#but it's somehow even more accurate this time around
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dreamauri · 18 hours ago
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♪ — 𝗕𝗟𝗨𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦 max verstappen x fem! ex teamate! reader (angst) fic summary . . . Former teammates turned bitter rivals, you and Max have spent years at each other’s throats—until stolen nights blur the lines between love and hate. But when jealousy and unresolved emotions come to a breaking point, you're forced to confront the painful truth: was it ever real, or just another game to win? (606 words)
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It was so ironic. So fucking stupid. But you couldn’t hold back the choked sobs as you ran your hands through your hair, barely able to make out the city below through blurry eyes. The lights of Monaco mocked you, shimmering indifferently as Max paced behind you, his footsteps echoing against the balcony floor.
Your whole world was coming apart. Gripping the railing, you turned to face him—angry, frustrated, helpless. He stopped mid-step at the sight of your tear-streaked, red face. With an annoyed sigh, he stepped closer, reaching out, fingertips brushing your arm, but you didn’t let him get near. Without hesitation, you swatted his hand away and shoved him back, pressing against his chest to force distance between you.
“You forgot how close hate is to love,” you shouted, voice raw, breath shaky. You turned away, facing the endless stretch of the Mediterranean, hoping the cool air could somehow soothe the ache in your chest.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Yn.” His voice was tight with frustration, his jaw clenched as he reached for you again, fingers curling around your arm to turn you back toward him. His expression was controlled, but you could see it—the battle inside him, the effort it took not to let his anger take over.
If it were anybody else, he would’ve snapped, let the rage spill over. But with you? Even Max wasn’t sure why he held back. You weren’t special. You were his opponent, his ex-teammate. Just like all the others.
You weren’t special at all.
“You never loved me.” The words trembled from your lips, barely above a whisper, but heavy with accusation, pain, and anger. You jabbed a finger into his chest, your breaths ragged. “You knew that I loved you, and you used that.”
You shoved him again, but this time, he caught your wrists, stopping you cold.
“Yn, stop talking like a child. We’re playing for teams now.”
It was ironic. So ironic. How you two had hated each other down to the bone when you were teammates—shouting, crashing into each other, pushing every limit until you couldn’t take it anymore. You had left the team because if he so much as breathed near you one more time, you’d strangle him. And if you were within a five-meter radius of him, he’d dropkick you.
But now that you were gone—now that you had your own team, your own teammate, one you actually got along with—Max was jealous. And somehow, he missed you.
The saying “distance makes the heart grow fonder” had never felt so cruelly accurate. One moment, you were at each other’s throats; the next, you were tangled in his sheets on a Monday night, his fingers running through your hair as you nuzzled into his chest, his lips pressing softly against your temple.
But was it ever real?
Did he ever really want you? Or had there always been another reason?
You didn’t even know what those reasons could be. And neither did Max. Was it jealousy—seeing the chemistry you had with your new teammate, knowing he never had that with you? Was it the fact that you were something he could no longer have?
It didn’t matter.
Because no matter what Max told you, you had to convince yourself it was all a lie. It had to be. You were rivals. That had to be the reason for all of this.
He couldn’t possibly love you.
“Yes, we are, aren’t we?” You huffed, yanking your wrists free from his grip, meeting his stupidly blue eyes—the same ones that, no matter how hard they tried, could never truly hate you.
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stop-talking · 2 days ago
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Jhutch Valentines Head-cannons
(What Mike, Futturman, Billy, Derek, and Clapton would get you for Valentines day 🎀) 18+ , written partially with fem reader in mind !
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Mike
♡ Prefers a stay-at-home date. He'd get Abby out of the house for the evening for some alone time.
♡ A homemade dinner would be waiting for you on the table, with some flowers he picked somewhere outside in a vase at the center. (He finds flowers at the store to be a little pricey.)
♡ He does, however, splurge on a nice bottle of wine to share over dinner.
♡ After dinner activities include cuddling on the mattress he dragged out in the living room to be in front of the T.V, sharing a pint of ice cream, and watching your favorite movie.
♡ And since you're home alone for once? Maybe something a little less innocent as well, if you're up to it. 💖
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Futturman
♡ Definitely buys you one of the Lego flower bouquet sets. His logic? They'll never wilt! (Plus, he'd love to spend time building it with you.)
♡ Hand-writes you a card. He spent hours at the store agonizing over what would be the best choice for you- but eventually decided there was nothing he could buy to accurately express how much he loves you. His card is a little sloppy, and his handwriting isn't great, but the sentiment is beautiful and genuine.
♡ If you're a gamer like he is, he gets you a little something relating to that. Whether it be in-game currency, an expansion pack, or a completely new game to play together. He pays attention and knows what you want most.
♡ Dresses nice and takes you to a decent sit down restaurant. He doesn't stop touching you and complimenting you the whole night, no matter how well he's dressed it can't compare to you.
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Billy
♡ low-key forgets Valentines Day is coming up until a few days before, when he notices the gas station is decked out in hearts and flowers.
♡ Wakes you up with a nice breakfast in bed, whispering in your ear about how you aren't gonna lift a finger for anything today.
♡ Simple lunch date after a cozy morning together, and after that he takes you shopping. Its just running errands together, getting groceries and other necessities, but he throws a cute stuffed animal in the cart when you aren't looking.
♡ Ends the day by making sure you know exactly how much he loves you, wants you, needs you. You're up far too late that night for people who have work the next morning. 💞
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Derek
♡ At first you think he's forgotten all about you, but around noon he shows up at your door with an obnoxiously large rose bouquet, $100 bills worked into it somehow.
♡ "To get your hair and nails done. For tonight." he explains, insisting you take the money. It's a little over a grand.
♡ He doesn't leave without a kiss, and a promise to send a limo for you later that evening. With Derek, who knows where your date could be at. A restaurant? A concert? A strip club? All feasible options.
♡ Turns out he was feeling a little more sappy than that, and you find yourself at the very establishment you met him at just over a year ago.
♡ After dinner he gives you another present, some extremely revealing lingerie. He has a matching set, of course. They don't stay on for long.
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Clapton
♡ Def the type of guy to slide you conversation hearts from across the lunch table. The little chalky candies with stuff like "luv u" and "kiss me" on them. Gets pouty if you don't say it back or actually give him a kiss.
♡ Gives you your favorite candy, along with a CD he burned for you. The playlist is a mix of both his and your favorite songs, most of them love songs.
♡ If you'll let him, he takes you out on a bowling date. Makes you promise if he gets three strikes you'll give him a kiss. (He only gets two and you kiss him anyways.)
♡ Walks you home, holding his skateboard in one hand and your own hand in his other. Doesn't mind that walking is slower, he's not gonna complain about more time with you.
♡ Ends the night by giving you his jacket. It's not remotely cold outside, he just thinks its hot when you wear his clothes. 🎀
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Tagging some of my moots because I miss u guys:
@xcherryerim @joshfutturman @janitorhutcherson @solarissun @jealousjersey
no pressure to interact, ily :3
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deanssun · 2 days ago
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:・ dean winchester x tiamat!reader
.ᐟ mentions of abandonment . reader is a good/bad mom? . hurt/comfort . sam is her baby . kissing .
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Tiamat; the primordial goddess of the sea and the mother of the gods. Associated with the chaos of creation. Said to be depicted as a woman with a tail, and sometimes as a monstrous sea serpent or a dragon. But, in all honesty you found that to be quite silly. After all you had a tail-yes, but it was more similar to a mermaids.
You weren't a dragon nor serpent, just half human, half fish. Bred from chaos and born to live and breath it. Sure, you'd 'birthed' many gods. Ones that grew up to roam the Earth and cause a ruckus. Yet, you never nurtured them like a true mother, instead tossing them out into the world once they could stand on their own two feet. Though time had changed you, it softened your rough edges and hindered your sharp mind.
Taking in small humans, children but in reality they really were small humans, and raising them to be great. 'Mother' they called you, your once cold heart warmed at the words. Somehow things slipped past you, their horrible deeds in your name. In the name of 'Tiamat.' That wasn't who you were anymore, stupid people and their need for control.
You knew deep down you shouldn't have taken them in, taught them, and told them who you really were. Now, people were out to get you. Unlike old times in which many were afraid of you, of what you could do. So, into hiding you went. Heavy hearted and disappointed. Your children betrayed you, of course for your past doing you may have deserved it, but that didn't mean it never hurt.
Sam and Dean were certain that whatever goddess these weirdos were claiming their crimes were in the name of was gone—disappeared off the face of the Earth in fact. There hadn't been any sightings of her in ages, and the lore-books weren't exactly accurate on looks. Dean's head fell onto the desk, a groan escaping his lips.
"Sammy, why don't we just let it be, y'know? Let some other hunter handle it." Lifting his head up to meet Sam's eyes, determination brewing within them.
"C'mon Dean, we can't just let this keep happening here. It's our job to save people, is it not?" Dean could feel an argument waiting to happen if he didn't choose his words carefully, so he let it be.
Choosing to stomp out into some bar, pick up a chick, and have the time of his life. The night was a blur for him, while Sam continued to research. Something was off about everything, and Sam was going to find out why.
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That's how he found himself on the shore, the waves crashing in front of him as the salty breeze brushes past his form. He had a paper in front of him, a summoning of sorts. Granted he did find it online so it wasn't a hundred percent guaranteed to work; however, he still tried. The words fell off his tongue swiftly, like he'd been practicing for years.
You felt a pull towards the shore, words fill your head. You hadn't heard another voice in millennia, especially not a summoning as powerful as this. Who was this man summoning you—what power did he have? Rising from your perch in your cavern, no control as your body moves itself. Gliding through the water with precise turns and twists. Your mind was a mess until you were on the sand, the sand?
The fin you once had was now turned into a pair of legs, naked lower half on display for whomever called you. Immediately your hands went to cover your crotch and his went straight to his eyes. With a cough he said,
"Sorry—Tiamat, is it?" He had a knowing tone, like he was just asking to see if you'd lie. Of course you had no choice but to tell the truth, denying a title wasn't worth dying over.
"Yes, that's me. Now, what have you called me fo–" Before you could even finish your sentence, he had cuffs around you and was dragging you into the back of some strange contraption.
Surprisingly it wasn't weird to hear your own voice again, but you were rather annoyed that this strange boy didn't let you finish. A scowl formed on your face, elegant features turned a bit rugged at the expression.
"A bit rude aren't you, boy." Your words were laced with a venom meant to bite, to hurt. But, he wasn't affected one bit, instead he laughed.
"Dean will have fun getting you to speak, Tiamat." You began to get confused, who was Dean and why do you need to speak. And oh my goodness, will he stop calling you that godforsaken name!
"Please, for the love of God's above and on Earth, stop calling me Tiamat, anything but that." Speaking of your children in such a way reminded you of the past, so much so it felt as if a hand was grabbing your heart and twisting it. You wished you'd been a better mother to them, at least then they would've turned out better.
Instead you were stuck with human children to call you, 'Mother.' Children that used your name in ill ways, to justify their illegal actions.
"Mhm—shut up, we'll talk later. And you're going to tell us everything about this little cult you have going on." Now it's we? I thought Dean was getting you to talk, humans and their confusing nature.
This man didn't match his words, instead he seemed quite the opposite. You shrugged, eyes locking with his. You're gaze piercing into his soul. Sam shuddered, turning his gaze onto the road in front. He was attempting to be more tough, yet it seemed his words only confused you further. This was Dean's job, not really his.
The drive was long and excruciating, so boring too. You'd rather be back in your cavern, listening to the waves. Sleeping for decades and waking up just to check on your babies—the sea creatures. Mermaids, sirens, anything beneath the blue waters is your creation as well. You were most proud of them, they'd never betrayed you nor did you ever hurt them in a way. Yes, you felt bad for what you did with your eldest kids, but you were young and didn't know much other than chaos and war.
Oh, how you wanted to love something new, and exciting—but you forbid yourself from ever making anything new. In fear it'd turn its back on you, leaving you in the dust. Like always.
The boy, Sam. You could feel his soul, his being. And he was hurt—broken even. All you wanted to do was hold him and make him feel better. It was your motherly instinct after all. But, you felt pieces of another on him.
Must be the Dean he was talking about, you wanted to care for Dean as well. The remnants of his being left on his brother were almost stabbing you. He was broken down to every atom in his body, but it wasn't motherly love—no, It was love that showed itself through light touches and soft kisses.
The car, as Sam called it, finally parked at a building. Motel it read, strange. You had found something to cover your bottom half in the backseat, your top half covered by shells. With a harsh tug on your wrist he pulled you inside, and there he was—Dean. His green eyes trailed down your figure, his shoulders back and chest puffed out. He was trying to be scary? It was laughable, so a little chuckle slipped past your lips. And apparently he didn't like that, he seemed on edge and that threw him off.
"What's funny? Last time I checked we had you in cuffs and to our mercy." His rough hand grabbed your cheeks, smushing them together.
Dean was conflicted, the noise that left your body had him feeling some way, yet he didn't let that affect him. You had to be trying to seduce him or drug him. Pushing his hand away with what strength you had left after being manhandled by these over six-foot men, you stared at him with a look of pure irritation. Rubbing your cheeks with soft hands, glaring at Dean.
Your sharp eyes were enough to make his body and mind stutter. Power and beauty radiated from you. It was alluring, no wonder you were deemed a goddess—it was the perfect title for you.
"Who are you to touch me like that?" You exclaimed, ready to defend yourself with whatever means necessary. "I'll have you know I've been in hiding for years! It's not my business what my children do in my name.." You muttered the last sentence, like there was something stopping you from saying it.
"Children?" Both boys said, turning to face each other. Of course, they were going off of stupid lore-books.
"Yes, children. I had taken in small humans and raised them, since I wasn't the best mother with the God's." With a roll of your eyes you held out your cuff-covered wrist. Raising an eyebrow, awaiting someone to get them off. When Sam eventually unlocked them, you stepped away. Presumably to change, leaving the two boys to themselves.
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Soon after the boys went out, terminating your assumed 'cult.' Then you stuck with them, first it was dingy motels and monster hunts. When they began to trust you more, the bunker and divine beings came into the picture. Those now—you were familiar with.
Sam was a victim of your motherly instinct, now with him being near you always had someone to care for. Whether that be fixing his hair, lulling him to sleep after long days of research or a hunt, and maybe cooking him food. So much so that Dean was, jealous?
What he didn't know was that, you didn't love him like a mother loved her son, you love loved him. The urge to press his lips to yours and heal him of his burdens with love was eating you alive, so you took action. You found Dean, sat at a desk with a bottle of beer in hand. Walking up to him, you placed a ginger hand on his shoulder.
As if on instinct he spoke, "Sam is in his room, you know where it i–" You cut him off with a finger to his lips.
"Dean, I was looking for you. Listen, I don't want your brother. I think of him as my child, you on the other hand, I want you." You blurted out, cheeks flushed and head pointed to your feet. Normally you were confident, nothing would get you to act like this, nothing but the eldest winchester.
Your confession had Dean's head swirling. Questions conjuring up and doubts forming. For once, Dean was silenced. Not witty or teasing comeback. You guys were one in the same when it came to the effects you had on each other.
You couldn't wait any longer, pressing your lips onto his in a firm kiss. Dean fell out of his trance, eyes fluttering shut from their wide position and hands grasping tight onto your hips. You were everything he didn't know he needed, a goddess, a queen, and you were his.
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sunny yaps! I got this idea yesterday and just wrote so much for her! I hope you guys like her, I had soooo much fun conjuring up these ideas!!! 2 fics in ONE DAY WOAHH!! I LOVE YOU ALL COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED SO MUCHH!
special tags! @figthoughts @bluemerakis + pls lmk if u wanna be added!!
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rtlstuff · 16 days ago
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Excerpt from We Are Legion (We Are Bob) by Dennis E. Taylor.
Feel free to fill in the blanks for yourself.
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funkle420 · 4 months ago
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sorry for yapping so much today lol BUT
i wanna yap abt marcille and falin. i feel like when they were in school, maybe marcille didn't have romantic feelings for falin yet but admired her curiosity and aptitude for magic.
then later, during the time that they and laios were exploring the dungeon together, that's when she started to fall for her. she saw how capable and brave she was in action. i think for her that combination of strength and bravery with delicacy and charm really did it for her, like the prince on horseback the succubus turns into for her. marcille wants a partner who's pretty and romantic, but not weak or shallow.
Falin also says at one point before Marcille joins their party that she thinks Marcille treats her like she's 10, and while i think this is mostly her being self-conscious, it's clear that Marcille babies her like how other people of long-lived races tend to do to everyone else, despite them being developmentally in the same life stage. It seems more likely that, in the dungeon, Marcille grew to see Falin more as she truly is, rather than the limited side of her she saw in school.
Then during the events of the story, she slowly comes to realize her feelings are romantic, especially when she hears Laios talk about how much Marcille meant to Falin.
Falin, on the other hand, I don't know when I think she fell for Marcille or realized those feelings, but I do think that she knew she was attracted to Marcille by the start of the events of the story. After she was resurrected, I think their interactions show that. My interpretation is that after the conclusion of the events of the manga, Falin made the first move. Like a lot of people who've had NDEs, maybe she felt like she shouldn't hesitate to say how she feels.
(pls recommend good post-manga fanfics!!! not just abt farcille but abt anything, i love seeing ppl's ideas abt what happens after)
#ive read a couple abt laios and kabru#as someone who relates to both kabru and laios i rly like them together#even if just as friends..... but i think a well paced friends to lovers makes sense for them#kabru not knowing how to be authentic and accurately say how he feels even when he tries at the end rly cut deep man#the being misunderstood and not knowing how to communicate how you actually feel#fuck!#they're both so dense i love them#one of the few times i think frustrating miscommunication tropes would work#and with laios being fresh off the heels of the toshiro situation#like hes clearly being extra careful with kabru at the end there cause he doesn't want to be disappointed now that he knows kabru lies#and as a traumatized person i totally get crushing on or even obsessing over someone who's somehow able to engage with what you fear#so healthily and easily#the allure of someone who hasn't been traumatized by that thing#and the desire to learn how you might heal if only you understood what they see#i like to think laios sloooooowwwwwly helps kabru eventually come to see monsters in a more neutral light#like how someone with a fear of bears can come to see them as. just animals. and not evil things out to get you.#still scary ofc like you gotta have a healthy fear of dangerous things#that would be in line with how real biological relationships are weaved into the dunmeshi world#like ill always have this trauma around family stuff but if i ever had a partner or close friend who's family i was accepted by#that would heal me a bit#not enough to ever have kids or call someone a parent i think#but enough to not feel that automatic fear response#as much
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tonycries · 3 months ago
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The Initiation - G.S.
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Synopsis. From now onwards, you’re the madam of the Gojo clan - and your clan leader husband is going to prove it to everyone.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, EXHIBÍTIONÍSM, initiations, aphrodísiacs, wedding nights, oraI (fem + male), face-sítting, p talking, BRÉEDING, creampíes, matíng presses, first times (Gojo), use of “my wife” and “ma’am”, spítting, cúmplay, MARATHON S, overstím, Gojo is FÉRAL (and slightly ínsane), the elders are awful, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 8.0k
A/N. This was NOT supposed to be this long but yk what I’m not mad.
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“I vow to love. I vow to heal. I vow to stand by my wife with a respect not deserved of even myself.” Every single elder at the shrine shivers when their clan leader’s blazing gaze narrows. Gojo Satoru. Death, himself, in his hauntingly beautiful form. “And I vow that everyone here - everyone - will know that.”
---
“A-an initiation?”
The sweet older women surrounding you don’t look even the tiniest ounce as confused as you feel right about now. They hum a low tune, bustling around you in a whirlwind of hands that tug and pull at your decadent robes. 
“Ah, it’s just a long-held Gojo tradition, madam-” Madam - the word seemed so strange still. “-and the young master will make sure to take good care of you.”
“But-”
“Very good care.”
Maybe it was the way the fussing crowd around you burst into titters, maybe it was the way your silky yukata was left ever-so-slightly open - in a way you were sure the elders would cry scandal at. But, somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something different to this clan initiation.
Something more. 
And it’s something that plagues your mind over and over even by the time your make-up is finally perfected, and your reception robes brushed down for non-existent dust. 
“Beautiful.” your attendants breathe, gracing you with a synchronized bow so low that it almost looked painful. And with a few more appreciative nods, they’re guiding you out of the sweetly-perfumed dressing room, wordlessly leading you into the uproarious traditional meeting hall. 
“You’re not following?” you turn to ask, once you had almost one foot stepped cautiously into the room. 
At this, the woman stood at the very middle of your entourage flushes. A bright, blinding red that matches the way her lips sputter helplessly, “I- I’m honored, madam. But this is er- as far as I can go.”
Strange. 
