love this. It’s my favourite thing about you."
Manon went quiet, her expression softening into something so vulnerable it almost hurt to look at. She didn't say anything at first, she just leaned into your hand, closing her eyes and breathing you in. The air in the room shifted again—from the light, bubbly fun of the movie to something much more concentrated.
"You're far too good to me," she whispered, her voice losing its playful edge. She shifted, crawling into your lap so she was straddling you, the weighted blanket falling away.
The blue light of the TV was still flickering behind her, outlining her silhouette. She looked down at you, her fingers tangling in your hair, her gaze dropping to your lips with a sudden, sharp hunger.
"I think I’m done talking about vampires now," she breathed, her forehead resting against yours. "I think I’d rather focus on you.”
Manon was heavy and warm in your lap, her knees tucked firmly on either side of your hips. The shift in her was palpable—the Twilight fanatic had vanished, replaced by a woman who looked at you like you were the only source of oxygen in the room.
"You're so distracted," she whispered. She trailed her fingers down your neck, her nails grazing the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. "Do you have any idea how it feels? To have you look at me like that all night?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was desperate and demanding, tasting of the champagne you'd shared earlier and the heat that had been simmering between you for hours. Manon let out a low, shaky breath into your mouth, her hands sliding down to grip your shoulders, pulling you into her as if she couldn't get close enough.
She broke the kiss, her chest heaving, her cheeks flushed a deep, beautiful rose. Usually, Manon was the one calling the shots, the one directing the flow of the world around her. But right now, her eyes were hooded, glazed with a raw vulnerability. She sat back slightly, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the hem of her tank.
"You’re everything I could’ve ever wanted" she murmured, the words caught in her throat as she pulled the fabric over her head and tossed it carelessly on the floor. She was left in a sheer, lace bralette that left nothing to your imagination. "I just want to feel you. All of you. Please."
She guided your hands to her waist, her skin silky and hot under your touch. You leaned forward, pressing your face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin. You trailed kisses along her collarbone, feeling the way her heart hammered against her ribs—a frantic, wild rhythm that belonged only to you. Manon arched her back, a soft, broken moan escaping her as your hands wandered lower, squeezing her hips, pulling her firmly against the ache building in your own body.
She was so responsive, so soft under your hands, leaning into every touch with a need that felt almost sacred. You laid her back against the sofa cushions, hovering over her, watching the way her hair fanned out against the velvet, the neatness of her bun long gone.
You started at her jawline, your lips pressing firm, hot kisses against the soft skin just below her ear. You knew how much she prided herself on her composure, so you made it your mission to shatter it. You nipped at the column of her throat, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp, before sucking a dark, bruised mark into the hollow of her collarbone.
"Y/N," she breathed, her fingers tangling in your hair, tugging slightly as if to pull you closer.
"Shh," you murmured against her skin. "I’ve got you."
You worked your way down, leaving a trail of spit and hickeys. You lingered at the swell of her breasts, your tongue tracing the edge of her lace bralette until she was arching off the sofa, her breath hitching in jagged, broken sobs of pleasure. Every hickey you left was a mark of devotion, a physical map of how much you wanted her.
By the time you reached the button of her jeans, Manon was a mess of soft whimpers and wandering hands. You stripped her slowly, tossing the clothes onto the floor.
You parted her legs, the sight of her—completely open, completely yours—stalling the breath in your lungs. You leaned in, your breath hot against her inner thigh, making her shiver violently. When you finally flicked your tongue against her, a high, sharp moan broke from her lips, her head tossing back against the cushion.
You were thorough. You used your tongue in long, slow strokes, tasting the salt and sweetness of her, before picking up the pace. You swirled and teased until Manon’s hands moved from your hair to the sofa cushions, gripping the fabric so hard her knuckles turned white.
You felt her hips roll, trying to find more friction, her breath hitching into sharp gasps that told you she was close. But just as she started to arch, her voice breaking on your name, you pulled back.
You sat back on your heels, your hands resting firmly on her knees, keeping her pinned open and exposed. Manon’s head snapped forward, her eyes hooded and confused. "Y/N?" she managed, her voice trembling. "No please why did you stop. I need it."