And with that, the sliding mahogany doors shut. 
Despite what you may think about the council of elders, you had to begrudgingly admit that they’d decorated the chamber lavishly. Fit for a king - or, more likely, fit for the new leaders of the household, after your marriage today.
Dimly-lit with lanterns, and already heady with the smell of expensive sake, your eyes dart around the seated upon seated of clan leaders, elders, and prominent officials you couldn’t even name. All positioned around a long table encircling a strangely raised platform in the middle - as if a stage - it seemed that everyone and anyone was here to assess the new Madam of the Gojo household.
To watch. To wait. 
And at the head of it all - your husband.
Gojo Satoru was known by none to be a soft man, not even by those foolish enough to claim themselves close to him. More accurately fabled as the most vicious young clan leader in history; an angel of death that you’d be lucky to so much as even snatch a glimpse of before you never can once more. 
Yet, the way he beams once his summer blue eyes lock on yours made him seem like anything but. 
“Ah- my wife. My wife is here.” Gojo’s deep baritone sounded so reverent - out-of-breath, like he’d been whispering those very words to himself like a mantra all night. In the middle of it all, you hadn’t even noticed the way the hall had quieted deafeningly - not until his words echo throughout your ears. Rich blue yukata rippling when he’s patting softly at his chair, and you notice with a jolt that there’s no seat next to him. 
Damn elders. 
“Hah? Elder Tanaka really did it!”
“You know I never wanted the riffraff to sit at the table- not a place for-”
“Well what else? A madam should be as a madam is.”
You’re gritting your teeth, making determined strides past all the withering stares and hushed whispers. Stepping closer and closer up to your shifting husband-
“Take-”
And then you sit. 
Plopping yourself down unceremoniously onto the clan leader’s lap - from behind you, you’re hearing Gojo suck in a feverish breath. Panting. You’re washed over with his piney, syrupy sweet scent when his strong forearms immediately wrap around your waist to steady yourself comfortably onto his large, manspread lap. 
And in front of you, you stare defiantly back into every wizened snarl shot your way. If looks could kill, then this would be a massacre. 
It takes him a few gulps to regain his senses - hell, it takes you a few more. And Gojo was so warm, practically burning when he whispers in a rasping voice against your ear, “I was going to tell you to take my seat but…whatever my wife wants, hm?”
“The look on their faces,” you try to hold back what would be deemed an utterly unlady-like smirk. Back pressing up against every hardened curve and ridge down Gojo’s washboard abs through his clothes. “But, I-I’m sorry if-”
His arms around you tighten. “Why would you ever be sorry?”
CLAP! CLAP!
“The reception shall now commence.”
Perhaps it was to stop your quiet muttering, but soon enough your vision is promptly being filled with delicacies that make your mouth water. 
“I would advise you not to drink the sake, pretty.” Gojo waves off an attendant that offers another chair, starting to sift around the steaming contents of his own plate. And despite how you seemed to be the main scrutiny tonight, you let him feed you tiny bites, anyway - all for the haughty council to scoff at. Their master being so happily used by his wife “Seems we’ve been gifted with something special to drink for the initiation tonight.”
Something about his tone was strained. It makes you bat your lashes up at him in a way that has Gojo adjusting his lower robes with a gulp. “Something special? Is it poisoned?”
He chuckles out, “No- even worse-” Lowering. And you jolt when his gleamingly sharp canines sink into your earlobe. Dangerous. “-one sip of that for both of us and I’ll be showing this scum here exactly how you’re mine.”
Oh.
Oh. 
Shit, your spine sits ramrod straight at that purring little undercurrent in his tone - the implications. And just that slight jostle of your hips makes Gojo urgently dig one set of his slender fingers into your waist. It makes him hunch over, it makes him gasp, “O-or we might not even need that sake, heh-”
Eyes drifting to the platform, “I want to, though.”
And for just a second, the entire meeting hall stills. 
Every figure around the table barely even bothering to hide their blatant staring right now, some covering their gaping mouths - because the infamous leader of the Gojo clan was smiling. 
Smiling. A humorless, crazed little smile directed at you. “Then…” Barely drifting an inch even when his own free digits clasp around a tiny sake bowl, he cheers his sake cup with yours. Echoing over the twinkling clink! “-whatever my wife wants.”
And yet, you feel nothing out of the ordinary in the first few minutes - nothing but those billowing stares and Gojo’s warm proximity to you. Huffing out tiny bouts of laughter that tickle the crook of your neck, and your face burns at the stray peck or two he’s leaving down your exposed skin.
Not even in the first hour.
Or the second, and you’re half-wondering whether this initiation was nothing but a hoax. 
But veering into the third-
It happens. 
Something snaps. 
“S-Satoru?” you breathe out unsteadily when he’s suddenly growing quiet. Head craning to take in just how pretty Gojo looked right about now - robes hanging off his sculpted deltoids. A sweet strawberry blush taking over his high cheekbones, his collarbones, down further. “Are you okay?”
Of course, he wasn’t. Right now, Gojo Satoru felt so ruined he thinks he could faint. 
“Shit-” Gojo hisses from above you, snowy brows knitting together. You can’t even react before his muscular thighs bounce ever-so-slightly, shifting you just a degree higher on his lap. Just enough for him to seat you prettily by the edge of something big. Curved. Rock-hard. “Shit- shit shit- m’- m’feeling so-”
Gojo’s chopsticks clatter onto the tatami mats with a soft thud! And those fingers find themselves latching onto you. 
You, you, you - burning down the curves of your waist, sliding up your trembly thighs and just below where your robes were hiking up. He couldn’t get enough. 
“Sa-toru-” your words come out wobbly. Clutching at the slight opening of your yukata to drag in a useless attempt to drink in some cooler air. You felt like you were melting, and so were your words now. “Toru, I feel so-”
“What did you say?”
It takes you a few syrupy moments to even realize that it’s your husband speaking - because Gojo’s voice was several octaves higher than usual. Husky, like he was on the verge of shattering into a million pieces. Spitting a pained, “What did you say, honey?”
You bat your teary lashes - shit, when did you even get so stimulated - up at the thoroughly drunken elders that were sneaking peeks at the two of you.
Just for a split-second - barely enough to catch anything.
But enough for Gojo to curl the thick pads of his fingers around your throat, pulling in a roughened tug to have your back hugged even more flush against him. “Hey hey hey- look at me, pretty. Look at your husband.” Flexing his powerful back muscles in a drool-worthy way, bowing over in two to practically shove you into the cool surface of the table when he puffs up against your ear. “S-say that again?”
You’re pinned on top of the mahogany with his full body weight - and you can barely breath, barely even think before uttering out. “T-Toru?” 
And that makes Gojo Satoru shiver. 
Entire body wracking so violently, his nose buries into the tender column of your neck. Not just breathing you in - basking in you. 
Muffling out, “Again.”
“Toru.”
“Again.”
“Toru–”
It makes the strongest snap his glassy, cerulean eyes almost-comically open in a flash - winking his droopy gaze through molasses once, twice at the platform right in front of him. 
And Gojo’s barely even in control of his limbs when the mountains of his palms glide hurriedly underneath your thighs. In only a split-second, you’re carried in his arms in the easiest princess carry - but Gojo doesn’t stop there. 
No, he doesn’t simply walk out of the room like you’d expected him to - he does the complete opposite. 
Every widened eye in the room can only watch as the clan leader steps swiftly upon the now cleared-out table and onto the raised platform in only two treads. Splaying you out gently onto the firm tatami, you’re gazing up at a heaving Gojo.
Because despite the rich dinner tonight, Gojo was starving. 
The soft yolky glow of the lanterns overhead illuminates that greedy glint in his eyes - the way that his lips glisten with the slightest trail of translucent drool at the very ends of his parted, rosy pink lips. 
He’s never looked more ruined. 
“Please.” 
And it’s all but whimpered out into your mouth - pathetic and raw. 
You’re gasping sharp heavals of air when his candied lips attack yours, and through that delicious thumping between your legs that you could feel in even your ears - you hear the gasps. With a sweet, sweet whine you’re blinking your eyes open enough, “Th-they’re watching.”
“Oh.” But Gojo’s more worried about losing contact with the heaven that was your lips, chasing after to press wet peck after French peck. “S’what? You wan’ me to kill them all?”
The room drops a few chilling degrees in temperature for everyone but the two of you.
He could - he would. If you hadn’t shaken your pretty head frantically, that is, not quite ready for a bloodbath on your wedding night. Yet, you needed him so bad.
“Then- m’only gonna show them who ya belong to- who I belong to.” Calloused, rounded tips of his fingers bearing down your yukata, Gojo’s slipping in one of his cold digits between your robe to snap! snickering at your low keen. “And you’ve made it so oh- easy f’me to.”
He was so greedy. 
Stealing little spying looks down at the way your legs were splayed out, Gojo utters out a guttural, “Open- open up f’me, my wife. Show them how wet your husband’s made ya.”
And shit, you didn’t know whether it was that sake acting out on behalf of your limbs, or whether it was the way that you were so needy right now. But you could feel your thighs jittering open as soon as those humming syllables were out of Gojo’s mouth. 
“S-so embarrassing-” you whine, one hand swiping away your thin layers to show him that glistening wet plump of your pussy. Drenched. Seeping through the useless fabric of your panties to wink up at him- and oh, that makes Gojo groan.
It makes him throw his head back with a hiss - for only a split-second, as if he couldn’t take it. Before drunkenly shifting back to your pretty cunt no matter what. 
“Oh, shit.”
THUD!
The body of the one such rowdy clan heir that’d dared speak up right now hits the ground faster than your eyes hit their target. 
Fuck, you didn’t even see Gojo pull out one of his famed daggers from beneath his sleeves - but the thought of what more might hide underneath made your thighs clench. 
And Gojo notices - of course, he did. Why the fuck wouldn’t he?
“F-fuck. What a naughty pussy gettin’ drenched from just that.” he shrills - before bursting out in a bout of laughter. Laughter, humorless and feral. “Gonna be the death of me- f-fuck- you’re gonna-” For a second, you feel your skin burn in embarrassment, and your legs cross. Only for his eyes to glow a burning blue in disagreement, tutting out a low, “Tell me- hah- tell me what you want.” He’s burning up with every slow kiss down the edge of your mouth, thumbing open your glossy maw further to wrap his lips around your tongue and suck. “Anything- I’ll get ya anything.”
You’re pretty sure that everyone is gaping at the worshiped leader of the Gojo clan on his knees and begging. 
But you didn’t care - not when his solid index was drawing a slow line down the middle of your sopping slit. Bucking your hip up into an arch off the platform that makes Gojo’s achy cock twitch, and the aphrodisiac rush back to him with full force. Mewling, “Wan’ y-you, Toru-”
Eyes twinkling, “Me what, honey? The madam’s gonna hafta use m-more hah- big girl words than that.”
You want him.
You need him now. 
“So mean.” you’re huffing and puffing, yet Gojo only grins at the way he can feel your sloppily wet lips down there kiss him even wetter. Dribbling a soaking sheen down to his wrist, “Want you t-to touch me- p-”
You don’t get to say that magical word “please” because Gojo Satoru would never have you say it. 
He’s plunging out his long digits to hold up to the attractively dim lighting - yet, they’re already dazzling with the slick coating from your pre-soaked cunt. And he’s looking at a few elders right in their downturned bows as Gojo sticks his long, tender tongue out and licks. “W-whatever the madam wants. Dontcha think, elder Tanaka?”
You were the madam, and you’d be treated as such.
And shit, what that old man’s response was - whether he even responded - Gojo doesn’t give a shit. 
Because just one ounce of your sweet, sweet juices on Gojo’s tongue shoots his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Hips bucking up with a low moan, a few slurring swears falling from his lips when he feels his achy cock gush-
“Need you-” he’s gasping wetly, shuffling urgently down the expanse of the platform. Moves frantic - needy. Down, down, down until you feel his hot pants down at your cunt. “Need to- wanna- gimme a lil’ peck, m’kay?”
The syrupy ends of his sentence are slurped up down a long glide of the very edges of Gojo’s tastebuds down your swollen folds. Through your panties.
Barely even shifting them even an inch to the side when he lets your glissading juices down his tongue, drawing a sultry circle. He’s letting his eyes droop half-closed, murmuring a little growl at the very back of his throat. “Just one more-” Gojo’s voice cracks, two sets of nails pressing crescents down into your thighs with just how hard he pulls. Kisses. “-and me more-” And another. “J-jus’ one more- oh-” Another. 
And you’re barely even realizing it before Gojo’s latching his pretty lips with yours, squelching wet noises ringing in your ears and throughout all four corners of the room. 
“Th-tha’s” you manage to scoff, fingers threading into his cloudy locks and pulling. But not even that’s enough to get Gojo to part even a millimeter, in-fact he’s pushing himself even more nose-deep, rolling his tongue down your slit - like he’s trying to push through your panties. “-more than one.”
And fuck - he titters out a pussydrunk giggle down into the edges of your sloppy hole. Teasing tongue dipping just barely to circle around the very edge and then-
“Can you blame me?” Gojo smiles with his rubbed-raw lips. So fucked-out that you hear yourself gasp. Your slick was already drip! drip! dripping down his curved chin, smearing a wet gloss that sits all prettily on his features. “M’gettin’ practice to do this fer the rest of our lives.”
And everyone could see just how addicted the clan leader was. 
Everyone.
Slack-jawed and moving like he was mindlessly drawn to your pretty cunt, you’re being faced with a wet drawl of his lips down your sodden folds. Pressing the pointed tip of his nose against your plump clit he’s breathing you in all filthily. 
“Could get used ta th-this-” he spits. Once. And then literally, salivating down a wet glob right inside your snug cunt that makes you shiver. “-heh, fuck that- s’too heavenly to. I need-”
And then you’re flipped.
So fast - so sudden that you barely even register what’s happening before you’ve got Gojo Satoru smushed onto the tatami platform. Bleary eyes gazing up at you and fixating right onto your pretty face, your hips sat shamelessly on his face. 
“Toru what-”
“T-take those- off f’me, honey- please-” He couldn’t even bear to specify right now. You looked so unfairly pretty on top of him like that, even prettier when your soft, luxury robes are hitting the floor. Well, everything except those panties-
“Toru, those are gonna rip-” you yelp when you feel the stinging clench of his teeth biting down the plush of your thighs. Resting onto the sopping wet fabric of your underwear, it smears down a wet glide at his cheek. “-they’re so expensive.”
RIP!
Gojo spits back the tatters of your flimsy excuse of panties beside him - and then another saturated wad of saliva up into your cunt. “Have ya forgot that you’re the ah- madam now?” He’s snickering, curved fingertips swatting a wet smack! onto your ass, cold wedding band branding. “-jus’ use my black card ta buy the whole fuckin’ store. Dip into the hah- council’s funds fer all I care.”
And for those shocked elders snapping their eyes up - they’re met with the most obscene sight of Gojo’s gleaming tongue spreading your puffy pussy lips wide and proudly open. 
“Shit-” he’s bursting out in whiny keens. Spitting and sloshing the wet waves of every pearlescent slick that beads of you - and there’s so much of it. “Gonna get my face s-so soaked heh-” So much that Gojo was utterly ready to feed with his sliding tongue, swirling past your wet rim of muscle and fucking up into you languidly. “-didn’t even need a fuck- ch-chair, anyway.”
Your cunt sloshes all around his tongue, dragging up and down up and down up and- Thoroughly done teasing out your hole pliant, he’s dragging his lips up to suck around your peaked clit - before pinching it in a light bite. 
“Oh!” you yelp. Searing a grip into his scalp, “S-so mean-”
“Mhm— m’your big, bad mean husband- fuck-” Such syrupy, desperate whines that Gojo really can’t help but babble - over and over. “-that sake…feels like m’burning- m’dying-” He can’t stop, won’t stop, roughly attaching a hand onto the globes of your ass to help you ride. “-n’ m’fuckin’ addicted- so won’t ya toy with this hah- p-pretty pussy a lil’ n’ get even wetter for me? Please?”
God, it’s so subconscious the way that your fingers toy over your clit - tight, pressurized circles just the way you like it. 
“Like this?”
“Ohhh, yeah, wifey- let it all down m’tongue-” And Gojo’s in a hypnotic trance at how much more of your honeyed glosses of precum that soak and travel down his tongue. It works. Even more. More and more. Maddeningly. 
Until he just can’t fucking take it-
“S-stop that f’me. None of that t-touchin’ anymore oh-” he gruffs out, throat dry. “Let me-” Fucking jealous of you that he’s pushing his fucking sanity to gritting through his teeth. Gojo meanly slaps away your hand before taking it over with his own. Absolutely no warning before feeding your drooling pussy with inch after inch of his fingers. 
Two at a time. 
Three. 
Your gooey depths are clinging to him so tight, taking him like a fuckin’ champ when they’re curling at the very knuckles to press deeply. “Oh yeah- makes me w-wonder jus’ how nicely you’ll take my fuckin’ cock, too, hm?”
You’re barely able to even babble out a few incoherent moans before the very tips of his digits brush up against the bulging bullseye of your g-spot. Hard. 
“There-” you gasp. You all but cry. “R-right there, Toru-”
Swat!
“I love you, honey- oh, I love you- but right now…” Gojo’s petering his voice away, too in a heady trance with the sight of that rapidly thumping pulse at your cunt to focus on stringing any sentences together right now. And he’s licking back into your snugly-filled entrance, squeezing past the jostlie of his thickened digits to doubly penetrate you. “...jus’ wanna hear this c-cute cunt speak.”
It’s like Gojo couldn’t decide where he wanted to be next - licking up every wet dredge of your juices smearing down his wrist, hollowing his cheeks out when he sucks on your neglected clit, or drawing out the prettiest moans when he joins back in to fuck your quivering hole ragged. 
Every movement bruising - claiming. 
They’re cold inside your toasty walls. Reaching mushy nooks and crannies inside you that you didn’t even know were possible, rolling his tongue into your tight channel to drape your gummy walls with a sheen of his spit. His six-inch fingers pressing harsh against your sweet spots, you could scream-
“Oh she’s real talkative- s-so cute-” But your swashing cunt was doing all the talking for you, wringing out drippingly wet slurps and squelches that Gojo nods along drunkenly to. Maybe it was the aphrodisiac, maybe it was the way he was squeezed oh-so-tightly between your thighs - a lightheaded way to go that Gojo definitely wouldn’t mind. Because he was agreeing. “Mhm- I agree- hah- oh, I agree with ya, cutie-” Thick, white lashes bat innocently up at you, “-my wife would look s-so pretty when she cums, hm?”
And he’s right.
Drunken. 
Because when you do, the sight is so pretty that Gojo himself thinks that he could cum right there and right now in his boxers - the only thing holding him back being the stabbing need to cum inside you more than anything.
Your thighs are desperately attempting to close around his ravenous head, greedily slurping up every bit of your juices. Every bead, every splatter, every slow gush with your mess of an orgasm.
“D-didn’t even ngh- see it-” you whimper, wave after wave of white-hot pleasure flashing behind your eyes and making your spine arch in such a slutty way. “-didn’t even think I’d- oh-”
“S’quite alright-” he’s murmuring wetly. Head lolling all the way back to let you fuck your high on Gojo’s pretty face, convulsing cunt slobbering a translucent pathway all down the middle of his face. “Heheh- could never get mad- c-could never- oh fuck- use me.”
You’re gasping over distantly shocked mutters, “W-what?”
“Use me-” Gojo’s crying out, hips rutting up into the air like an animal. And he’s dangling helplessly onto the curve of your hips, jostling you desperately to fasten your vice-like grip on his hair. To ride him faster. To use him. “M’begging, my wife- fuck- let em’ see- let these fuckers see the way you u-use me.”
Voice breaking pathetically, eyes fighting not to scrunch shut, gasping and gulping for you to grind your dribbling pussy in smooth, sultry gyrations down rougher across his mouth.
And when you do, Gojo thinks he could faint. 
He’s letting out a rasping ah! ah! ah! curdle at the very back of his throat with every jolt of your hips, with every push of your cunt down his mouth that has him gasping for air. Every drawn circle making his fat head swell even girthier. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. 
It’s everything he could ever think about even when your high evolves into mere tingles, when the twitches of your legs slow down, and you find yourself lifting ever-so-slightly off of Gojo’s red, red flushed face. 
He looks so wrecked underneath - happily, so.
Flashing a brilliant smile that was dripping with all the coatings of your sloshing wet slick towards that little audience that you’d even forgotten you had. “Heh, next time my madam wants a hah- s-seat, she’ll have one. One way or the other.”
“T-Toru–” you’re whining, clamoring off to seat yourself down on his painfully hard lap. “-think they got the ngh- point.”
But, oh, the very moment your glossed pussy lips were meeting the thick bump of Gojo’s angry head through his clothes, you feel the syrupy rush of the aphrodisiac boil through your veins once more. You couldn’t even imagine how Gojo felt right now without even cumming once. 
Slotting over to resound a damp schwf! of skin on fabric. Barely giving you a moment to even recollect before you need him. You want to ruin him.
Purring lowly, “Toru…”
And the strongest gulps - Gojo Satoru gulps - a shiver thrumming down his hulking body and onto his gushing cock. It twitches up in a sodden little perk underneath you, and Gojo’s fingers attach themselves to your waist. “Y-yes, ma’am?”
“Really wanna taste you-” your lips drag across his and he keens with a slow suck on your bottom lip. “-wanna see if the r-rest of you is just as sweet?”
“Fuck!” You bounce up precariously when Gojo bucks up wildly, like he’d rip through his wedding robes and fuck you right now if he could. “Such filth from such a s-sweet mouth- ya really are gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”
And to hear the most notorious clan leader admit shamelessly like this. To hastily untie his yukata and let it fall to the side, hear him break out in a sullen whimper when you kiss your way down his toned body, down, down, down his bulging pecs, his heaving abs, all the way to those soaked tufts of white at his pelvis-
“D-don’t tease-” 
Gojo just gasps at the hit of cool air when you’re shuffling down his stickily wet boxers in a fluid, sudden pull. Head throwing back before meeting your own widened ones - he was so big. 
You don’t think you’d ever get used to the sight, to the way that his swelling hot girth expands up a few sizes fatter at the hot puff of your feverish breath. Thumping veins prominent and blushing strawberry pink in flavor. Reddened and bulbous tip already slick with a gleam of precum, and one swipe with your thumb makes him gush out in a stringy gush of more and more-
“Shit-” 
Gojo’s letting his pathetically drooling lips sag open, eyes widening when your deft digits circle around that creamy white ring down Gojo’s length - down his underwear. 
He didn’t even realize. 
Curling his fingers around his thick base to glide over your lips like he was painting it in a pretty white lipstain. Letting your open lips drool and make a syrupy mess with his excess ribbons of cum. “Fuck- look what you do to me-”
You’re gasping with the realization that Gojo Satoru had cum in his pants from just eating your pretty pussy out - and it makes you grin. 
Pressing a sweet, sweet peck onto one remnant of his thick dredges of his slightly salty seed, it makes him rut at each of your kittenish peck after peck on his weepy head. Circular and hot. “Ya are sweet.”
And then you can’t speak anymore - because Gojo didn’t want you to speak anymore. Doesn’t think he could manage it without his hefty balls clenching dangerously once more - it was his first time, after all. 
“Handle- ah, handle me delicately, m’kay? Never done this b-before-” Biting down on his swollen lower lip when he’s watching your mouth stretch. Bulging out through your cheeks with the solid inches he was feeding you - throbbing length disappearing into your plushy mouth. 
Gojo’s so ridiculously big when the rotund ends of his cock kiss wetly against the very back of your throat. Branding a bittersweet bruise. You were sure that had it not been for just how needy you were with the sake, it would have been physically impossible to milk the entirety of his fucking soul out of him like the way you were right now. 
“O-oh-” he gasps - he pants. Chest caving it at how swelteringly hot you were inside, hugging around his sensitive cock so hard that Gojo sees stars. “Is- is this what it feels like?”
You’ve never seen the great Gojo Satoru’s voice shiver just this way, you’ve never seen him so broken. Bouncing off the elders that see their precious leader this defiled. 
Thighs juddering up and flexing in a way that makes you salivate to lock around your neck. He’s practically headlocking you - whimpering out tiny pleas as if you could answer. “Can’t believe you’ve been holding out- can’t ah- A lil’ deeper- please? Please I know you can-” Shifting his hips up in a slow gyration of back and forths until your tongue was flattening to slide over every vein down his underside. Twirling over particularly sensitive spots at the jagged crevices that make Gojo whine. “-aww, tha’s right. My good girl- my good fuckin’ wife.”
He’s never felt like this before. 
And when you hollow out your cheeks and suck - oh, it has him hunching over rapidly. Shoving your nose up against that neat white happy trail, you’re breathing in his addictively masculine musk.
Moaning out a throaty, “Mmpf-”
“Shhh shh sh-” Gojo massages his finger down your neck, sneaking greedy feels for the outline of his thick cock down your throat. “Jus’ take it- fuck fuck fuck- don’ hafta do anything else, lemme take care of it, pretty.”
He didn’t even know what - he didn’t know how. 
But fuck-
You swirl your tongue over and underneath the sensitive bump of his slit, lathering it in a slow glissade of your salivating tongue that makes him jump. And he feels like he’s already seeing cloud nine and the pearly gates itself by the time you steady yourself into sultry, sucking bobs. 
Dancing a hand up to rub over his tight, cum-filled balls - and maybe it was the aphrodisiac, maybe it was just him - but it felt like he was about to burst already.
He was going to.
A slight hiss - not from you, not from him - manages to emanate its way into his melty mind, and Gojo’s finding it in himself to let his head throw back with a sudden laugh. Glassy eyes barely even focusing on the jaw-dropped figures around the table, “Y-your madam’s hgnh- taking me so well, isn’t she?” Head tilting drunkenly back at you, “Wontcha say she’s doin’ a damn good job-”
Only a few mutters - a few scoffs. 
And Gojo’s finding his digits twirling tightly to latch onto your scalp, hissing through clenched teeth. “Say it.”
A unanimous, humiliating “yes” echoes from all sides of the platform. 
And one from your wrecked husband right in front of you - “Yes- hahah-” he giggles. Brushing over the splattered mix of precum and cum that drips down the side of your thoroughly open mouth when you suck all his fat inches. Popping it into his mouth to taste. “-doin’ so well f’me I think- hngh- think I might-”
Of course, at this, you’re speeding up your greedy bounces. Fucking Gojo so heavenly with his mouth that he thinks he’s memorized every curve and twist of your tongue, every single tastebud-
“Naughty girl-” You’re being gifted with another smack! on your ass, and he’s having to haul you off of his reddened, angry cock with a tightened grip around your throat. With one, two slow pumps right in front of your face. And then up, up, up enough for him to hum into your mouth in an attacking French kiss. “-I like that.”
Gojo’s bulging biceps ripple when he seats you all prettily on his lap - just like earlier on tonight. Except, this time, you were facing him - and feeding your drooling cunt all angry inch by inch of his rock-hard cock.
“O-open up those hngh- pretty legs.” he murmurs in a heaving hot breath into your ear. Eyes blaring down at the way your squirmy legs were adjusting and readjusting around slender hips. “Open ‘em and t-take me-”
The way you do makes him gape, makes him gasp, makes him impatiently wrap two arms around the small of your back to fuck up past that tight little ring of resistence and into your walls depravedly. 
Just hitting the very back of your spongy cervix with the upwards curved tip of his head before gushing out thick, wet splatters of cum. The gripping cling of your cunt too good, the way you were sucking him up still fresh. 
And perhaps because of the aphrodisiac, but he was cumming so much. 
Such voluminous loads of seed that dump out into your gooey insides, it sloshes all around him and makes such squelches that reaches his ears. Drooling through the very edges of your sopping wet slit-
“S-see what happens?” Gojo’s whimpering in a way that a clan leader decidedly was not known for. Being the strongest, too. Driving a thumb along your bulging slit, he’s taking the opportunity to smear your pussy lips even wider to swallow more of him. To plug his cum back in. To show off. “See how ah- see what you do to me? Let everyone see-” 
And Gojo sounded so desperate, gasping out little utterances and praises into your mouth while he’s shoveling his swollen cock upwards into you. Taking the lewd advantages of years of combat to pummel every recoiling wall of yours with punishing, pressurized thrusts. 
“Wh-what do I do to ya, Toru?” you hum curiously, half-delirious. 
“Drive me fuck- insane, tha’s what-” he’s hissing, sparks behind his eyes. Swiping down to where he could feel the drilling nudge of his weepy cock, pressing down- hard. He’s mushing over the sensitive slit of his cock accidentally, “Oh- makes me wanna do this forever-” He’s nosing down the crook of your neck now, hiding away that innocent blush of his. “-to fuck you, make love to you, to breed you.”
You sputter out a sudden clench that has Gojo falling back down onto his elbows. Back hitting the tatami mats, your hands hitting his cushiony pecs. “Y-you wan’ to breed me? Hngh- you w-want an heir, Toru?”
An heir - an heir. 
An heir, an heir, an heir. God, it’s thundering throughout his mind and syrupy slowly turning into just about all he can think about.
“M-me? Want an heir?” He’s shuddering out, massive palms splaying out on the two globes of your ass to stretch your taut pussy further down his cock. “What makes you think- oh- what-” Until your perky lips were kissing his heated pelvis, your pulsing clit scratching deliciously down his tufts of white. And at this very second, peering up at you through hooded eyes, gaze half-curtained with his hair, drunken - all that Gojo can imagine is how pretty you are. And how much prettier you’d be as a mama. “C-can I get you hngh- p-pregnant- please, ma’am?”
Mere seconds of his thrumming shaft stretching you open pass as he looks dazedly to the side, “After all- s’what th-this initiation is for, right?”
And then you feel like you’re being spearheaded all the way to your lungs with all of Gojo’s girth. 
“Toru-” you whine, nails dragging little red lines down his broad neck and all over his shoulders. “-deeper. More please- it feels so-”
“More?” Gojo chuckles, hysterical. “You want m-more?”
He’s barely even answering his own question - let alone allowing you to answer. 
Because Gojo’s taking this as the cue to restrain your two wrists behind your back with one of his own, forcing you to whine and shudder out little sobs when your thighs strain to meet his jackhammering cadence. 
Ass stinging at the bruising slap! of his sharp hip bones, the way his heated cunt was swirling around your sweet spots so right. It felt like you were burning from the inside out-
“Ah ah-” Gojo tuts, snapping you out of your woozy reverie. Free hand coming to knock away one of your trembly palms snaking down to your neglected clit - when did you even start that? “Can’t ask me for m-more n’ do this. Move that hand so I can f-fuck you proper, honey-”
You barely even have the time to whine about it before he’s spitting a streaming waterfall of saliva onto his fingers, pinching at your clit. 
“Heh, don’t think I f-forgot about ya-” You whine at the way he was drawing dizzying circles, the cool burn of his matching wedding band. “Th-they say ya needa have the hngh- mother cum, too, ta make kids.”
Plural. 
“K-kids?” you muse. 
“Mhm-” he’s nodding like he doesn’t even realize. “How about- six-”
Maybe from the shock, maybe from the way that he was filthily spearing against your g-spot so good, you collapse readily onto your elbows. Feeling every slick and slide of Gojo’s abs rubbing up against you.
Each singular thrash into your cervix has Gojo’s babbles running more nonsensical - more pussydrunk. “Thinkin’ wh-whatever ya want- hngh- to fill ya up- Have you all r-round and ha- glowing.” Like it pained for him to even say, like it hurt with every sloppily wet thwack! of his heavy balls on your ass. “Have you be m-my madam- the mother of my kids- hngh- all with your pretty eyes-” he’s sobbing now. Swirling around his rounded tip till it hits sweets spots you didn’t even know you had. “-n’ my hair and hah- your personality- c-can’t imagine fighting over them for ya- wh-what do you think, cutie?” 
But as soon as you’re cracking your mouth open to fervently agree - at least, as much as your hazy mind could at this point, Gojo’s raising his right hand to palm over it. 
With a drunken smirk, “M’askin’ her, my wife- dontcha w-worry-” Nuzzling your cheek, “-haven’t forgotten about the mother of my kids.” 
And the saccharine-sweet sloshing is enough to ring throughout Gojo’s ears like his favorite melody - and he’s memorized every note. Pumping out more and more spurts of hot precum to stain your insides and dribble uproariously. Sleazing a grin your way, “Almost there- almost- but first-”
Every single elder he’s glaring upon jumps when Gojo graces them with one of his looks - even as barely-lucid and fucked-out as he was. He leers, “How about it? Heh, wanted a-an heir so bad n’ now you’re gonna get it. Happy now?”
As expected, no answer. 
But Gojo didn’t need one anyway - not when your ringing slurps as you swallow up his cock thunder across his ears. “O-oh, she’s tellin’ me something-”
“Wh-what is she sayin’, Toru-” you whine, lips wobbling uncontrollably in much the same way that your pussy folds were right now. 
“She’s sayin—” Gojo’s voice takes on a whimpering lilt, and he has absolutely no idea how you haven’t noticed that determined clenching of your gummy walls, the breathless pants of yours. So he only smiles, teeth sinking playfully into your ear lobe, “-that my gorgeous wife’s about to cum.”
Stars flurrying behind your lids, your toes curl and hips slam with enough force to rock the platform rickety. 
But if you didn’t notice your high - then Gojo certainly didn’t notice his, either.
Too caught-up, too busy rutting up in solid strides into your dripping cunt to notice that he was splattering your squeezing walls to be sopping wet with oozes of cum. There are so many gushes of it that Gojo feels dizzy, he feels like he’s about to break. 
“Wait- wait wait m’cumming again-” he gasps. Pinching your clit with two fingers to feel the way that jittery convulsion has Gojo’s potent seed coating his cock a glistening white. Something marshmallow creamy that makes him swallow. “D-didn’t even know I could hngh- c-cum again-”
Didn’t know if he even wanted to but- but of course, he did. 
He’s hissing at the dredges of wispy white that drip from between your slit, the very sight itself tipping Gojo over to sprinkle out a few more velvety ribbons that knock at your womb.
“Heheh- think this t-took?” Those mere words feel so sinful on his tongue, and Gojo’s ears flush a ruby red. But he can’t find himself stopping when he plugs out of your snug cunt, whimpering at the sensitive cling of your cunt as if she didn’t want to part ways. “Whoops-”
You whine at the warmly wet gush of your still-convulsing cunt, “Don’t think it t-took if you’re pulling out-”
SLAM!
You don’t know who’s actually gasping - the elders, Gojo, or you. Still reeling from the way you’re immediately flipped over onto all fours, cheeks smushed against the tatami mat so hard that Gojo wonders whether it’ll leave a mark for tomorrow. 
Assuming the two of you get out of this alive, that is. 
“Let them see-” he’s hissing, cupping your pussy to leave a few wet smacks that smear your abundance of his cum down onto the platform. So much of it. “-let them see how th-their heir is made since they wanna hah- see so badly.”
And god, the sight was supposed to taunt those in the fucking audience - but it has Gojo’s slick-sheening cock twitching up in interest once more. Barely even knowing what he’s doing before spreading open your pussy lips with one swipe of his bawling tip, and then inside-
“You d-didn’t think we were done, ngh, did you, my wife?”
As if you could ever be done with him.
Pound after pound. 
Gojo was so painfully hard right now he felt like he was going to explode - and he wanted- no, needed to be deeper than he ever has inside of you. 
Which is what found him placing an unapologetic foot on top of your head, the slight jostle in angle making him swoon in a probing push against the very ends of your cervix. And every shaky thrust too hard made you feel like he was going to fuck an heir right into your awaiting womb.
“M’sorry-” he gasps, tearily. Wet splatters of the salty substance hitting the side of your shoulder as Gojo bends - and folds and folds you pliantly right along with him. “Don’t mean to- hngh- didn’t- fuck but I need it so badly- s-so deeply- don’t think I’ve bred this cute cunt ‘nough.”
Pushing you down with his utterly full bodyweight, you’re pinned to the platform. For every eye to see the snapping, creamy strings that connect his glossy cock to your overfilled cunt. It sprinkles across your ass and down your legs, and he’s eyeing down at the glossy pool of mess sticking between your two sweat-sheened bodies from before. 
So badly. 
It’s so much - too much.
Placing kiss after gliding kiss of his syrupy precum down the very bottom of your pussy, whining at the slight recoil that has him pushing back from the elastic depths of your cunt. Such a splitting stretch that bullies you wordless. 
And it could’ve been hours - it could’ve been minutes until all that you can manage is a tiny huff that leaves your pouty lips with every wet squelch, and only makes his fat cock bludgeon even harder. He’s fucking you thoroughly, almost as if he hates you. 
Yet, sounding so badly apologetic that you can’t help but crack a smile - at least, as much as you could when your sweet insides were being ravaged by him. “S’all f-for an heir, isn’t it, Toru–?”
God- and then he’s cumming. 
Embarrassingly, almost-painfully - but still so needily.
It’s splattering and overfilling you so much that you feel your elastic walls pull taut at the sheer inflation, making you strangle out a sudden moan. Splat! splat! splattering a thin sheen down your inner thighs, the wet pumps have him fucking it even harsher to coat your spongy womb with his cum, knocking- begging for any sort of entrance.
Messy. So fucking messy that you feel your skin burn.
He can’t help it - oh, he can’t control himself when he’s pulling out for just a split-second to shuffle downwards and press his face right into your sopping folds. Latching his spit-slicked lips around your sensitive nub of a clit. Humming, sucking-
And through it all - you can just barely make out Gojo’s voice. Raw, broken. “D-don’t think it took…don’t think my h-heir took.”
“...”
It slowly evolves into Gojo’s own personal little manga - the very same that he gasps out over and over into your open mouth on the third round. Just a few more tears, a few more of his sloppy strokes in a prone bone that his aching body can barely even hold up.
Now well past the aphrodisiacs, and the allotted time for your initiation. But your audience was still seated, and the fatigue setting into both of you as you both cum with strangled cries - and Gojo’s stream of sweltering hot seed now noticeably wispier than usual. 
But still - still it wasn’t enough.
And by the fourth round, you’re wondering how the hell it was that neither of you had broken any bones, yet. Especially considering the sloppy full nelson that your greedy husband had somehow managed to wrangle you into.
Slipping and sliding across one another in a way that had Gojo crying out in frustration, drool dripping down the side of his lips  - all he really wanted to do was stuff his angry cock into you again. 
The fifth and sixth rounds start before the previous one had even ended, you think. And you’re riding on a constant wave of high while Gojo’s weepy cock sobs out a few more spurts of seed all throughout. 
Teeth clacking against your own in a mess of a kiss, voice dragging in tiny breaks at the very end of his throat. Gojo doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the rounded divot at the end of his overstimulated cock shivers out nothing. 
And Gojo knows he should be cumming - he feels like he should be cumming. 
But all his poor, half-softening cock can do is let out a gush of nothingness. Big, fat tears glistening down Gojo’s cheeks when he cums dry in the meanest mating press possible for both your tired bodies. Yet, still fucking you like he was with his cum again and again-
“You all-” Everyone jumps at the sudden, hoarse voice coming from the leader, having resigned himself to mere whimpers of your name and “heirs” by now. And the elders can’t even hold his droopy, barely-there gaze. Dangerous. “Bow. Bow to your new madam.”
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A/N. Hope you all have a lovelyyy day.
Plagiarism not authorized.
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davepaste · 1 year ago
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my glasses broke in june and i've just been retaping the arms back on every few days
this is going to break me or help me reach enlightenment either way i think im going to find out soon
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wndaswife · 1 month ago
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a new tradition | wanda maximoff & gn!reader
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Christmas is the busiest holiday for Westview’s planning committee, and it’s about to get far busier upon your meeting with a frustrating committee head.
Word count: 24 633
Tags | MDNI: smut, fluff!!! it is the season!, a little bit of angst, some humour, enemies to lovers, fingering, strap-on usage, nipple play, hair pulling, praise, mentions of reader’s genitals and breasts, afab!reader
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Winter has always been beautiful in Westview. By the last week of November, there always came flecks of snow, signalling an upcoming white Christmas, and by mid-December, children were playing with their dogs and siblings in their backyards and town parks, sparking white blanketing the roofs, roads, and trees. 
The town’s planning committee certainly did their own part for the holidays too, for Christmas was the committee’s largest and busiest occasion of the year. The committee, composed of town volunteers and run by Westview’s municipality, began planning by the first of December, and continued on eagerly until the twentieth.
By the twentieth, there was an itinerary planned and prepared for a performance in the town square on Christmas Eve. Typically, there was a set of musical performers and, around the patio, snack vendors for things like hot chocolate and warm pastries, and small business pop-ups. 
Surrounded by outdoor heaters for the patio performers and the visitors, the town came together to listen to music, decorate cookies and ornaments, and support small businesses, with a fraction of all earnings going towards a local charity chosen in November by the planning committee.
Throughout December, the municipality itself decorated the town, with boughs of holly, lights, and other decorations and ornaments adorning the light poles, streets, and storefronts and their roofs. People of Westview began counting down until Christmas as the decorations gradually went up; by the time the town square’s patio was decorated, which was done last, they knew it was only a matter of days until the town celebration, and most importantly, until Christmas Eve. 
As anyone would guess, everyone involved in any town affair during the duration of December was rather busy, so you were rather grateful that you were able to join the planning committee late.