You reached out, tracing a slow, agonizing circle around her sensitive clit without actually touching it. "I thought you wanted to savour the night. Since our plans got canceled, we have all the time in the world."
She let out a frustrated, needy sound—a half-growl, half-sob. This was the woman who sat front row at the Grammys, now reduced to a shivering mess on your couch because you stopped her orgasm.
"I don't want time," she hissed, her fingers clawing into the sofa. "I want you. Now. Fuck please, baby... I’m right there."
"Are you?" You leaned in close, your lips brushing her ear, mimicking the way she’d teased you earlier. "I don't think I heard you correctly. Mind repeating for me?"
Manon’s eyes fluttered shut, a flush creeping up her neck and staining her chest. Her pride was warring with her desperation, and for a second, the room was silent except for the frantic thrum of her heart. Then, she finally broke.
"Please," she whimpered, her voice cracking as she leaned her head back, exposing her throat. "Please, Y/N... baby I need your tongue inside me. Please make me cum for you."
The sight and sound of her begging sent a jolt of pure heat straight to your core. You didn't make her wait a second longer. You dove back in, your tongue making up for the lost time with an intensity that had her screaming into the quiet apartment, her climax hitting her so hard her entire body went rigid before finally melting into the cushions. You continued your motions, helping her ride the orgasm out as you felt the wetness pool in your mouth, lapping up the remnants of her cum.
As the aftershocks subsided, Manon lay there for a moment, her chest heaving, looking completely spent. But as you reached up to brush a stray hair from her forehead, her hand shot out, catching your wrist.
The softness in her eyes vanished, replaced by a dark, simmering fire. She wasn't finished. If anything, she was hungry for more.
"You really liked that, didn't you?" she rasped, her grip tightening on your wrist. She sat up with a sudden, fluid grace, her strength returning tenfold as she pushed you back. "Making me beg. Making me lose control like that."
Before you could respond, she was over you, her knees pinning your thighs down as she crowded into your space. She looked down at you, her face a mask of predatory intent, her messy hair casting shadows over her sharp cheekbones.
When you parted your lips, she didn't hesitate. She gathered a small amount of moisture and let beads of spit fall directly into your mouth, watching with a dark, satisfied smirk as you swallowed it all, your eyes wide and focused entirely on her.
"Good girl," she purred, her thumb dragging across your wet lip. "Now, let’s see if you’re as good at taking it as you are at giving it."
She slid down your body, her hands firm and possessive as they pried your legs apart. Manon didn’t do anything tentatively. She tore your pants and underwear off and pressed your knees back toward your shoulders, exposing you completely. She lingered there for a second, just watching you, her thumb tracing the line of your hip bone.
Then, she moved. She slid two fingers inside you with a sudden depth that made your back arch off the couch. You gasped, your hands flying to her shoulders, but she didn't slow down. She started a steady, relentless pace, her fingers curling upward to find the exact spot that made your toes curl.
But Manon was never one to do things halfway.
While her fingers worked inside you, stretching you and finding a rhythm that had you sobbing her name, she leaned down. Her tongue flicked against your clit, sharp and wet. The combination was overwhelming. The internal fullness of her fingers coupled with the suction of her mouth sent a jagged spike of electricity through you.
"Manon—oh fuck, yeah just like that baby," you choked out, your fingers tangling in her hair, trying to pull her closer even as the pleasure became almost too much to bear.
She didn't let up. She hummed against you, the vibration of her throat adding another layer to the friction. She increased the pace of her hand, her fingers hitting you deep and fast while she swirled her tongue in a frantic, demanding circle. You were a live wire, your voice breaking into high, needy whimpers as you hovered on the very edge.
Just as your muscles began to tense for the finish, Manon's hands shifted. She gripped your waist and hauled you upward.
"Sit up," she commanded, her voice muffled against your skin.
She didn't give you a choice. She maneuvered herself flat on her back between your legs, pulling you forward until you were straddling her face. You were trembling, your legs weak, but she held you steady with her hands clamped firmly onto your ass, pulling you down onto her.
"Ride it," she rasped, her eyes locking onto yours from below. "Ride my fucking face and cum in my mouth."