You’d always wanted to somehow be a part of Westview’s Christmas traditions since moving there for work a year ago. You moved in around the end of November after you graduated, and your very first impression of the town was the all-around magical month of December. But last year, you travelled to see your family, and couldn’t stay for the planning nor the celebration.
This year, you were hosting, and that meant you could finally take part in the committee as you’d wanted to do last season, though you did end up joining late because you had to bring unexpected extra work home. 
Naturally, you were rather excited to be able to both take a break from work and do something fun, and to get more involved with Westview’s community. 
But upon your first committee meeting, you realized you weren’t expecting the committee was so… hierarchical.
You understood and even expected the hustle and bustle of assigned responsibilities and time-crunching, and even a few of the disagreements during the meetings and over the text groupchat which sometimes seemed a little hostile to you, so perhaps, to word it more accurately, what you hadn’t been expecting was Wanda Maximoff.
The committee worked by dividing volunteers into different sections of responsibility, involving those who worked with the small business, who handled the budgeting, the charity partnership, the performing bands, and many others.
Wanda Maximoff was the head of planning. She led the committee meetings, and she was the first one every divided section went to to discuss any changes or new ideas. Wanda could independently veto or approve any adjustment or suggestion, and knew everything about everything which not even the many of the divided sections knew about each other since they were too occupied with their own responsibilities. 
Being registered as a committee volunteer took an application which went through Westview’s municipal website — not the committee itself. 
Wanda had seen in her email that a new member had joined the committee. She’d never heard of you, and though she wasn’t particularly close to anyone in Westview, so she wouldn’t exactly be the first to know about social matters, she’d asked a few of the other executive planning volunteers, and they hadn’t heard of you either.  
A large reason you wanted to join the committee was to become more involved in Westview’s community. The past year after moving last November was far busier than you’d expected, and along with a promotion at work, you’d had far too many new responsibilities to adjust to to have enough time to socialize or involve yourself very much. 
With that being said, the upcoming holiday spent with the committee was going to be your first real involvement with the town and your community. 
The first meeting was okay. It was around the end of the first week of December, which by the committee’s speed, was still late for you to suddenly jump in and join like they’d been playing jump rope. The meeting was somewhat of a debrief about how far everyone had gotten, while bringing up any new ideas in moving forward. 
It was actually rather incredible to watch them all plan and discuss; they were diligent and all worked well with each other, and additionally, they were partnering with performers and vendors who were all local, which made planning everything in December possible. 
You figured Wanda was the head of the committee for how every conversation either ended or started with her, and if they didn’t involve her, and was far more focused on what each group was saying than anyone else.
You didn’t speak very much, so perhaps that was why you might’ve appeared as some kind of outlier, but truly, you didn’t have anything to say, and wouldn’t have had anything to say even if you tried. 
Though you understood the logic of being the odd one out, not much attention was drawn to you, likely because everyone was far too busy to pay you much attention — that is, aside from the busiest in the room. 
Circles don’t have heads at their tables, and yet, Wanda was very evidently sitting at it. With the side of her chin in her hand, her head tilted slightly in your direction, your eyes kept flickering over at her, and more than half of the times you did, her green eyes darted away immediately and looked back over at whomever was presently speaking. 
After the meeting, you chatted a little with some of the volunteers you were sitting beside, waiting patiently for a window in which you could approach Wanda. Everyone who was part of the committee was sorted into groups to take on different responsibilities, but you hadn’t been sorted yet, and it wasn’t mentioned in the meeting, which you understood given how busy everything was, so you were hoping Wanda could sort you.
Wanda was slinging her purse over her shoulder when you approached her, and when she turned around, there was just a single beat in which she seemed to be surveying you, as if a resolve to the brief glances she had taken of you from afar. 
You introduced yourself to her. 
“Y/N,” she acknowledged, without introducing herself in turn. “Your name was emailed to me this afternoon after you submitted your application two days ago.”
You looked at her wordlessly for a moment then nodded, as if hesitant. You were waiting for her to continue. What did she expect you to say to that?
You felt slightly belittled for how unwelcoming initially came across, and how her greeting only called you to initiate more of the conversation on your own. And she wasn’t even really acknowledging you, she was just stating a fact, as if she would’ve said the exact words to anyone else in any professional setting. 
‘The sky is blue, it’s wintertime, there are light traces of freckles along the bridge of my nose, and your name was emailed to me this afternoon,’ she seemed to be saying. 
“Cool,” you answered. It was an answer in the form of an itch; you felt you couldn’t respond to her with the cordiality you’d initially intended.
It wasn’t just the way she had spoken, for you didn’t expect any obligation for any specific form of kindness. She was the head of the committee, and no doubt extremely busy and extremely stressed, and you were late to join, after all. 
So you put aside the way she was looking at you, in the bored and scrutinizing way she was, and how she kept looking over at you during the meeting only to say little to nothing welcoming or friendly upon your official introduction. 
If you knew Wanda well enough, not that many did, you would’ve noticed the narrowing of her eyes visible only by a slight twitch at the corner of them. 
Cool. 
“I was wondering how I’d be able to figure out what I should start helping with,” you told her. You hoped feigning curiosity would give yourself a good impression — you already knew it was Wanda who was assigned roles. 
“That depends,” she said, her focus not at all on you as she reached into her purse to take her car keys out. She looked back up at you. “Are you good at anything?”
For a moment, you genuinely questioned if you had done something wrong, and then you quickly realized it isn’t at all your responsibility to baby a grown woman. 
You repeated, genuinely confused and not willing to intentionally leave a bad impression this early into your volunteering, “Am I good at anything?”
“Are you good at anything discussed during the meeting?” she clarified, her expression remaining still and unimpressed.
“I wouldn’t know,” you answered, “this is my first time here. Wasn’t that mentioned in the email?”
Wanda looked to the side thoughtfully, as if thinking something over, but the slight rising of her shoulders as she took in a breath indicated irritation. Then she looked back at you. “It was. But I assumed you had some prior experience, perhaps from your own job or volunteering experience.”
Something uncomfortable and tense tightened in your stomach. It wasn’t as if she was saying anything particularly rude, but you knew it was meant to be somewhat offensive, if not purposefully condescending. 
“We’re always a bit rushed in booking the performances, so if that’s something that interests you, you can help with that,” she finally offered. “I’ll give you Kate’s number so you can contact her and make some plans to meet up on your own time during the week.”
After you received a Kate Bishop’s number, you tucked your pride away and thanked Wanda for her help, only to look up from your phone and find her approached by a man around her age whose face you recognized from the meeting, who she immediately looked far more friendly with.
You weren't planning on sticking around to stand idly watching the coldest woman you’ve met in Westview so far since you moved last November act all buddy-buddy with someone else right in front of you, but the transition from speaking to you to speaking with the man was far too stark to not notice the differences, even for the split second you stood there for.
He placed his hand on the table behind her, to which Wanda turned, leaning against the table and looking up at him as they spoke. A gold wedding band adorned the finger of the man’s hand which you noticed was placed on the table, and you assumed he was her husband. 
For a moment as you turned to leave, you sympathized with Wanda, who you could now envision as a stressed and overworked woman who was glad to see her husband after a long day. 
Perhaps it was just thinking over the bizarre contrast between her interactions with you and the immediate friendly demeanour she took with the man that made you turn your head back as you walked away, just to reconstruct her first impression on you. But when you turned, you realized she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring at all.
You were slightly confused and perhaps a little intrigued, but not at all invested enough to think about that nor about Wanda Maximoff at all by the time you left the building. When you got into the driver’s seat of your car, you sent Kate Bishop a text message introducing yourself and explaining how you got her number and for what reason, then headed home, eager to finally lay down.
By the time you were on the road, driving down the decorated light poles and storefronts, and down the snowy, sparkling white sidewalks and roofs, you forgot all about Wanda and that dreadful first interaction.
Two days later, you met up with the group within the committee which handled the preparation of the performances. You didn’t know who you were expecting to see once you met up at one of Westview’s cafes to plan and discuss, but you certainly weren’t expecting a group that was composed of only college students.
You weren’t much older than them — you finished your postgrad last year — but you were younger than Wanda, and maybe it was just because you harboured some remnants of bitterness for her, but you almost thought the group she suggested to you was intentional.
After an hour of conversing with them, however, you realized you were being far too obsessive with your first interaction with Wanda to have even had that thought upon meeting them, because you actually ended up having likely one of the first thoroughly enjoyable times with a group of people from your town.
Along with Kate, you were grouped with her friends America, Peter, and Kamala. If you were honest with yourself, you felt a little insecure about your age while being around them, listening to them discuss school while you’d been working for a year since graduation. But you felt, and they assured you once you mentioned it to them half-jokingly, that you honestly blended in just fine.
In fact, Peter very seriously thought you were in his history class this past semester.
But in a way, that made you feel a little bashful — did you still look like a college student, and not at all like the professional you thought you’d been becoming throughout the past year?
Is that what you looked like to Wanda that day you first met?
You didn’t see Wanda again until the next committee meeting, which you found out took place twice a week. Only the first meeting was mandatory, and the other was optional for any pressing questions, and also provided a window for opportunity to speed up the planning if anyone had any extra time to do so.
After the last few days meeting with your group and talking a little over the groupchat between all of you, you found yourself in a particularly good mood, and it was hard to stay sour in Westview when it was winter, getting closer and closer to Christmas each day.
You wanted to make a good impression and wanted to make some room for having further conversation with other volunteers, so you stopped by a cafe and bought a box of twelve fresh muffins. There were about two times that amount of people in the committee, but you were certain not everyone would want one, and you also weren’t sure how permitted it was to bring food to the meetings. 
You were planning on arriving early and placing the muffins on the table with a little note to take one, with an easy in and out without being seen. You didn’t want to be seen bringing the muffins in because you figured you’d end up behaving far too awkward in the act, effectively outweighing any possibility of having the first impression you wanted. 
If someone brought the muffins up, or offered you one, you were planning on somehow subtly bringing up that you were the one who brought them.
After setting the box down on the edge of the meeting room table, you placed the sticky note you wrote on top of it. You turned to head out the door, planning on waiting in the car for others to arrive before reentering, only to come across Wanda on your way out. 
She had her chin tucked into her scarf, and a knitted hat on, looking rather cozy and warm in her jacket, the purse which you saw her carry last week hanging from her shoulder. At the sight of you, and at how you slowed down as you passed her, she untucked half her face from her scarf and took her hat off, causing her brown hair to frizz up as she pulled it off.
Combing her fingers through the top of her head to smooth her hair down, she said, “You’re early. Heading out?”
“O-Oh…” you stuttered, feeling awkward.
You weighed the risk of telling her you brought muffins, since you didn’t know if bringing food was allowed. And wouldn’t you look even far more awkward if food was allowed, and you were running away from a box of muffins as if you’d just wired in a bomb?
Wanda continued to look at you expectantly, slowly unwrapping her scarf from around her neck, which distracted you from making a decision about what to tell her, for whatever reason.
“I brought muffins,” you suddenly said.
She blinked, eyes darting down at your empty hands which laid limp at your sides, then to your back and shoulders, which was devoid of any bag to carry any muffins in.
“I already put it in the meeting room.”
“It’s already in there?” she asked.
You nodded once.
“Then where are you going? Aren’t you staying for the meeting?”
Did she question everyone this seriously? Couldn’t she at least smile a little or give you a little laugh to ease the tension?
“I am. I just… forgot something in my car.”
Wanda looked at you for a moment, and surprisingly, it didn’t look like she was scrutinizing you. It looked like she was thinking something over. She looked in the direction of the meeting room, and you took the time to look at her ring finger. She wasn’t married.
“Why did you bring muffins?” she then asked, looking back over to you and putting her hat into her purse and holding her scarf.
You opened your mouth and promptly shut it, realizing all you knew to do in the moment was stutter, so you stayed quiet for a moment to think of what to say so as to not look like an idiot. “I just wanted to do something nice, I guess,” you said.
“Really?” Wanda said, her eyebrows raising ever so slightly, seemingly surprised. “I see.” She made some kind of noise, like a hum, and looked away into the general direction of the meeting room. 
Then she undid her jacket, looking at you only briefly and saying a few words before heading into the building: “Well, I won’t keep you from going back to your car. I’ll see you.”
When you thought back to how Wanda had kept looking over to you during the first meeting you attended, you imagined that she was interested in you because it was her first time seeing you, and figured she was likely that way with everyone who initially joined. 
Naturally, that meant that after conversing with her and proving yourself as able to reliably contribute to your group, you imagined she would treat you like any other member, and after that, you’d come to realize that you’d been thinking about her in a rather overdramatic fashion.
But instead, Wanda seemed to pay you even more attention. You caught her staring far more often, though this time, it was hard to justify this as stealing glances when you were actually part of a group this time. She made unwavering eye contact with you when you spoke, which she didn’t do with anyone else. She picked at your suggestions and progress reports more than anyone else in your group.
This time around, you genuinely started to feel rather frustrated. You’d been enjoying your last few days in Westview with your group, and were looking forward to the rest of the month, and had initially believed that your irritating interactions with Wanda were more or less made up by your imagination.
But this all seemed far too targeted to be coincidental.
You were even too irritated during the meeting to pay attention to anyone who was enjoying the muffins you brought — which was, unbeknownst to you, quite popular amongst the members. You told Kamala about the muffins when you’d bought them, since you asked her about where to go for the best ones, so she was able to drop your name to other members a few times.
After the meeting, Wanda was talking with the same man who approached her after the meeting last week — the same married man.
“Can I talk to you, Wanda?” you interrupted their conversation the moment you heard the briefest gap in their conversation. She looked over to you, along with the man, who for some reason irritated you far more than she did in the moment.
They exchanged a few last words before parting, and Wanda turned to you, adjusting her scarf. “What did you need to talk about?” she asked.
You had hoped she was planning on talking in a more private place, but she didn’t move anywhere else, and stayed more or less in the vicinity of traffic of people who were leaving. If she didn’t want to put any effort in nor give any indication that she cared about interacting with you, then you’d have the conversation right there.
“Do you have a problem with me?” you asked. 
For the first time, Wanda wore an expression around you that was other than bored and unimpressed, looking somewhere between entertained and surprised. “I’m sorry?”
“You asked me more questions about my group than anyone else I’m paired with, and more than anyone else in the committee,” you told her. 
“It bothers you to be favoured?”
You flinched back a little, as if the word ‘favoured’ had physically nudged you backwards. “F… Favoured?”
“Y/N…” Wanda let out a little exhale that you knew was a repressed sigh. “This is your first year volunteering. It is not unreasonable nor should it be threatening to you that I want to ensure you’re playing your part within your group. And I want to make sure you’re getting along well with everything.”
“You’re overdoing it,” you quickly replied. “I joined only a week late, and if you think I need more monitoring than any other volunteer, you’re not focusing your attention on the right things. You don’t think I notice that you look at me even when I’m not the one talking?”
In the split second of silence between your second last sentence and your final one, Wanda opened her mouth to respond, but quickly shut it when you mentioned how she kept looking at you. Her jaw seemed to tense and she adjusted her purse on her shoulder, her eyes darting over to the side for a brief moment.
“To each their own, Y/N,” she replied simply. “Either way, if you’re getting along with everything well, what I do shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. Everything is getting done on time, isn’t it? What more could you ask for?”
She likely had wanted the conversation to stop with a rhetorical question, but if she was really asking, then you were really going to answer. “I want to ask for you to stop treating the committee like it’s some kind of tyranny. You know, people come here in their spare time, away from their families and their homes to do something nice.”
Wanda visibly tensed, and she seemed to be fidgeting when her other hand moved to the front of her jacket to tug at the edge of her scarf. Perhaps she simply didn’t like confrontation. You wondered when the last time anyone confronted her was, and then you wondered when she’d given anyone but you a reason to confront her. 
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she apologized disingenuously, clearly just wanting to end the conversation. You wondered if she had plans to get to, and at the thought that she was just in a rush to go meet that married man at some dingy motel, you exhaled through your nose with visible irritation.
You attended the following optional meeting because America wanted to discuss the possibility of including one of the bands at the college she went to into the performance setlist, so it was just you and her out of your group that attended. Typically, they partnered with more local bands, but America really liked them, and she was certain she could have them perform for cheaper than the usual bands they invited if they paid for their trip here.
Upon arriving, you noticed that there were a few pastries set out on the table, and thermos of hot chocolate and some paper cups and lids, which some members were helping themselves to as they settled in. Everyone was warming up with the hot chocolate, and looking delightfully surprised at the selection of pastries since a storm was beginning to come down outside as they all drove in.
“Y/N, dear, you had the right idea bringing muffins the other day,” Mrs Davis gushed as she approached you from behind, a hand on your upper arm. “Everyone is always so hungry at the evening meetings, since some of us have to squeeze them in before dinner.”
America looked amused at your confusion as your eyes darted between the pasties and hot chocolate and Mrs Davis. She knew you felt a little confused and preoccupied by being drilled by Wanda — though you chose not to share how much she irritated you — so she knew that you hadn’t paid attention to how popular the muffins were last meeting, or how Kamala mentioned to others that you brought them.
“Oh,” you replied with a friendly albeit confused smile. “Did you bring these?”
“I bought the hot chocolate, but Rio and Agatha brought the pastries,” she answered with a beaming smile. 
An excited and warm feeling grew in your chest at the thought that you’d started a little tradition, which made you forget all about how confused you initially were.
In spite of the cheery beginning and how the committee started out, chatting about each other’s holidays and preparations at home with their families, the meeting progressed with gradual confusion since Wanda still hadn’t shown up twenty minutes into the hour-long meeting. 
It wasn’t a good look on her, since a member of Westview’s municipal financial association had come to sit in to see how things were coming along since the committee was largely funded by them along with some other invested donors. 
By the twenty minute mark, everyone decided to begin speaking altogether and writing the biggest takeaways into a notebook, which would be provided to Wanda over text and in the committee groupchat. Things discussed in optional meetings weren’t always necessarily shared with the rest of the committee, since they were typically attended for more specific questions and planning, but it was Wanda who decided what should be made common knowledge, which she covered in the following meeting, or if it was pressing, she’d send it to the groupchat. But since she wasn’t there, it was decided that they’d record everything important that was covered, whether it was a resolved question or not.
Close to forty minutes into the meeting, Wanda arrived, looking a little frazzled, with her scarf and hat still on. She had tried to come in subtly but, perhaps intentionally, Rio called out, greeting her loudly. 
“I’m sorry for being so late,” she apologized, and you could detect a little breathlessness in her voice. She sat down and took her hat off, her hair frizzing up at the top like it did the other time she took her hat off. But she didn’t smooth it down before she undid her scarf, making her look even more frazzled.
As she looked around at the table and then at the notebook, and then at the municipal member sitting at the table, Wanda slid her jacket off and smoothed her hair out. “How… has everything been going?” she asked. She was then given a rundown from the notebook, Wanda nodding and listening carefully as it was all explained to her.
Throughout the rest of the meeting, you didn’t catch Wanda looking over at you even once.
The municipal member who had come to sit in pulled Wanda to the side after the meeting finished, engaging in a conversation which looked slightly serious from the other side of the room as you chatted with Mrs Davis and Rio and Agatha as they packed up their things while you and America helped. 
They all left as soon as possible, since Mrs Davis carpooled with Rio and Agatha on their way here, and the storm had suddenly come down rather heavy outside, so they were eager to get home quick before the visibility got any worse. America’s mothers were waiting outside for her, so you said goodbye to her too as you zipped up your jacket. 
By the time you headed out, Wanda was standing inside the building by the door, looking out through the windows at the side of the front door. She was back in her scarf and hat and bundled up jacket, so you weren’t sure why she was still hanging out at the front.
Upon getting a closer look at her as you continued to walk towards the exit, you noticed that Wanda looked genuinely stressed, unlike the other times you only assumed she was. She seemed anxious looking out the window, and seemingly tense in general. 
You looked outside the windows, and the snow was very quickly building, footsteps at least a few inches into the snow until they reached the ground, and a few people still getting into their cars, the sight of them blurring in the white veil of the blowing snow, shielded themselves from the wind, careful not to hit the other cars around them while opening their car doors.
“If you wait any longer to drive home, it’ll only be harder to get through the snow,” you said, stopping a few feet away from her. She jumped a little, turning her head to look at you and staring for just a moment before looking back through the window.
Her scarf was wrapped up to just below her nose, muffling her words slightly as she replied, “I’m waiting for an Uber.” 
“Huh? An Uber?” you asked. “No driver is driving around in a small town through a storm that just started. The salters haven’t even come out yet. Didn’t you drive here on your own?”
Wanda didn’t respond, and looked down between her phone — which you assumed she was tracking her driver through — and the window.
Though you were frustrated at her standoffishness and how she just completely ignored you, you inhaled sharply before pressing, “You should just call a friend or some family to pick you up. You’ll be waiting here at least forty minutes before your driver comes.”
“Incidentally, don’t you someplace to be?” Wanda suddenly asked sharply, turning her head around to look at you.
Your eyes narrowed and you adjusted your jacket, preparing for the winter storm. “Fine. Then I guess I’ll be seeing you at the next meeting — still waiting here for your Uber.”
She gave you a look as you walked past her and left the building.
You stormed off into the blizzard with enough anger that you were melting all the snow sprinkling down in your vicinity with how frustrated you felt, suddenly feeling like you were overheating in your jacket. 
There was something about Wanda that just really pissed you off, and even worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about her. After the meetings and when you were home, you hardly thought about her, and more often than not, you were ready to be friendly with her every time another meeting came around. But each time you interacted with her, she drilled herself further and further into your brain and buried herself there. 
There was just something irrational about how frustrated she made you that just sort of ate at you. You thought she looked so stupid in her scarf, and she looked like an idiot when she took her hat off and her hair was in a frizzy mess. 
And what was the deal with her and that married guy? She certainly wasn’t her brother or her friend with how close he got, and you could swear once you saw him brush his hand up against her hip — with the hand he had his ring on!
So, along with being just a dick, she was a stupid idiot who owned stupid scarves and stupid hats, and she was a homewrecker and a total anti-feminist for flirting with a married man.
Then, feeling frustrated and overwhelmed and not paying attention to your surroundings, you set your foot down on some ice and nearly slipped. You were flailing around and practically running in place desperately until your foot landed on the thick snow to give you enough friction to steady yourself.
And you knew it was irrational, but fuck, this was somehow all Wanda’s fault. 
You ripped your hat off, finally becoming overstimulated with it on, before sticking it in your jacket pocket. You looked back over at the building, and then at the parking lot which was very empty of an Uber driver, and you stormed back over to the front door. 
When you reentered the building, Wanda was still standing in the same spot, and when you turned to look at her, holding the door open from the inside, she looked up from her phone at you, confused.
“I’ll drive you home,” you told her bluntly. “Let’s go.”
She straightened, putting her phone in her pocket. “No, I’m waiting for my ride.”
“You’re not getting an Uber in this storm!”
“Well, I am. I already ordered one.”
You really weren’t planning on raising your voice, but you had nearly slipped on ice, and you needed to get out of your jacket, and Wanda looked so stupid with her scarf wrapped up around the lower half of her face.
“Wanda, let’s go!” you bit as if she were a child throwing a tantrum in a grocery store and you were her parent, who’d been patient for long enough.
She stared at you for a few moments, the whistling wind of the blizzard outside the only noise between the two of you. 
“Fine,” she finally mumbled, burying her face in her scarf and heading out the door. She waited a moment for you to exit the building behind her, before she followed behind you towards your car.
Wanda told you where she lived after she buckled herself in and you pulled out of the parking lot. She remained bundled in her hat and scarf. Maybe it was because Wanda hadn’t ever been in your car before, but she looked so tiny sitting in the passenger’s seat, half her head wrapped up in her plush scarf. 
But maybe she was making herself smaller, sinking into her jacket and the seat,
Taking in a small breath and trying to melt your frustration away in the warmth of your car, you asked softly, “Why were you late?”
Wanda shifted in her seat, folding her gloved hands in her lap. “My car broke down on the way here,” she explained. “I tried to stay around to get it towed, but I ended up having to leave it there because of how busy the towing company was. They suggested I get it done tomorrow morning instead.”
“How did you get to the meeting?”
“One woman came, but by the time she did, the car was already covered and far too stuck in the snow, and she couldn’t call anyone else. So she drove me.”
Maybe you got a little too excited at the thought that you were finally having a normal conversation with the woman who’d been irritating you so much, so you casually asked, “So, is that guy your husband?”
“What?” she asked, taken by surprise. She looked at you, the lower half of her face a little more uncovered. At the stoplight, you looked at her, seeing the bridge of her nose and her cheeks flushed a gentle pink from the warmth of her scarf.
Then you looked away and back at the road, feeling that you’d perhaps got ahead of yourself, and after thinking it over for a moment, you weren’t sure why that was the question that came out of you. You’d already come to the fine conclusion that Wanda was seeing a married man, but perhaps it was interacting with her normally that made you think for the first time that such a thing might be uncharacteristic of her.
“No, he’s not,” she finally answered. “I’m not married.”
You decided not to mention it again. You had already known that Wanda wasn’t married to him, and you weren’t really interested in knowing more about her love life. Actually, the idea that Wanda even had a love life made you a little uncomfortable. The idea that she could act in any way other than how you’d already witnessed her, and instead, as romantic and affectionate, was somehow startling.
“You should probably cancel that Uber,” you told her.
There were a few moments of silence, and you figured Wanda was cancelling the drive since you weren’t paying attention to what she was doing. Then, she said quietly, “I never got a driver. No one picked it up.”
You looked over at her for a second and she was still sunken down into her jacket, looking straight ahead at the road, whose visibility was becoming steadily worse as the storm progressed. “So… were you waiting for someone?”
“I was…” She sounded like she was thinking something through. “I was just waiting for the storm to die down before I tried to go home.”
“I’m sure one of your friends or some of your family would’ve come to pick you up,” you told her, thinking that she was the kind that was against asking people for help.
You were beginning to realize that Wanda always seemed a little tense each time you brought up any mention of family, so you didn’t press any further when she was silent in response to what you said. 
When you arrived at her place, you offered to help her out of the car, but she said she was fine to get out on her own. She closed the door behind her and walked around to your window. Though you felt a little put on the spot, you rolled the window down. 
You couldn’t really see her expression beyond her plush scarf still covering everything below the tip of her nose, but she looked just a little awkward as she looked at you, her gaze seeming uncertain and hesitant. 
“Thank you for driving me,” she said, and you couldn’t tell if she was purposefully mumbling or if her scarf was muffling her words. 
Suddenly you felt a little awkward, and your chest felt fluttery. “You’re welcome,” you answered.
“And I don’t know if you really care about these things, but everything I’ve heard about you from the committee has been very positive.”
“Oh.”
“They all say you’re very kind and responsible and friendly. And everyone thought it was really sweet that you brought the muffins earlier this week.”
You didn't want to say oh again, but you honestly didn’t know what else to say. You felt like you were put on the spot, and more than that, your face felt warm. “Oh. Okay. I see.”
Wanda blinked then looked away for a moment as if thinking of something else to say, though her expression was still and unmoving. But then she looked back at you and said, “Thank you for driving. I’ll see you next week.” Then you waited until she got into her house before you pulled out of her driveway and headed back home as soon as you could, getting out of the storm.
The next time you met up with your group, there was just under two weeks left until Christmas, and you were all making perfect time, and from what you’d been hearing, so were the other groups. 
“Did you see all the changes Wanda made to our document?” Kate asked as you all settled down in a booth from picking your drinks up at the counter.
You looked up from your mug.
“Changes?” Peter asked, sounding slightly whiny. “I thought our setlist and budgeting was perfect.”
Kate huffed as she scrolled down the Google Doc. “Yeah, but at least she only changed little things,” she said, leaning forward and reading the screen. 
“Like what?” Kamala asked, scooping some whipped cream from her hot chocolate with a spoon and sticking it into her mouth.
A small confused frown formed on Kate’s face. “Just, like… the songs and the order of the bands. And the accessories they were going to wear.”
“She didn’t change any of the actual bands?” America asked.
Kamala added, probably as some sort of inside joke, “Or relocate our spendings?”
“Umm…” Kate scrolled through the document again, double-checking. “Nope. None of that. She just fixed around random things.”
You didn’t really like talking about Wanda with them, because you were still partly convinced that you were just making it all up, and you were just being overly irritated around her. But you still couldn’t really pinpoint why she got under your skin so much.
Taking a sip of your drink and trying not to sound so invested in the topic of her, you asked as nonchalantly as you could, “Does she normally do all the other stuff?”
“Yeah, last year she relocated a bunch of our funding to a different group, then changed around the setlist we scheduled,” Kamala answered, setting her mug down, revealing a white rim of whipped cream along her upper lip.
Kate jutted her hand into the middle of the table, holding all five fingers up. “Five days before Christmas, by the way,” she added, eyebrows raised. “And we had to call the bands to tell them that their performance times had changed, which luckily didn’t conflict with anything, and we also had to cut way down on a whole lot of other things we were planning, and it was just…  a mess.”
“Oh,” you said, somewhat shocked at hearing the things she did last year. You already thought she could be rather tyrannical, but you wouldn’t have expected her to go into a group’s plans and change so much without notice.
“I thought she’s been sorta nicer this year,” Peter said, snapping his Biscoff cookie in half and taking a bite of one the halves.
Kamala suddenly gasped and leaned forward, her hands making contact with the table, effectively gaining the group’s attention. “Wait, is it true that she got in trouble at the last meeting for coming late?”
America nodded, “Yeah, because she was forty minutes late, and a woman from the town council came to the meeting.”
“She was late?” Kate asked, looking up from her laptop. “I guess that’s surprising for her, but why did she get in trouble for that?”
Peter mentioned, “Ned’s uncle works in Westview’s financial department, and he told me that the committee was behind in reporting the budgeting.”
“Oh,” America added, “the woman told me she was from the same department. So… I guess the tardiness was just the cherry on top.”
On the way back home from the cafe, you thought about how little you actually knew about Wanda from the meetings, and upon reflecting on your conversation in the car, you realized you didn’t get to learn much about her then, either. 
Something about that made you feel a little impatient, with Wanda seeming more and more like some enigma you were compelled to understand. You enjoyed seeing her that way more than you previously saw her since you could see her as more of a mystery than a weight on your shoulders.
But you couldn’t deny how relieved it made you that you weren’t the only one she’d ever pissed off.
By the time of the next meeting, there was a week and half left until Christmas, and everything seemed to be progressing well with all the groups. Everything was scheduled to be finished on time, if not a little bit early.
Aside from the newly-developed tradition of bringing a few snacks and drinks to the meeting, everything went as it typically did, aside from the fact that Wanda looked almost… a little flustered when you caught her looking at you, though you caught her far less frequently than you did the times before.
Because of how little she spoke with the other committee members, you figured it was because she felt a little awkward having interacted with a member outside of the meeting. 
And you didn’t forget about how you snapped at her when she wouldn’t let you drive her at first. 
It was a little embarrassing to think back on, especially with how frustrated you were, but you ended up being able to drive her anyway, and she told you that everyone had a great impression of you, so it wasn’t all for nothing.
While looking at Wanda from across throughout the meeting, you felt sort of bad for her. 
After thinking about it a little bit, why didn’t she mention any friends or family helping her with her broken down car? Or after the fact, once the meeting finished? Even if she was the kind to be against asking people for help, it must say something about her loved ones that she felt she couldn’t rely on them for help.
Then there was the matter about how she always looked a little uncomfortable when you mentioned family.
As much as you hated thinking about her love life for a reason you couldn’t entirely understand — though you were sure it was because it still felt strange for you to imagine Wanda could be in a relationship — it was a little depressing to imagine that the only person she’d been spending her holidays with was a married man.
Being the head of the planning committee for Westview’s busiest and largest holiday was a lot to handle, and volunteering was still something everyone did in their spare time, so the possibility that she could very well have dozens of other far more pressing things in her life going on, only to be reprimanded by someone representing the committee’s funding, couldn’t be very easy for her.
After the meeting, you approached her, and as you did, you came to the realization that you spoke with her at the end of every meeting you attended so far, and not even the married guy did that.
“Wanda, I was wondering if I could get your help with something,” you said as you stopped at her side while she was slipping a few papers into her purse. 
She hung her purse from her shoulder and turned to you. “With what?” she replied simply.
Although Wanda still hadn’t given you as much as a single smile so far, you thought you made a little progress, given that you also somewhat expected her to take your request for her help as indicative of your inability to keep up with the rest of your group.
As you walked out to the parking lot together, you explained, “Rio and Agatha’s group asked me for a little bit of help with planning the decorating of the performance patio since they were a little behind, and they thought I would know the best way to decorate since we’re planning the performers’ outfits.”
“They didn’t have to ask you, they could’ve just spoken with your group.”
“They did, but everyone else was busy. I have the least to do in the group since they all fit me in to do anything extra. And it’s not a big deal, I just wanted to discuss budgeting stuff with you.”
Wanda stared down at the snowy ground as she walked forward. Then she looked up and over at you. “Alright. We can meet when you’re free to ask me anything you want.”
Although you technically already had Wanda’s number since the committee groupchat was made through WhatsApp, she gave you her number anyway, perhaps not realizing that you already had it through the groupchat. And there was something about Wanda giving you her number that made you feel a little excited.
But what made you even more excited was that Wanda used one smiley face over text when you planned to meet up. 
That was basically a real life smile.
You decided to come early to your lunch with Wanda on the Saturday which you both planned to meet for. You were ten minutes early, but by the time you arrived, Wanda was already sitting at a table with a cup of coffee.
You rechecked the time, and you were indeed ten minutes early.
“Hi, I’m here,” you greeted as you stopped at the chair that was opposite of Wanda, taking off your jacket and hanging it from the back of it. “Have you been here very long?”
In the same way that she looked in your car, Wanda seemed tiny sitting at the table with her cup of coffee and wearing clothes that were a little more casual than those which she wore to the meetings. Maybe she always just seemed much larger to you in the context of the meetings, since she didn’t even really behave the same way outside of them.
“Hi,” she greeted back first. “I’ve been here for maybe fifteen minutes. I thought I would come early too.”
You took a seat and looked around at the place. It was primarily a cafe, but known for its cheap and delicious breakfast sandwiches, so it was also known as a breakfast location, but in the afternoon, as a proper cafe. You hadn’t been yet, but Peter had been queuing this place up to go the next time your group had to meet.
As you looked around, Wanda watched you, her fingers rubbing against the side of her warm mug, feeling a little nervous. When you looked back to the side of the cafe that was behind her and into her general vicinity, her eyes darted back down to her coffee.
Wanda didn’t know anything about you by the first meeting, but she was immediately drawn to how you seemed to her. You were curious, always looking around at the table, and very attractive. She knew immediately that you were going to do quite well at whatever you wanted to put your time towards. 
Truthfully, Wanda has never been good with socializing. She was good at planning and being professional in a way that other people hated enough so that she never really had to worry about being close with others. 
It wasn’t lost on her how you’d approached her at the end of every meeting, if not only to speak to her with some hostility. She noticed how sweet you were to the other members, and how well you were already getting along with everyone. Though she figured that anyone she asked would have said all those things she mentioned to you after you drove her to her place, she actually hadn’t been told anything about you. She just didn’t know how else to talk to you in that way.
No one really told Wanda anything in the social context; she wasn’t ever really wanted or thought about unless it was necessitated.
Truthfully, she didn’t feel jealous about how popular you were, but instead, she felt rather nervous to be around you. It felt similar to feelings of insecurity, if she really thought about it.
She decided to come to the cafe early to try and prepare herself for lunch with you, since she would’ve felt even worse panicking away at home or alone in the car. God, what did people even talk about over lunch? She couldn’t even remember the last time she met someone in such a casual context. It felt somewhat casual anyway, although you had asked her to discuss some of your committee responsibilities.
“Do you mind if we get some food before we talk about the budgeting?” you asked, and when Wanda looked up from her coffee, you were making eye contact with her. “I haven’t eaten yet.”
She nodded. 
You trailed off as you flipped through the menu, and when you noticed she didn’t have a menu open, you looked up at her. “Are you getting anything?”
“Oh. I know what I want.”
“Were you really here for that long?”
“I come here sometimes for breakfast if I wake up early enough.”
The image of Wanda coming in here for breakfast while bundled up in her cozy hat and plush scarf at nine in the morning kind of made you wanna tease her for such an adorable routine. Well, you told yourself it was adorable for her, at least. Breakfast restaurants were pretty popular in many contexts, for many people. But for whatever reason, you liked to imagine Wanda doing things like that.
The food came and you found yourself observing her as if she were some kind of specimen. It was interesting to watch her do things that didn’t have anything to do with the committee or planning or being a little tyrannical. Everything she did outside of that was interesting, like how she held her utensils or which part of her plate she ate first, or after how many bites she took a sip of her coffee.
“So, what do you do when you’re not volunteering?” you asked.
“I teach at a high school about thirty minutes outside of Westview.”
Damn. She must not be very popular there, either. You weren’t even trying to be rude by thinking that; if you were a high school student, you certainly wouldn’t have liked her.
“What do you teach?” 
But before she could answer, you quickly interjected, “Oh, wait, let me guess.”
She closed her mouth and smiled slightly, looking like she thought you were sort of entertaining or funny. “Okay,” she replied softly. “Guess.”
You hummed, looking at her in great detail as you thought over all that you knew of her. Wanda shifted in her seat, tugging at the bottom of her knit sweater and tucking her hair back, feeling a little awkward and insecure with you looking at her.
With a slight narrow of your eyes, you spun your fork between three fingers. “Can I ask you a question so I can make a better guess?”
“Sure.”
“Are you good with technology?”
“In what way?”
You clarified, “Do you know how to reset your wifi router?”
She looked up and to the side for a moment, trying to imagine what she would do if her wifi went out. “No, I don’t think I’d know how to. But I could likely figure it out on my own,” she answered, looking back at you. “And that’s far more than one question.”
“Do you teach English?”
A gentle smile formed on Wanda’s and then she nodded. “Yes.”
It wasn’t that English teachers seemed technologically unknowledgeable, but if Wanda did know how to reset her wifi router, she’d likely teach history or maybe even some kind of science. She thought that was funny. She didn’t laugh to indicate that, she told you that it was, with a little smile.
You then told Wanda what you worked as. At the moment, you were doing some research after your postgrad, hopefully to be able to do some further research abroad in preparation for… something or other. You weren’t entirely sure right now.
Wanda was actually quite soft-spoken, and a little shy. She always looked like she wanted to say something more than what she had already said, or was thinking something more and didn’t entirely know how to say it.
After you finished eating, it was you who finally brought up the budgeting although you had honestly only used it as an excuse to get to know her more. After that, it was pretty much just committee talk.
”Do you have any plans for the holidays?” you asked her as you packed up your things. You paid for lunch, since you had asked her to take time out of her day to answer your questions. 
Wanda hummed as she fit her hat on then did her jacket up. “I won’t be too busy. Usually, I call my family and celebrate on my own.”
“Call them?” you repeated. “Do they live far?”
“They live in Eastern Europe.”
“Do they ever travel to visit you?”
She didn’t answer for a few moments as the both of you stepped out of the cafe. “No. They prefer not to travel. They say they’re waiting for my brother and I to save up and host them here so they can live in America. “
So, could that married guy have been her brother? 
“Does your brother live in Westview?”
“No, he travels around. I don’t think he has plans to save up for them any time soon.”
You felt a little idiotic for being so invested in that man’s relation to her, and you were suddenly uninterested in talking with her any longer. After all, that guy was probably her boyfriend, and she was probably taken aback in the car the other day when you asked her about her affair. 
But it shouldn’t even matter to you whether Wanda was dating anyone. 
Maybe you’d suddenly become a huge ethicist during the holidays, and just subconsciously hated women who had affairs with married men. 
“Well, thanks for helping me with the budgeting,” you said, turning to her once you got to your car. 
Wanda looked at you first, seemingly confused for just a beat, before she looked at your car, which she recognized from the time you drove her. She realized she hadn’t really been paying attention to what she was doing; she’d only been following wherever you were going. 
“Oh, yes, right.” She collected herself, brushing invisible snow from her jacket. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you next week.”
Then when you were preparing to turn and unlock your door, Wanda stepped back to leave but hesitated a little, so you figured she had something more to say. 
She looked over to where her car was, then down to the ground and back to you. “Thank you for inviting me to lunch. Have a good rest of your weekend.”
By the next meeting, there was a week left until Christmas, and things were beginning to wrap up. There were only two meetings left, and the final one wasn’t set for any planning. 
The final meeting, since everything had been moving ahead of schedule so far, was going to be reserved for a committee potluck, and any of the committee members could bring their friends or family as long as the volunteers were planning on bringing enough food. 
No one wanted to fall behind lest they lose the date of the potluck, and so the groupchat had recently been busy with updates as groups remained on time or even ahead of time, and the present meeting was no exception. 
Wanda seemed to have gotten word of how the committee heard that she was reprimanded for being behind in reports, so she made an update on all the things she’d sent to Westview’s council as confirmation to everyone and to ensure that she’d sent accurate information. 