You sank down, the sensation of her mouth meeting you again from this new angle sending a fresh wave of heat through you. You began to move, your hips rolling at a desperate pace. Manon was relentless, her tongue lashing against you, her nose rubbing against your clit.
She used her hands to guide you, her fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you as you rode her.
“F—fuck manz I’m so close.” you moaned, eyes rolling back.
Manon groaned, grabbing on to one of your breasts before mumbling. “Cum for me baby.”
You hit the climax hard, a white explosion that made your vision blur. You collapsed forward, your chest heaving against her, as she held you through the tremors, her tongue still working, making sure you felt every single lingering spark.
"That was just the appetizer, baby," she rasped, reaching out to hook a finger under your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. "I told you, I want to see exactly how much you’re willing to do.”
She didn't give you a moment ti decide. She hauled you up, her hand firm on the small of your back as she led you toward the bedroom. The soft candlelight from the hallway cast long, flickering shadows against the walls.
She pushed you back onto the mattress, and before you could even catch your breath, disappearing momentarily to rummage through your closet. She came back with the harness on, the dark silicone looking stark against her skin.
“On your knees, right now.” she commanded.
Your heart hammered against your ribs as you slid off the edge of the mattress. The carpet felt slightly rough against your knees, but you didn't care. You looked up at her, feeling small and completely focused, your breath coming in short, shallow hitches.
Manon stepped closer until the silicone was inches from your face. She reached down, her fingers tangling in your hair, not to be gentle, but to tilt your head back so you had no choice but to look up at her. A slow, dark smirk spread across her lips.
"You've been so worked up all night trying to take care of me," she hummed, her thumb brushing over your lower lip, pulling it down just enough to expose your teeth.
"You gonna suck my strap for me, pretty girl? Show me how much you want it."
You didn't need to be told twice. You leaned forward, your hands reaching up to grip her thighs for balance, feeling the solid, toned muscle of her legs beneath your palms. As you took her in, Manon let out a long, shaky exhale, her head tossing back as she looked at the ceiling.
She couldn’t feel it, but the raw sight of the strap going in and out of your mouth, combined with your gags and whimpers had her addicted.
"Good girl," she hissed, her fingers tightening in your hair, anchoring you there. "Just like that. Keep going. I want it slick before I put it inside that pretty pussy."
You focused on the texture, your tongue swirling and licking, coating the length until it shone under the dim light. You looked up at her through your lashes, watching the way her head fell back, her throat working as she swallowed hard.
The sounds in the room were visceral—the wet, rhythmic sliding, the soft needy whimpers that caught in your throat, and Manon talking you through it.
"So focused," she groaned as she looked down at you. "Look at you. My perfect, obedient girl. You're doing such a good job making this a mess for me.”
She began to move her hips slightly, a slow, agonizing grind that forced you to take her deeper. "I can tell you want it," she whispered, her thumb reaching down to trace the line of your soaked lower lip, smearing the moisture. “You’re desperate to have this inside you, aren't you?"
You could only nod against her, a muffled, desperate sound escaping you. Manon let out a dark, satisfied chuckle, her fingers giving one final, possessive tug at your hair before she stepped back, leaving you breathless and shivering on the floor.
"Good," she rasped, her voice thick with intent. "Now get on the bed and arch for me.”
You scrambled onto the mattress, your knees sinking into the plush duvet. You barely had time to press your face into the pillows before you felt the bed dip under her weight. Manon crawled over you and grabbed your hips, her fingers digging into your skin with a bruising grip, and yanked you back toward her until you were arched high, your chest pressed flat against the bed.
"Look at you," she hissed right against your ear. "Trembling before I’ve even started."
She didn't ease into it. With one hand planted firmly in the center of your back and the other anchored on your hip, she drove herself into you. The entry was deep and unapologetic, a sudden stretch and fullness that forced a sharp cry from your throat.
"You can take it," she growled, her breath hot and ragged against your shoulder.
The sound of skin slapping was loud and filthy, echoing in the quiet room alongside the creak of the bed frame. Manon was using her entire weight, her body slamming into yours with a primal force. Every thrust was calculated to hit that one spot deep inside you that made your vision blur.