Your group was all but finished aside from needing to buy the accessories for the performers, which would just be some bracelets and Santa hats and other small things which unified them as they all performed for the same event. Kamala and America were planning on shopping for them this weekend, and would bring them to the potluck to keep them there until they were taken out of storage for Christmas Eve.
The other groups were all caught up and were just waiting on tiny things, like how the group handling the small businesses were waiting on finalized menu prices for budgeting, which would also be finished this weekend.
Rio and Agatha’s group had finished their patio designs too.
Wanda wasn’t under any impression that you purposefully came up to her at the end of every meeting, and she was more than understanding of the fact that they were just coincidences, or due to reasons that came up which required you to speak with her. It wasn’t like you wanted to.
She was sort of hoping you had a reason to speak with her this time around too, but she didn’t think you had any issues with your group or with things you needed to do for the committee like you did before.
Wanda walked out to her car, trying to accept that she wouldn’t see you again until the next major planning committee event you could attend. She wasn’t planning on going to the next meeting’s potluck, and she wasn’t planning on going to the event on Christmas Eve either. She didn’t really go to those things.
You sounded busy during the year when you explained your job to her, and who knew if you’d be in Westview for next Christmas? Not that she was any thrill to have in your company anyway; she hardly knew how to keep an interesting conversation.
She exhaled a little in the driver’s seat, slumping down into her jacket.
It wasn’t often that anyone gave her their time. She thought the way she regarded you was a little pathetic, since it was clear you saw her as your committee head and nothing more. 
Wanda started her car and headed home. She would be finished with her work by tonight before the potluck, since all the other things that remained to be done didn’t involve her reports. The rest of her plans for the holidays involved buying gifts for her family and shipping them through the post. On Christmas, she’d call her parents then talk to her brother, who likely wouldn’t be in the mood to speak with them in a group call.
Then she’d celebrate New Years’ at home alone, and in January, begin a new school semester.
The day of the potluck came, and it was the first year everything had been done not only early, but as exciting as it all was; this year was imagined to be the most thrilling one so far. The blizzard had brought in inches and inches of snow which had been a pain for anyone stuck in it while it had been happening, but a dream to wake up to by the next morning once it stopped.
Westview was decorated in a winter you often saw in the movies, and everyone at the committee was in a wonderful mood.
You waited for Wanda to show up, wondering what kind of food she’d bring, and hoping to see her in a casual setting again. You wondered if she would wear her committee meeting clothes or something more comfortable. But a part of you also kind of dreaded seeing her around the married guy, whose name you found out today was Simon, because it seemed that he brought his wife to the potluck.
But by the thirty minute mark, Wanda still hadn’t shown up. 
“Do you think Wanda will come?” you asked Kate.
She shook her head. “She doesn’t come to these things. She never comes on Christmas Eve either.”
“What? Really? But she’s the head of the committee. I thought she’d at least show up to the event since she put so much time into it.”
Kate hummed, thinking about that for a moment. “Yeah, I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I always just assumed she travels or something.”
You looked around at the food, thinking back on all the times pastries and other drinks were brought to the meetings, and you couldn’t recall if Wanda ever partook in them. You looked up at Simon, who was chatting away with his wife.
Some part of you imagined some grand gesture where Wanda came to the potluck though she typically didn’t attend, but you were almost entirely sure she wasn’t going to. From what you had learned about her in the last few times you spoke with her on your own together, Wanda seemed a lot more hesitant than one would guess. 
You took two of the takeout boxes someone had brought in case there was going to be leftovers — and there was certainly going to be — to take to Wanda. One box was full of a normal dinner, like some of the rolls, turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes and gravy. Then in the other box, you packed some dessert, like cookies, pastries, and some candied fruit.
Then you made your way to her place.
Maybe she had company over, like her actual boyfriend, but in any case, you were fine just dropping the food off and handing it to her. And you didn’t want to call, because you didn’t think you were that close with her, and you didn’t want to assume she was comfortable with you calling her out of the blue.
Her car was alone in front of her place, and it didn’t look like she’d pulled out of her driveway since at least last evening given how much it’d snowed over her tire tracks.
You knocked on her door, and after a few moments the door opened, revealing Wanda in sweatpants and a thin plain black t-shirt.
“Y/N,” she firstly greeted, surprised as she pushed the door open further at the sight of you. “Did we talk about meeting?”
“No, nothing like that.” You held the two takeout boxes out. “I just thought you’d come to the potluck.”
She looked down at the boxes, reaching her hands out hesitantly to take them, then retracting her hands so they froze halfway to them. “Are these for me? What are they?” she asked, looking at you.
“It’s the food from the potluck. I brought you dinner and a bunch of dessert.”
“O-Oh, you… really didn’t have to bring me this…” she answered, her voice softening as she looked back down to the boxes and carefully took them from you. She looked back up and smiled at you. “Thank you.”
After a moment of brief silence which made you quite nervous, since it was very awkward to be standing in silence in front of Wanda, you stepped back. “Well, I’ll see you on Christmas Eve then,” you said.
She stepped forward. “Would you like to come in, Y/N?” she asked suddenly. 
When you made eye contact with her again, Wanda looked down at the boxes in her hands. “I just made some coffee and I was planning on doing some reading, but…” She looked up. “I made enough for two, and I haven’t had dinner yet.”
You swallowed, feeling somewhat nervous. “If you don’t mind.”
Wanda’s shoulders straightened, her expression lightening. “I don’t mind at all. Please come in,” she invited, stepping back and allowing you to enter. 
As you stepped inside and Wanda took your jacket, she took silent deep breaths as she prepared herself to have a proper conversation with you. 
“So…” she started as she walked you into the kitchen, pouring you a mug of coffee. “What are you planning on doing for Christmas, Y/N?” 
You stood a few feet away from Wanda as she poured you her coffee, watching her. She asked you what you liked in your coffee, and she stirred it in. She looked kind of… cute in what she was wearing. She looked kind of cute looking all domestic.
You scratched your cheek awkwardly, looking away as you answered, “Well, this year my family is coming to Westview and I’m hosting Christmas this time. So I’ve been decorating my place and thinking through some things to make for dinner.”
She carefully placed the coffee in front of you and began plating the food you brought her from the potluck.
“That sounds sweet,” she said. “I hope you enjoy hosting.”
“Do you have any Christmas traditions?”
She hummed in thought as she closed the boxes. “When I still lived with my parents, we volunteered at a soup kitchen, then came home and had late dinner. After we ate, we opened our gifts, then watched a movie as a family.”
You smiled a little as she described it. 
Wanda brought her coffee and plate to the dining table, and you brought your own coffee and a platter of peppermint cookies which she said she made yesterday. 
Wanda’s house was decorated with string lights, and she had a few unscented candles lit around the house. Her place smelled like cookies and a little bit of cinnamon, and you figured she must bake a lot in her freetime. In the living room, which you passed on your way to the kitchen, she had a large tree in front of the window decorated with gold, white, and pink.
It was kind of cute to imagine her decorating, and she was obviously far more festive than you thought. But then you imagined her decorating such a grand thing all on her own, and that made you feel quite bad for her. Not that you didn’t think she couldn’t — she clearly could — but the idea of someone so alone during the holidays made you ache.
“You said your parents wanted to move to America?” you asked when you sat down at the dining table. You both sat on one side of a corner, closest to each other.
She took in a breath and took a sip of coffee. “Yes, I did say that,” she answered, setting her mug down then cutting a slicing bit of turkey. “But… I honestly don’t think they’re sincerely interested in moving anywhere.”
“And your brother?”
“He moves too much,” she answered. “I had to ask him to stay in one place for a month so I could deliver a gift to his address, but he just told me to send it to a post in Berlin, and he’ll fly over if he’s not in Germany anymore to pick it up whenever it’s been delivered.”
She looked up from her plate, watching you look around her place. She swallowed, playing with her fork a little bit. The candlelight from the dining table made your face look very smooth, and very warm.
Wanda rubbed her knuckle against the back of her cheek, feeling herself flush at the sight. “Um, Y/N,” she said, looking back down at her plate and cutting a piece of turkey just to keep occupied. “I’ve been thinking…”
You looked away from her Christmas tree which you saw from a distance. It was beautiful, and Wanda truly had an eye for decorating. Even her furniture was gorgeous.
“I wanted to apologize for how I must’ve seemed to you when we first met. I mean… not how I seemed, exactly, but how I behaved…” She poked at the piece of turkey she sliced. “I’m… not very popular with the committee.”
Something fluttered in your chest, forcing you to take in a breath of air. Maybe it was guilt, or… Well, you were completely justified for how you acted around her before. 
But something about watching Wanda eat at the decorated table in the middle of her dining room in her gorgeous house, and imagining her doing this every evening for dinner alone made your chest tighten. 
Even in her own house, she seemed small. 
“Can I ask you something kind of personal?” 
She looked up from her plate, lowering her fork a little. She nodded. “Of course.”
“Are you seeing Simon?”
Wanda answered quickly, “No, I’m not seeing him.”
Before you could stop yourself from pushing too far, you added, “But he’s always flirting with you.”
She looked down at her plate again. “Yes, he’s…” She trailed off. She put her fork down and took a sip of coffee. “Simon is interested in me — of course I know that.”
“I’m just curious…” you spoke cautiously. “Why don't you see him if you know he’s flirting with you?”
“You’re asking because of his wife?”
When you blinked in response, Wanda figured you had no idea what she was talking about. She took a bite of her turkey, and after swallowing, she said, “His wife isn’t very subtle about her own affair. But I don’t think she concerns herself with what other people think of her; she’s some kind of lawyer, so she’s typically never in town.”
“You know a lot about everyone.”
To your surprise, Wanda laughed, though it was a dry one. “No. Simon just tells me.”
You nodded, taking a bite of a cookie. 
Wanda looked up when you didn’t respond, and she bit the inside of her cheek. She wondered if you felt as tense as she did whenever you brought Simon up. She fidgeted with the string of her sweatpants with her other hand. She never knew whether it was ever appropriate to say the things she had in mind. Often, she hesitated between telling you what she wanted to say and staying quiet. 
Swallowing, Wanda set her fork down and fidgeted with the handle of her mug. “I know it sounds terrible of me, but Simon always compliments my work as the committee head. That’s what he comes up to me after the meetings to talk about.”
“Oh,” you replied.
Still, the idea of Wanda getting all excited and romantic with some guy made you uncomfortable. It still made you upset that it frustrated you so much, and you wished you could look down on her for her questionable interactions with him, but you couldn’t help but just feel frustrated about it.
A small silence came over the two of you as Wanda looked down at her empty plate. She racked through her mind desperately for anything interesting to say. 
Then she looked up and asked, “What do you think about Agatha and Rio?”
You sipped your coffee, thankful for how beautiful Wanda’s house was since it gave you any excuse not to look at her for a few moments during moments of silence. “I think they’re nice together.”
“I think they are too,” Wanda replied, adjusting her fork and knife on her plate. She wanted to cry out and bury her face in her arms. She felt so pathetic; she had no idea how to have a conversation. You probably just wanted to go home already.
Even so, she tried to keep talking with you. 
“But Rio doesn’t like me very much.”
You looked over at her, recalling the time Rio called Wanda’s name loudly when she had come in forty minutes late though she had been trying to walk in subtly. “I had a feeling,” you said. “Why not?”
“I saw Agatha for a very short time, and I didn’t know she and Rio were on a break,” she explained. “Agatha told me they were on a break after she and Rio made up, but I didn’t know beforehand.”
Something about that was incredibly funny to you, because Rio and Agatha seemed inseparable, and to imagine that Wanda, of all people, had somehow gotten between them was extremely funny.
Wanda looked up from her plate, her lips parted slightly as she watched you for a moment while you laughed out loud. She felt her heart in her throat at the sight of you. She’d never seen you laugh that hard, and she didn’t think herself to be that funny. 
“That must have been very awkward for you,” you said once you could speak clearly.
“Yes, it was,” Wanda answered, smiling at you a little bashfully, tracking you with her eyes as you looked down to the table then picked up your mug of coffee again.
Wanda was never really good at picking up signals from other people either. It must mean something that you were in her house and eating with her, and sitting so close, and you weren’t rushing to finish your coffee. But what next?
It had been a long while since she had any close friends, or any real friends at all, so maybe she was just misunderstanding how she felt around you. Perhaps it was normal to feel so nervous around you and attracted to you.
Should she pursue you as a friend? She didn’t know how to do even that, and she also didn’t know if you still saw her as only your committee head. 
“Why did you change all those little things on our document, by the way?” you asked suddenly. “Sorry to bring committee stuff up. I’ve just been curious.”
Wanda looked a little embarrassed and she fiddled with the handle of her mug with two hands, her plate now pushed to the side. “There wasn’t anything wrong with it. I just thought I’d make a few adjustments about things that guests brought up last year,” she said. 
She looked up, looking uncertain and even a little remorseful. “I hope they weren’t too much of a change. I just thought I’d try to help a little bit.”
For a moment you couldn’t imagine that this was the same Wanda who had changed major parts of the group’s planning last year just five days before Christmas Day, and then you recalled that sometimes you couldn’t believe that both Wandas you knew were the same person.
You could understand Wanda seeming much larger in the committee room and much smaller in your car and in the cafe because she was sort of scary in the meetings, and soft-spoken outside of them. But you didn’t have a clue regarding things like how she seemed to treat the committee differently this time or how she treated your group differently than previous years, since you recalled that Peter mentioned how he thought she’d been nicer.
“Not at all. I think the changes were nice.”
“Really?” she asked. The corners of her lips tugged upwards a little. “I’m glad I could help.”
Wanda put away the dishes and thanked you again for the food. She packed you some of the peppermint cookies too. 
As she was walking you to the front, she watched you from behind, wondering if it was normal to bring up things that didn’t necessarily pertain to exactly what the two of you were talking about in the moment — which was to say, nothing.
Second guessing and uncertainty surrounding how she should behave or speak to you always got in the way of saying things she wanted to say. 
“Y/N, thank you for thinking of me today at the potluck when I didn’t come,” she said quietly as you slipped your boots on. She played with the box of cookies in her hands. “I’m not very good with people, as you might have guessed. But…”
She trailed off and you straightened once your boots were on to look at her. “I really like spending time with you outside the meetings,” she confessed, “and I hope that we might be able to keep talking after the holidays.”
You swallowed, suddenly feeling your heart race at the sight of her averted eyes and her quiet tone. You took in a breath and then spoke. “Would you like to help me wrap some gifts tomorrow?”
Wanda looked up, surprised. 
“I have a bunch to wrap because I’m hosting Christmas, and some of my family members gave me money to shop for them here because they couldn't travel with too much,” you explained. “So… I’ll really need your help.”
She nodded, gripping the box a little tighter. “Of course. I’ll be there.”
That night, you and Wanda planned for what time she’d come over. She’d come around three so she could have lunch, and you offered to cook her dinner for her help. She wanted to deny the offer, but she truly couldn’t turn down the chance of having a home-cooked dinner with you at your place.
Though you were looking forward to having her over, you felt rather nervous about it all. Wanda had a gorgeous home and was likely a very talented cook as she was a talented baker, and you really didn’t want to disappoint her.
As you went through the grocery store in the afternoon after getting some last minute gifts, you decided on preparing salmon sushi baked, which you’d been wanting to try. You picked up the ingredients then headed home.
Wanda was far different from how you initially thought her to be, but she was still incredibly intelligent and responsible, and although you felt a bit awkward admitting it to yourself, she was gorgeous too, and you still didn’t entirely know the kinds of things she was thinking about you. 
She had said that she wanted to see you after the holidays.
As a friend, right?
You were at least certain that she saw you as more than just a committee member.
When had you even started feeling this confused about her, anyway? It was still possible she had a boyfriend or some kind of partner in Europe where she was from.
Thinking back to things you knew about Wanda made you feel a little flustered, even things that had really pissed you off for reasons you still didn’t really understand your reactions to, like her little cozy hat and the scarf that always covered half her face, and her habit of averting her gaze when you caught her looking at you.
When Wanda arrived, she was in jeans and a light brown knit sweater, her hair done in a braid. She smiled at you when you opened the front door, and she was holding a large Christmas gift bag full of different gift wrapping designs. You realized her hair wasn’t naturally as straight as you typically saw it, because the hair was a little wavy, pulled back into the braid.
Wanda sat down on your couch as you brought her some hot chocolate, and some fruit and a little charcuterie board you put together.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling up at you as you set down the food on the coffee table. She was smiling at you more than usual since she’d arrived, and you couldn’t figure out whether you were unsettled or flattered by it.
When you sat down beside her on the couch and Wanda was taking a sip of her hot chocolate, she asked, “How was your day?”
“It was okay. I was mostly running around,” you answered. “I was getting some last minute gifts, and then I bought the things for dinner today.”
At the mention of dinner, Wanda perked up. “Oh, right. I brought something.” She set her hot chocolate down carefully then stood up to go over to her purse, where she also had her wrapping paper set. You didn’t ask her to bring anything, but she brought about four different designs from her place.
She pulled out a bottle of white wine, which looked rather expensive, and brought it over to you before sitting back down beside you. “I was thinking we might be able to have some wine with dinner.”
You carefully took the wine from her and looked it over. “Wow, Wanda, this is a really good kind,” you mused. “I think I had this last Christmas, and I loved it. Thank you.”
“I’m glad, Y/N. I had a feeling you’d like it.”
After setting it down on the coffee table, you looked over to her, only to find her still looking at you. She had a sort of pleasant look on her face. A little smile formed when you met her eyes, which looked at you with a sort of focus or analysis whose details she didn’t disclose to you.
She looked away and took a grape from the charcuterie board.
“Should we start wrapping?” you asked, solely to release the tension in your chest.
You and Wanda sat on the floor in front of your tree, the coffee table moved so you could both reach the charcuterie board and Wanda could reach her hot chocolate. The two of you decided to use the wrapping paper Wanda bought, since hers was unsurprisingly far prettier.
“So, well… I’m actually not very good at wrapping presents. I always put them in gift bags,” you confessed.
Wanda took a box of expensive chocolates and aligned it with the wrapping paper. “I’m quite good at wrapping presents,” she boasted playfully, looking up at you as she cut the paper with a pair of scissors. “I can show you how.”
The chocolate box was wrapped pristinely, and Wanda turned it around a few times in her hands to show you its sharp edges and folds. She gave it to you so you could write on the gift’s label. 
“Where did you learn how to wrap so good?” you asked, taking another gift in an easy-to-wrap shape and setting it in front of your crossed legs.
“I had to do a lot of Christmas wrapping when I lived with my parents,” she explained. She stood up suddenly and took a seat beside you. She repositioned the gift in front of your legs and aligned it with the wrapping paper.
Between explaining how to wrap gifts to you and explaining how she learned while wrapping her own alongside you for you to follow her through example, she spoke while you listened.
“My brother and I also wrapped gifts for the soup kitchen I mentioned before,” she explained, her eyes darting between your gift and hers to make sure you were following along properly. “We wrapped so many, so I think I just got better at it over time.”
You spoke a bit slowly since you were focusing. “How long did you volunteer there?”
“I think about…” Wanda paused to think, then reached out to move your hand with her own. “Fold this underneath, not over. Keep it against the box,” she instructed. 
When you looked up at her after correcting yourself, she nodded, letting go of your hand as your fingers pressed the paper against the box. “Yes, just like that,” she said.
Then she continued, “I think we volunteered there for about eight years.”
You and Wanda spoke back and forth as you wrapped gifts together for about an hour, sitting cross-legged side by side beside your Christmas tree.
“Do you miss your family?” you asked at one point.
Wanda hummed as she taped some paper down. “My brother and I were very close,” she said. “I do miss him. I sometimes feel resentful that he hasn’t taken any time to come see me, but I understand that he’s always felt very trapped around family growing up. He was far more ambitious and impulsive than I ever was.”
You noticed she didn’t mention anything about her parents. 
“When did you both move out?”
“Pietro moved out when he was eighteen. He took up jobs wherever he travelled, and he’s always been a spirited and friendly person, so I hear he’d been able to make fast friends no matter where he landed.”
You noticed that Wanda typically avoided talking about herself when she had the chance to talk about anyone else, especially when it had to do with her family.
Sliding your last gift away under the tree after labeling it and turning your body to face Wanda with hers, you asked, “What about you?”
“I left much later, when I was twenty five. I studied to become a teacher here in America after finishing my undergrad there,” she answered, keeping her eyes on the final gift she was wrapping. 
She finished the gift and slid it over to you. You labelled it then placed it on top of another gift. 
“Wow. They all look great,” you said, standing up and taking a step back to look. “Thank you for your help. I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”
You looked down at Wanda, who was staring at the tree and the gifts in some oddly sentimental way. You reached a hand down to her, and the movement from the corner of her eye broke her focus. She looked up at you with a grateful smile then took it and stood up. 
Wanda opened the wine so the two of you could start drinking as you began to cook together. 