You were a mess under her. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, bunching the fabric up, while your head tossed up and down. Manon reached forward, her hand tangling in your hair again, pulling your head back so she could see your face—flushed, sweaty, and completely undone.
"Fuck baby, you wanna cum on this dick?" she rasped, her teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck.
She increased the speed, her thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more frantic. You could feel the friction building and tension coiling in your lower stomach. The bed was shifting under the force of her movement, the headboard thudding against the wall in time with her breaths.
"Not yet," she commanded, her grip on your hip tightening until you felt the sting of her nails. "Wait a little longer."
She shifted her angle, her hand reaching underneath you to find your clit. Her thumb began a brutal rhythm, circling and pressing with a frantic intensity that matched the pace of her hips. It was too much. The dual sensation—the deep, rhythmic thudding of the backshots and the sharp, electrical focus of her thumb—shattered your last bit of composure.
"Now, baby," she hissed, her voice cracking. "Cum for me."
“Fuckkk Manon” You screamed into the pillow as you hit the peak. Your back arched and a heavy, pulsing wave of heat erupted from you, soaking the sheets and Manon’s thighs alike. You squirted in long, jagged pulses, your body racking with tremors so intense you couldn't breathe.
Manon didn't let up. She drove into you three more times, hard and fast, riding out the contractions of your climax until she finally let out a low, guttural sound, her forehead dropping onto the back of your neck as she finally, finally slowed to a stop.
The only sound left was the rain outside and the frantic, overlapping sound of your lungs trying to remember how to function.
The silence that followed was heavy and sweet, broken only by the sound of your shared, ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Manon stayed draped over your back for a long minute, her heartbeat a steady, grounding thud against your spine.
She sat up slowly, the bed creaking as she shifted. Her hands, which had been so firm and demanding moments ago, were now incredibly gentle as she brushed a damp lock of hair away from your face.
"Stay here," she whispered, her voice still a bit husky. “Not that you can move anyway.” she laughed softly. She leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck—right over the spot she’d been nipping earlier—before sliding off the bed. You watched through a heavy lidded haze as she moved toward the ensuite bathroom. There was something so domestic and tender about the way she looked, completely unbothered by her messy hair as she leaned over the tub to start the water.
The sound of the rushing water was a soothing contrast to the frantic energy of the night. You heard the clinking of glass as she added some of her bath oils that she kept in her section of your bathroom—something that smelled like shea butter and vanilla.
A few minutes later, she appeared in the doorway, the steam from the bathroom curling around her silhouette like a soft focus filter.
"Come on, pretty girl," she murmured, walking back to the bed. She didn't let you try to walk on your shaky legs, instead, she hooked her arms under you and helped you up, guiding you toward the warm, glowing light of the bathroom.
The bath was perfect, hot enough to make your muscles finally melt, but not enough to sting. Manon sat on the edge of the marble tub, her sleeves pushed up, and used a soft sponge to wash the sweat and salt from your skin. She was meticulous, her touch light and reverent, as if she were handling something priceless.
"I'm not sorry the restaurant flooded anymore," you mumbled, leaning your head back against the rim of the tub and closing your eyes.
Manon let out a soft laugh, the sound echoing off the tiles. She leaned down and kissed your forehead, her lips warm and damp.
She took a cup of warm water and poured it slowly over your shoulders, the heat seeping deep into your bones. She spent the next twenty minutes just taking care of you—washing your hair with that expensive shampoo she usually gatekeeps, and massaging the tension out of your neck.
When you were finally clean and sleepy, she wrapped you in the fluffiest robe you owned and led you back to the bed, which she had miraculously stripped and remade with fresh, cool sheets while you were soaking.
She climbed in beside you, pulling you into her side so your head was tucked perfectly into the hollow of her shoulder. She smelled like the bath oils and clean linen, a scent that felt like home.
"Happy Valentine's Day," she whispered into your hair, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Manon."
"The Ghanaian food is definitely a biohazard by now," she added, her voice dropping into a sleepy hum. "We’re getting breakfast delivered tomorrow My treat. Now go to sleep my love."
You drifted off to the feeling of her hand protective over your heart, the chaos of the night finally settling into a quiet, perfect peace.
@reicorded @pinkdreadheadd
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