This was your first year out of school and you’d been working throughout it without even really getting a chance to settle it in. 
This Christmas season, you’d been doing a whole lot of meeting with people from Westview, and it was all incredibly fun. You felt like a college student again, surrounded by older Westview neighbours, doing fun group assignments, and worrying about travelling to meetings in the weather. 
But while you were cooking with Wanda, your place finally felt lived in for the first time since you moved to Westview.
It was nice to fit in, but it was nicer to be home. 
“So… Can I ask if you have kids? Or, like… some wild crazy ex-husband story that would be interesting to tell?”
Wanda’s eyebrows raised over the rim of her glass as she took a sip. “Goodness,” she said, setting the glass down. “Do I really look that old?”
“No, no,” you assured, waving your salmon-coated hands in front of you. She picked up a piece of salmon from the counter that had flung off from your finger and placed it in the glass dish that was nearly set to go into the oven. 
She watched you with a little smile, her cheeks warm from the wine as you flattened the salmon across the rice, thinking of a different way to form your question. 
“Then… Do you have a boyfriend?” you asked, looking up after a moment, meeting her eyes innocently. 
“No,” she answered. “I’m a lesbian.”
You blinked, partially surprised, and then feeling a little competitive. If she had a girlfriend, things would be totally different, for some reason. 
As if she could read your mind, she added, “But I’m not seeing anyone, and I don’t have an ex-wife or any children.”
It was most certainly the wine that was making the both of you feel a little bolder, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked her about whether she was seeing anyone, and she wouldn’t have seen your slightly flushed expression and thought to take the opportunity to tease you. 
“Do you have a partner, Y/N?” she asked, picking up her glass again. 
“No,” you answered earnestly. “I’ve been too busy to think about those things.”
She hummed at your answer, pouring a little more wine into her glass then topping yours off too. You washed your hands and put the salmon bake into the oven. 
“You’re not interested in anyone in your group?” she asked.
“Um…” You frowned a little at the thought, not because you were thinking about it, but because it was a strange thing to suggest. “No — no one there.”
Wanda would be lying if she said she didn’t think of placing you in that group because she wanted to see how you and Kate got along, amongst other reasons that were far less important now. She wanted to figure out if you liked girls, and Wanda figured she and Yelena had broken up since she stopped coming to meetings. But your answer wasn’t indicative of anything, so she figured she’d just never know. 
You set a timer on the oven and stood in front of Wanda, who’d been leaning her hip on the counter watching you after she cut the salmon and laid the seasoned rice out into the dish. 
“I guess I didn’t really think the rest of the night through,” you said sheepishly after taking a sip of wine. “What do you want to do?”
“Would you like to just talk at your dining table?” Wanda offered with a little smile. 
You and Wanda sat very close to each other, with the table’s edge between the two of you like it had when you were at her place. Except, her knee brushed against yours under the table with how close she was sitting. 
You said something that made Wanda laugh, and she crossed her legs on top of your dining room chair. Her cheeks were flushed a soft pink, and she kept leaning closer to you. 
Wanda had been worrying about the upcoming evening all day, wondering what kinds of things people talked about when they wrapped gifts together.
Then she wondered again about how you regarded her; you didn’t invite just anyone to your place, much less to do something as casual as wrapping gifts.
She’d actually Googled the kinds of things people did at these things, but she couldn’t find anything very good for what to say or do during gift wrapping activities, or even find anything for the specific occurrence. 
She’d even tried to search up how people advanced from a professional relationship to a more intimate one. She got some great tips on that from a website called Reddit — share more about your personal life, indicate with body language to express willingness for physical closeness, and maintain eye contact sometimes. 
Well, Wanda would say that it was all going quite well. She felt like a great socializer, and you seemed to be picking up on all her hints that she wanted to be closer to you. 
“I’m really sorry to ask, but I’m just curious,” you apologized, prefacing your next question as the two of you settled back down at the table, salmon bake now freshly out of the oven and on the dining table. 
Wanda was serving the pieces onto a plate after the both of you sprinkled fresh seaweed on top. “Don’t apologize,” she said. ”Ask me anything.”
“Are you close with your parents?”
The tension that often came over Wanda when you asked personal questions hadn’t seemed to come over her the entire time she was over. Instead, she would react with a familiar pensive silence where she looked like she was thinking something over before answering. 
“Not very close, no,” she answered. “My parents were very strict and very controlling of my brother and I. Pietro moved out the moment he could, and I stayed to complete my education and support them.”
“I see,” you said, taking a bite of your dinner. 
Before you could say how good it was, Wanda exclaimed with a hand over her partially-full mouth, “This is amazing. You’re a wonderful cook, Y/N.” Her cheeks were a little stuffed as she chewed and her hair had been loosened from her braid, showing more of the natural waves of her hair.
You had wanted to agree, but got a little distracted watching her, so after she swallowed another bite, she added, “I worked as a teacher’s aid through my undergrad and worked a lot outside of school to support my family. I still send them money frequently. I think my brother does the same, but we don’t talk very much about them. I’ve always been much closer to him.”
“May I ask you something personal too?” she asked. She looked up from her plate to look at you, and you nodded when you noticed she was waiting for visual confirmation.
She hummed a little, as if she were trying to select a good one. 
Then she asked, “Do you like women?”
The question surprised you and you weren’t sure whether you should laugh as if it were a joke. Your cheeks flushed at the idea of Wanda imagining you with a woman. But she didn’t seem to catch onto your embarrassment, even as she watched your face with focus.
You decided to answer simply given how nonchalantly Wanda was looking at you. “Yes.”
Then Wanda took a sip of her wine, looking at you still. 
“Okay,” she replied, smiling a little. “Have you dated recently?”
“Um…” You thought about that for a moment, then looked back at her. “No. I think it’s been about two years since my last relationship. What about you?”
Wanda swallowed another bite of her food. “I was with one of my coworkers when I first started working at the school for a few months.”
“Wow. How did that go?”
“It was a very bad idea.”
She looked up from her plate when you laughed, and Wanda couldn’t help but giggle thinking back at the absurd circumstances, which she discussed in more detail with you after you asked about it.
After dinner, you and Wanda decided that it wasn’t a good idea for her to drive home because of how she still felt a little tipsy, but it was late, and you didn’t want to keep her from going home, and you didn’t trust yourself to drive either. 
But because of how occupied the two of you had become inside, neither of you had paid attention to another snowstorm that seemed to have been going on for at least forty minutes.
“Do you think an Uber will come?” she asked, looking up from her phone with the weather app open and through the window in your living room, which you were also looking through while standing beside her.
“Ah… I don’t know,” you answered, sounding a little preoccupied as you looked outside. “The snow’s got some inches up your tires…”
Wanda looked at you, biting the inside of her cheek as she watched your deep focus. “Is it okay that I stay for longer? I don’t want to keep you up.”
“It’s really okay,” you said, stepping back from the window. “Please stay.”
The weather app said that the storm wouldn’t stop until later in the evening, so the plan was for you to stay up with Wanda until it died down. Maybe by then, you could shovel the driveway for her ride. Otherwise, she was alright with sleeping over. 
The two of you were sitting on your couch, the television on but paused about five minutes into a Christmas movie before one of you paused it for some forgotten reason, and became distracted in conversation moving forward.
Wanda was wearing some of your extra clothes, and you’d changed into something more comfortable too. She had undone her hair from her braid, and you thought she looked beautiful with her hair unstraightened. The two of you were drinking hot chocolate again after finishing off the wine, exchanging stories and talking about random things.
Then, as you looked over at the television, partly in deep thought about something you had just been talking about and the other part wondering if you should play the movie again, Wanda looked over your face, sitting with her knees up against her stomach, her body facing you. 
“Y/N, can I tell you something honestly?” she asked.
She thought back to the advice she read online — to become closer with someone, you should try being more honest about things to show that you were open to sharing your real thoughts and feelings.
“Sure,” you replied, turning back to her.
“I think you’re very attractive.”
Sometimes Wanda had a habit of asking questions or saying things which surprised you, in a tone that was entirely nonchalant. But often, when you looked at her expression and found that she was asking seriously or casually, you were able to gauge how to respond without seeming as flustered as you did — like when she asked if you liked women.
But this time, she herself seemed flustered too.
She brushed her cheek against her upper arm which was wrapped around her knees as you looked at her. “I’m sorry if that was a strange thing to say,” she said quietly, seeming hesitant to look away from you, but eventually looking back over at the paused movie.
Perhaps she was also thinking about playing it again, hoping to forget about what she said.
“Wanda,” you said quietly, getting her attention again.
When she looked at you, her eyes meeting yours and looking a little nervous, you said, “You’re really, really beautiful.”
Wanda’s hands tightened around her elbows, and she had the urge to hide her face. She didn’t want to, because she wanted to take the compliment well and say something kind in return, but her cheeks felt flushed and warm and she didn’t want to smile as wide as she felt she wanted to. 
Against her better wishes, she buried her flushed face in her arms, which were still wrapped around her knees. “You’re saying that to be kind, yes?” she asked, her voice meek, lifting her head and looking at you. “I read that sometimes people mirror others to seem friendlier.”
You only shook your head in response, and Wanda looked at you, trying to figure what to do with what you told her, her internal thoughts a downright mess.
Wanda imagined what would happen if she decided to stay quiet, like she normally did when she didn’t know what to say, or when she worried that she wasn’t reading social cues well enough to speak within the right context.
Maybe you might have lunch with your committee after the holidays, and realize that Kate was entirely your type. Maybe you would meet someone doing the same kind of research as you did in your postgrad at work. Maybe you’d stop staying in Westview, and start staying with your future girlfriend if she lived outside of town, and she’d never see you again.
“Can you kiss me? Please?” she asked suddenly, letting go of her legs and straightening.
Like a soldier acting on command, you reached over to her, ending up on your knees with one hand on the couch to steady yourself to meet her lips with yours. Your other hand rested on her knee, and Wanda took it, tugging you closer so you could move on top of her as she began to lean backwards.
You slotted yourself between her parted legs, her thighs closing against your hips, holding you in place. Her hands slid under your shoulders and laid against your upper back, keeping you close as your lips moved against each other. 
The little noises that came from her made you want to touch her in the most delicate way you could. You kissed her slowly, and she liked that speed. She shuddered when your tongue traced the bottom of her upper lip, and she immediately parted her lips for you. 
She rolled her hips upward when your tongue entered her mouth, the tip of her own running along the side of yours, like a gentle greeting, before your tongue swirled around her own slowly.
You parted from her lips to take a breath, and through hooded eyes you saw Wanda’s slightly open mouth, her lips glistening, before you leaned down and tucked your face into her neck. She whispered your name shakily, tipping her head to the side as your tongue flattened itself and ran up to the edge of her jaw.
Unsure if she was alright with you leaving marks, you gently suckled at points of her neck instead, nipping at her skin close to her neck. You felt the vibrations of her soft noises against your lips. 
One of Wanda’s hands moved down your lower back and tugged lightly at the waistband of your pajama pants. “Can I take it off?”
You lifted your head from her neck and nodded, reaching down to help her, and lifting yourself up onto your knees to readjust your positions. 
“Can you get on your back?” she asked, sitting up and removing her legs from between your knees. 
Wanda took the remote and set it down on the floor so you wouldn’t lay on it. She got on top of you, between your parted legs.
You kissed differently when she was on top. It was hard to explain, but you could feel it. She wasn’t necessarily slower, but she was careful and deliberate, your lips moving together as if to feel one another rather than doing so with the explicit intention to kiss. 
Your arm was wrapped around her waist, your hand pressed against the side of her stomach, feeling her shirt lift slightly as she moved, warm skin under your fingers.
She teased your nipple through your shirt in a way that made your body jerk slightly, the side of her finger grazing over it until it hardened and became sensitive. The pad of her thumb drew circles against it. 
The noises she made sounded more of satisfaction than pleasure as you whimpered beneath her, your body arching beneath her as she continued to tease your nipples. 
“Can I push your shirt up?” she asked, having to part from your lips to ask. You nodded immediately, lifting your back a bit while Wanda straightened so she could push your shirt above your chest. 
The position you were in was a rather vulnerable one, and made you feel more exposed than if you had just taken the shirt off. Her eyes darted between your breasts, before leaning back down, closer to you. 
Her eyes were still on your chest, and your shirt, bunched up close to your neck, obscured your view of her hands. Her finger teased at one nipple delicately, and you could figure that it was quickly stiffening based on a low noise Wanda made. 
She leaned her head down and wrapped her lips around it, sucking gently, her tongue rhythmically moving back and forth across the very tip of it and drawing soft moans out of you. 
Wanda paid such close attention to how her little ministrations were affecting you, and the speed of everything she was doing was perfect. She rubbed the tip of her tongue at just the right slow and teasing speed against your nipples, knew just when to pinch them between her thumb and index finger. 
You couldn’t even remember the last time someone had such a fixation on your nipples, let alone been able to make you feel this good while stimulating just them. 
She moved up and kissed you again, and the feeling of her shirt against your chest made you kiss her teasing. “Do you like when I play with your nipples?” she asked against your lips. “I can tell they’re very sensitive.”
You nodded immediately. 
“Would you like more?”
“Yes, please,” you practically sighed out in desperation. You sat up a little to take your shirt off to make it easier, and Wanda helped you get it over your head before placing it on the floor. 
She returned to teasing your buds, alternating between wrapping her lips around them, pressing gentle kisses to them, or rubbing her tongue against them. The pads of her fingers were gentle, careful to touch them right at their tips, which made you jerk upwards the most. 
At this point, you had practically been rolling your hips up against her for several moments straight, desperate for friction against your core. 
Wanda released your nipple from her mouth, watching your face as her fingers grazed across your clothed slit. She could feel the contours of your pussy against the pads of her fingers. She was so careful, and so delicate. 
She applied pressure steadily, rubbing up and down your slit, rubbing up the mound of your clit’s hood. She pressed into the empty space, feeling how easily your folds slid against the fabric of your panties — you must’ve already been rather wet. 
Her finger hooked around the waistband of your underwear and you reached down and tried to help her take it off. She repositioned herself to pull your panties off.
Your legs immediately parted for her and you watched as her eyes ran over your legs and thighs and then your cunt, your heart racing at the steady eyes you knew so well now focused on your pussy. 
One of your legs was partially dangling from the couch, while the other was bent, the side of your knee resting against the couch’s back cushion — you were entirely exposed to her. 
Wanda moved closer, unbending your knee and wrapping your leg around her hips so she could fit in between your legs. Her one hand placed itself on the couch by your hip. 
Curious fingers parted your folds carefully and you felt yourself flutter around nothing, a shudder running up your body. Two cool fingers rubbed slow circles against your pussy, so slow that you could hear the noises your cunt was making. 
“You’re so wet, Y/N,” Wanda said, her voice gentle and soothing. She spoke it as if narrating a fact rather than trying to intentionally talk dirty to you. “Your pussy is so soft. I wish you could see the way you look when I rub you this slow. The way you’re coating my fingers…”
She took her bottom lip between her teeth.
With the same two fingers, she parted your folds, watching your opening flutter for her. 
Wanda adjusted her posture, straightening her back and leaning forward to shift her weight onto her other hand. With one finger first, she slid into your opening, a satisfied noise leaving her at the feeling of how you wrapped around her middle finger.
“This is one finger,” she told you, looking up at your face. You nodded in confirmation. 
You clenched around her immediately, soft whimpers escaping you as Wanda began her rhythm, slow and intentional. She curled her finger upwards, applying light pressure against your g-spot. 
At the upward bucking of your hips, she straightened her finger inside of you and began to pick up speed. 
Wanda watched your back arch and your hips twitch upwards. She adjusted her speed and how hard she thrusted her fingers into you based on how much your hips chased her, or how much you pulled away or fluttered around her. 
Her eyes moved down from your face to your heaving chest, and she shifted her weight onto her heels so she could reach out with her other hand and grope one of your breasts. 
“Another finger,” you pleaded, reaching down to loosely wrap your fingers around her hand. She pulled out and reentered with two, adding her ring finger. 
As you adjusted to the size, evidently enjoying it much more for how you moaned out, gripping at the edge of the couch, Wanda experimented with her speed again, and tried thrusting her fingers in a little harsher. 
“Does that feel good?” she asked. 
“G-Good,” you stuttered in response. 
At your whimpers and your arching back, Wanda figured she found the perfect rhythm. She maintained it, then began teasing your nipples again. 
The double stimulation was far too much, and your leg wrapped around Wanda tighter. Your heel began to press into her lower back, so you set your foot down on the couch to avoid hurting her. 
“You feel so nice, Y/N,” Wanda said, practically cooing for how delicately she was speaking. “You’re so warm and soft. When I curl my fingers right here…” She curled them, pressing the pads of them against your g-spot, eliciting a whine out of you. “You fit around my fingers perfectly.”
She began to enter you each time with a delicate curl of her fingers, rubbing against the spot you loved. 
You panted, your hips lifting from the couch slightly as you felt yourself begin to tighten around Wanda’s fingers. She let go of your breast and wrapped a hand around the side of your waist, steadying you. 
“A-Ah, I’m gonna co-ome,” you stuttered. 
“Come for me, Y/N,” Wanda cooed. She looked down at you, biting down on her bottom lip as she watched your face contort in pleasure, listening to your whines mesh with your pants.
She maintained the speed you liked, until she felt you squeeze around her fingers, a cry leaving you while Wanda looked down at your body, feeling her mouth go dry at what she was seeing and at how much she loved feeling you around her fingers. 
You were younger than her, but Wanda never thought about your age difference very much when she spent her time with you. But you looked much younger below her as she watched you orgasm, listening to your delicate whimpers as you came down from your release.
Wanda slipped out of you slowly when your hips fell back down to the couch, missing the warm squeeze of your walls. She wrapped her lips around her fingers, savouring you slowly, her tongue sliding around her slick fingers. 
Then she moved on top of you, leaning down to kiss your lips. Her hand caressed your cheek, and you felt the remnants of her saliva rub against the corner of your jaw. She parted from you and buried her head in the crook of your neck, and you helped her position herself so she was laying on top of you, on your chest.
She turned her face upwards, kissing your neck chastly.
“You’re so good at that,” you said after you caught your breath in silence, Wanda having closed her eyes as she laid on top of you. Your hand was tucked under her shirt, rubbing her bare side.
With a flush of her cheeks and a repressed giggle, Wanda turned her face to rub against your chest. “Thank you.”
You untucked your hand from under her shirt and lifted it to her upper arm to play with the ends of her hair. Then you raised your hand to the side of her head, your fingers intertwining themselves into her hair, massaging her scalp gently.
Feeling the stark contrast from the present in comparison to when you first met her, you confessed honestly, “I actually really disliked you when we first met.” You avoided using the word ‘hate,’ because sometimes Wanda took your words very literally.
Wanda opened her eyes, looking up at you from your shoulder. “I know,” she said. “I figured you did.”
“But I thought I was just being overdramatic,” you added, “so I never talked about it with anyone, in case I would say things I regretted or if I figured I was just being confused.”
She wrapped her arm around your torso a bit tighter. 
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I gave you a hard time on purpose.”
“Why on purpose?”
Wanda looked back down at your chest, her hand rubbing against your side slowly. “At first, I felt a little awkward. I thought you were very attractive, and I knew you were younger than me,” she explained. Her fingers drew shapes against your skin, fidgeting slightly as she confessed what she regarded was embarrassing.
“Then you got along so well with the committee — far more than I ever had after volunteering for three years. And I knew you didn’t like me very much, and I also knew that if you spoke about it, you’d certainly speak with others who didn’t.”
Then she added quietly, “And I didn’t know how to speak with you; I don’t know how to speak with anyone. And when you drove me home during the blizzard, I felt very awkward. I didn’t know what I should say.”
You thought about that for a moment, and you realized that Wanda genuinely felt insecure about her struggles with socializing, and often behaved with hostility due to her inability to blend in well with others or figure out how to act in social situations.
“I didn’t think of you like that at all,” you said. “I only didn’t like you because you ran the committee like a dictator, not because I figured you had a hard time talking with people.”
“Really?” she asked, lifting her head to look at you. “I thought I stuck out like a sore thumb.”
You shook your head. “Kate said you didn’t typically come to events like the one downtown on Christmas Eve because she figured you travelled, and I just thought you were very different outside of the committee. I wanted to know more about you.”
Wanda felt her cheeks flush, and she swallowed. “You wanted to know more about me? Even after I was terrible to you?”
“You weren’t terrible to me, Wanda.”
She looked away, feeling a little awkward. You reached out and cupped her cheek supportively, your thumb brushing over the traces of the freckles by her nose that you’d noticed the first day you met her. She looked back at you, smiling at your supportive gesture.
“The day you drove me back, I told you all those things that I heard from other volunteers,” she said. “But no one really tells me those things. They don’t speak with me socially.”
“So… You just made it up?”
“No, I didn’t make it up,” she answered. She averted her eyes. “I didn’t know how to compliment you…”
You smiled at her shy demeanor. You rubbed your thumb against her cheek again, and Wanda re-met your eyes. “I don’t think you seem awkward, Wanda. You don’t stick out like a sore thumb,” you told her. 
Wanda always had a very difficult time with eye contact, but she liked being looked at by you. She replied softly, “You’re the only one who thinks that.”
“Do you want to know what I think?”
Her smile widened at the sound of your playful tone.
“What?” she asked.
“I think…” You sat up, and Wanda slipped from your chest, sitting back into your lap as you reached down and put your shirt back on. “I think that we should go upstairs so I don’t have to be the only one without my underwear on.”
“I can take them off now,” she offered, shifting herself on her lap to slip the pajama pants you gave her off. 
You placed your hands on hers to keep her from undressing, and you stood up from the couch. “No, I mean, I want to have sex upstairs,” you explained.
“Ah,” she replied, feeling a little silly for misunderstanding, a smile forming on her face. She quickly stood up after you and followed you up the stairs. Her eyes kept darting down to your naked lower half below your oversized shirt, her heart racing at the sight of you, and at the act of following you upstairs. 
She sped up a little to walk beside you. 
You wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling you against her so you could kiss her. Wanda moaned softly into your mouth. She tugged at your shirt, encouraging you to pull her to your bed.
You unwrapped your arm from her waist, placing both hands on your hips and keeping her against you. Wanda felt herself ache at how you handled her, and she carefully stepped back as you led her towards your bed. 
She took a seat at the edge, your lips parting. 
The two of you spoke about using a strap, and you showed her the size you had. She held the harness up while you inserted it, then the two of you put it to the side on the bed as Wanda moved back onto your bed.
Your lips met again, Wanda parting her legs for you to position herself between. You felt her reach down to take her shirt off and you straightened to help her. 
She didn’t seem to receive as much pleasure when you teased her nipples as she did when she was doing it to you. She preferred for you to be closer to her, with your lips on hers or against her neck. 
Her hands tucked themselves under your shirt, running up the curve of your back. She pulled your shirt over your head and pulled you down to her. Her breasts were soft against your chest and you flushed at the sight of the soft flesh against your body.
You practically whimpered as you looked down at them, one hand massaging her gently, Wanda whimpering softly as you did.  
“You like them?” she cooed from beneath you, watching with rapt attention as your eyes looked down at her chest. She arched her back up and pushed herself into your palm, your hand full of her soft breast, her nipple stiffening under your contact.
After responding with a useless, distracted noise, Wanda cradled the back of your head with her hand and brought you down to her neck, where you sucked gently at her collarbone first before travelling up to her jawline.
Her pleasured sighs made you ache once more between your thighs, and you could feel Wanda begin to roll her hips up against you. Her leg wrapped around your hips and she pulled you closer.
Instead, you repositioned yourself to slide a thigh between her legs, making contact with her clothed core. Wanda immediately began rolling herself down against you, whiny moans coming from her. You bent your thigh forward, applying further pressure to her clit.
Her eyebrows furrowed together at the sudden attention, and she opened her eyes to look for where the strap was placed. “Please, now,” she begged.
Wanda eagerly took her pants and underwear off as you stepped off the bed and stepped into the harness. She swallowed at the sight of you, and she laid back down, her legs spread for you and her hands gripping onto the blankets, feeling a hummingbirds’ heart thrumming in her chest.
It had been a while since Wanda last had sex. 
She was more heartbroken over Agatha than she preferred to let on; for her, it had been a short fling on a break, while Wanda had sincerely liked her and enjoyed the intimacy. When she discussed it with you the time you came over to her place, it had been the first time she thought about it without feeling inadequate for serving as some temporary fling.
It wasn’t just that it had been a while that made her feel a thrum of both excitement and nerves, but also that she couldn’t remember the last time she felt so attached to someone she was about to sleep with. She wanted to do well for you, and she wanted you to feel a connection with her. 
You coated the strap with lube before setting it down on the nightstand and meeting her warm pussy with your fingers. 
A small whine escaped Wanda at the contact. 
You looked up at her. 
“Are you feeling nervous?” you asked. 
She nodded.
You lowered yourself over her, your fingers still rubbing softly against her warm folds. She made little noises, gripping into the sheets. 
“We don’t have to,” you told her, removing your fingers. “It’s okay if you’d like to go to bed, if you would rather that.”
Wanda shook her head adamantly and placed her hands on your sides, pulling you against her. 
“I want you,” she assured. 
Then, when she felt like she might go silent again like she normally did when she wasn’t sure what to say, she confessed, “I want you to feel connected to me, and… I don’t want you to be bored of me. After this.”
“Wh…” You lifted yourself up, your weight shifting onto your hand by her head to get a better view of her. “Why would I feel bored of you?”
“I want to spend time with you. I still want to see you even if you ever leave the committee, and even after the holidays when we both get busy. Sometimes, I still can’t tell if you like to see me just because you’re free over the holidays,” she explained. 
She added quietly, “I don’t want you to… leave me for someone you like more.”
You completely sat up, leaning back against your heels. Wanda sat up a little against your pillows and headboard. 
You took her hand. “No, Wanda, I really, really like you. Outside of the committee, and outside of… of the holidays.“
That made Wanda giggle a little, her hand brought up to her mouth. She felt her stomach filled with butterflies at the direct confession.
“You really like me, Y/N?”
With a poorly-repressed grin, you climbed on top of her again and added a little more lube to yourself, your hand wrapped around your strap. “I like you so much, Wanda,” you whispered against her temple. 
You heard another giggle from her before you delved into her neck, your fingers drawing circles against her core. You entered and exited her shallowly, steadily pushing yourself further into her with one finger with every gentle entry. The length of your finger slid against her clit with every stroke.
“Tell me when,” you said, speaking against her neck, curling your finger slightly with every slow entry, trying to see if you could gauge the speed she liked. 
“I want you now,” she sighed, her hand moving down to find your harness, pulling you against her hips. She let out a desperate whimper when your strap grazed against her core.
Wanda liked it in the same way she liked kissing you. Your speed was steady, and she took your entire length with her legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you in so you met her skin with an echoing slap. Then she loosened the tension so you could pull back, before pulling you back in, lifting her hips slightly so she could meet you with the intensity she wanted. 
The speed allowed for her moans to be low and genuine, communicating what she couldn’t with words in little noises and sighs. 
You reached over her head to grip the headboard so you could meet her hips without the pressure of her legs. Wanda whined loudly, reaching up to wrap her hand around your bicep as she arched her back up against you.
She whimpered your name, her thighs squeezing against your hips.
“Y-Yes, like that,” she panted. “Ah, Y/N, I’m…”
“Fuck, you take me so well, Wanda,” you encouraged.
Wanda whimpered at your praise and she came not a moment after, crying out into your shoulder, her hand squeezing your bicep when your hips met hers with a slightly more forceful impact as she reached her peak.
Her thighs loosened from around your hips and she groaned, breathing out with a huff. Her hand remained gripping your bicep loosely. 
Wanda caught her breath while you laid beside her, rubbing her hip. You kissed her face gently and then the top of her head, and played with her hair.
“Do you want water?” you asked her.
“Please,” she replied, opening her eyes and looking at you with a little smile.
A few moments later you came back with a glass of water, handing it to her after she sat up. “Thank you,” she said, shuffling closer to you as you drank from your own. 
After she set it down, she looked at you with a smile, as if expectantly.
You exhaled a laugh into your glass then set it down, wiping the water that had splashed onto your cheek. “What?”
After some giggling in which Wanda bashfully asked to go again, the two of you switched positions. 
Wanda turned onto all fours and you held onto her hips, positioning yourself against her opening. She pushed herself back slightly, and you watched as her opening hugged your tip. She let out a soft whimper.
Everywhere you touched Wanda, your bare skin brushed against hers. When you looked at her, you could see every form her naked body took, how it curved and bent and folded. Her skin was cool to the touch and easily warmed.
The bed squeaked beneath the two of you in tandem with your hips meeting her ass in rhythmic slaps, and it didn’t take Wanda long to lower herself, unable to hold herself up. She laid on top of your pillows, moaning out as you kept the steady pace she liked. 
You sped up slightly and Wanda whined into your pillow.
“Do you like it when I do that?”
“Nngh, s-so good,” she groaned. She slipped her hand beneath her torso and massaged her breast.
You reached forward and wrapped a hand around the side of her waist to hold her in place. Your other hand moved her hand out of the way, and you groped her breast before flicking at her hardened nipple. 
Wanda held onto your wrist, her body jerking forward with each one of your thrusts. The headboard hit lightly against the wall in the same tempo as Wanda’s tiny whimpers, muffled by your blankets. 
With this position, it was far easier to thrust against her with a little more intensity, although with the same speed. 
“Is this too rough?” you asked. 
“A little…”
You let go of her breast and placed both hands on her hips, slowly lowering her so she was mostly laying flat. Her back was arched enough so that she was angled up against you, her ass slotting against the curve of hips. 
This way, your range of motion was centered closer to her body. 
“Is this better?” you asked, speaking softly now that your torso was entirely against her back. 
She nodded, reaching back for your hand. You let go of your hip and interlaced your hands with hers, holding it above her head, her other gripping at the bed sheets. 
“Faster…” she muttered against your pillows. 
You sped up, your hips meeting her ass eagerly, egged on by listening to her moans so close to your ear. 
From behind, you buried your face in her neck, kissing and suckling gently at the soft skin. You bit down lightly on her shoulder to see how she would react, and you were rewarded with a whiny moan and a squeeze of your hand. 
“Pull my hair,” she told you. 
You let go of her breast and took a handful of her hair, pulling it back, her noises now unmuffled from your pillows. Her hair was so soft. You were sure not to lose your grip. 
“Wanda, you’re doing so good,” you whispered. “You sound so fucking hot.”
She whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. 
“Mmm, Y/N…” She turned her head and met your eyes. “Am I being a good girl?”
Your mouth went dry and you felt like you were melting on top of her. Then you realized it made an incredible amount of sense that Wanda would be into being praised. 
With the way she was underneath your body, her hand squeezing around yours, and her hair tightened in your other, the blissed out look Wanda gave you through her hooded eyes made you completely speechless. 
You leaned in and kissed her, and Wanda immediately parted her lips. The kiss was messy for how often the two of you had to part to take breaths and exhale, panting into each other’s open months, tongues swirling around each other, grazing against smooth teeth, teasing at swollen lips.
“That’s right, my good girl. Take it just like that,” you grunted softly. “You deserve this, Wanda. You’ve been so good… Working so hard.”
Wanda whimpered, feeling even a little emotional at your words. Her lips were parted and her tongue was stuck out slightly, waiting for you as you spoke against her lips, her breath hot.
You tightened your hand around her hair. “You look so pretty taking it, princess. You make me feel so good when you sound like that.”
“I’m gonna come,” she whimpered. 
You maintained your speed so you could ensure she took you in deeply, taking your entire length each time, burying yourself inside of her. Wanda cried out at the depth, throwing her head back further and allowing you to readjust her grip on her hair. 
In broken noises, she whined, “Aa-ah, I’m coming, I’m com-”
Wanda’s words were interrupted as a long, loud cry left her parted lips, she let go of your hand, reaching up and helplessly grasping against your headboard, fingers pressing into the solid surface as she came. 
When she came down, her hand slipped from it, and you let go of her hair carefully, letting her catch her breath as you slowly pulled out of her.
You unfastened the strap from around your hips, setting it to some corner of your bed before laying down beside Wanda’s panting, tired body. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. Her hair was a mess where you had been pulling it, and her body trembled with the post-tremors of her orgasm.
Your arm wrapped around her waist and Wanda immediately shifted, lifting herself up so she could bury herself against your front. Her arm wrapped around your torso, and she laid her head on the bicep of your other arm. 
She breathed out deeply, and you felt her entire body loosen and relax in your arms. 
When you pressed a kiss to her forehead, you saw the glimpse of her flustered smile before she buried her face in your chest. “You’re so gentle, Y/N,” she whispered. “That felt so good…”
“How couldn’t I be gentle with you?”
You unwrapped your arm from her waist and combed your fingers through her hair, smoothing it out and fanning it out against your pillows.
“Can I sleep here with you?” she asked, looking up from your chest.
You smiled down at her, and her eyes darted down to your lips, smiling a little in response when she picked up that you thought her question was a little funny. But you couldn’t even poke fun at her. She just looked so small in your arms, looking up and asking to sleep beside you.
“Of course. I want you to stay here with me,” you answered, moving your hand from her hair to cup her cheek. “I’ll get us some new pajamas.”
“Okay,” she answered, beaming up at you and asking for a little kiss before you went to dig through your wardrobe.
A few days later, you and Wanda decided to go to the Christmas Eve event downtown. It was both of your first times there, and Wanda felt rather nervous to go. You had no idea she thought so frequently about how others thought about her; you knew she was insecure about how she behaved, but not regarding how others viewed her.
She told you that she had considered attending many times before, but worried that people would see her attending and think she shouldn’t be there, and so she figured she ought to just do what was expected of her.
She was still rather nervous as she attended with you, but your presence reassured her in the first few minutes you were there. After a few minutes, Wanda became easily amused and was quickly beginning to have a lot of fun. She mentioned all the planning that had come up behind the scenes at things you passed together, and you couldn’t help but smile at how excited she was getting.
You had both said that you didn’t want to be too open about seeing each other right away, so in case the two of you might be seen by other committee members, you agreed on keeping intimate physical contact to a minimum while you were out. It was Wanda who had the hardest time remembering that. 
Sometimes you couldn’t help but wrap your arm around her when she got excited — she was too cute. She took a bunch of photos with you, and you took many of her on her own. You took dozens of photos of her while she wasn’t looking too; she looked like a kid experiencing Christmas for the first time.
Because you had convinced her to come, she paid for your hot chocolates and macaroni and cheese. But you paid for the churros and dulce de leche dip, because you were far more interested in trying it than she was.
The two of you stayed for a few of the performances, because Wanda hadn’t ever actually seen any of the bands they partnered with play. The two of you sat with your hot chocolates, Wanda holding the mac and cheese while you held the long churro stick.
“They’re so good, Y/N…!” Wanda whispered to you excitedly.
You laughed, and Wanda continued to look onwards with rapt attention.
As you were leaving, the two of you passed Mrs Davis, who had forgotten her mittens at home and decided to walk over to get them and come back to the event since she lived in very close walking distance. She called your name first, and you felt Wanda’s arm brush against yours, seemingly having stepped closer to you.
“Y/N, you made it!” she greeted cheerily, holding her arms out excitedly. Then upon seeing Wanda, her eyes darted between the two of you, trying to see if she could read the kind of outing this was. But a large and warm smile remained on her sweet face all the same.
“It’s so good to finally see you at one of these events, Wanda,” she said.
Wanda nodded, smiling a bit shakily, not that Mrs Davis noticed. “I thought it was high time I finally attended,” she said. 
Share personal information, she recalled from what she read online.
She added, “And Y/N offered to come with me since I didn’t want to come alone.”
“Oh, it’s so nice to see you out during the holidays, Wanda, I always wondered how you were the head of the committee, but were never able to enjoy the hot chocolate vendors you helped us find!” Mrs Davis laughed, and Wanda found herself genuinely smiling, pleasantly surprised by how much she’d been thought of.
“The hot chocolate was amazing,” Wanda conceded with a shy smile.
A voice called from behind the two of you, presumably Mrs Davis’ husband, for she waved back and quickly said her goodbyes as she said she needed to run.
“So, so happy to see both of you,” she said with a beaming smile. “Merry Christmas!”
Wanda waved goodbye, watching the older woman walk away before you both headed back to her car together. When you looked at Wanda, she had a little trace of a smile on her face, and after a moment, she held your hand, not saying anything.
You sat in Wanda’s living room going through the photos you took together, having stopped by a restaurant to pick up some dinner. She was laughing at them, asking you to send all of them to her, and recalling everything you did that night together with great excitement.
She cuddled close to you as she watched you send her the photos.
“I’m so happy we went,” she said, her cheek laying against your warm sweater.
You brought your hand up to her head, combing through her hair and massaging your fingers against her scalp. You watched as her eyes closed, listened to her breathing softly as you touched her gently.
After some silent moments, you asked, “Would you like to come to my place for Christmas?” 
Wanda opened her eyes and looked up at you. “But you’re hosting your family.”
You and Wanda had only been together for a few days, and by tomorrow, Christmas Day, you still wouldn’t have been together for even a full week. 
“I know, but… Wanda, I don’t want you to be celebrating Christmas alone at all. I want to spend it with you, and I want you to be there.”
She sat up, her hand still resting on your knee.
“But I’ll be meeting your family, right?”
You knew that family was a bit of a sensitive topic for Wanda. You didn’t want her to feel upset while she was there, and you didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, or like she didn’t fit in. But unbeknownst to you, that wasn’t what Wanda was thinking about at all.
“You… will. Yes. But I promise they’re really nice, and they’ll really like you,” you tried to explain, hoping you weren’t turning her away from spending the holiday with you.
“But, I mean…” Wanda trailed off, trying to find a way to word her thoughts. “You’re introducing me to them as… What?”
The moment a weight was taken from your shoulders at the concern that Wanda would be too nervous to spend Christmas with any family, another one was added in which you and Wanda would have to think about how you wanted to see your relationship.
Wanda felt a bit of panic rise in her at what seemed to her as hesitancy. Didn’t you want to be with her? Were you feeling ashamed of being with her? Or even worse, were there some things about having a family that she just couldn’t understand? Was she fated to never fit in amongst people you loved?
You also felt nervous to approach the topic. Introducing her as your girlfriend felt like forcefully jutting her into your family dynamic. You wanted to show her that you listened to the stories you told about her family, and that you didn’t want to change how she was in order to enjoy Christmas with you.
“We can…” you started, going nowhere. “Maybe I can… If you want… introduce you as my girlfriend.”
Wanda felt her heart flutter and her fingers tightened around your knee. You took that as a sign of tension. 
“But that’s totally okay if that’s not at all what you want. I understand. Listen, we can try, just for Christmas, and if you hate it, we don’t have to do it again.”
Then Wanda became confused, pulling back. “What do you mean? You’ll break up with me after Christmas?”
“What? What do you mean ‘breaking up?’”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now? Asking me out so you can introduce me as your girlfriend?”
“I-I mean… Yes, maybe. I’m actually… I’m not really sure what I’m doing.” You frowned just a little, looking helpless. “I’m a little confused.”
She exhaled a little, feeling relief that at the very least she wasn’t the only one.
After regaining some of your confidence, you worded yourself carefully, and honestly. “I just don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable being around my family. I don’t want this to be something that divides us.”  
“Me neither,” she replied. She moved closer to you again. “I want to fit in with your family.”
“Wh… Really?”
Wanda nodded. “Of course,” she replied sincerely. “I want to be able to fit into your life. I want to take this seriously.”
Then after a moment, she asked quietly, “Do… you take this seriously?”
“Yes! Yes, I do,” you quickly answered, taking her hands. “I just thought that you’d feel uncomfortable being around my family for the holidays, and I didn’t want to force you to have a role with them by introducing you as my girlfriend.”
“Oh,” Wanda breathed out, understanding where the misunderstanding had come from. “But what about what you said about breaking up after Christmas?”
You let go of her hand to scratch the back of your neck awkwardly. “That… Well…” you trailed off, and Wanda squeezed your hand supportively. “Well, are we dating? Right now?”
Not even Wanda really knew, and she was the one who was most outwardly adamant about wanting to be serious with you.
“I want to be your girlfriend, Y/N,” Wanda said.
Your cheeks warmed and you felt your chest flutter with the idea of Wanda calling herself your girlfriend, and the idea that you were dating her. 
“Okay,” you replied with a little smile, and Wanda smiled shyly when you squeezed her hand. “Then… Will you be my girlfriend? Can we go out?”
Wanda couldn't help but giggle, both at the ridiculousness of the confusing conversation, and at the feeling of being asked to be your girlfriend. 
“Oh, you’re making fun of me now?” you teased, only making Wanda laugh harder. She tried to pull her hand away from you to compose herself, but you didn’t let her. 
You pulled her on top of you as she laughed. Your hands held her at her waist and you kissed her neck and shoulder. Then you laid your head back, watching with a smile as she came down from her laughter. 
She brushed her hair back and looked down at you. 
“Yes, we can go out,” she finally replied, pushing your hair back from her forehead with a delicate smile on her face. 
It wasn’t until after Wanda started dating you that she realized she was a little bad with words. It wasn’t only lacking the confidence to say things that made her bad at it, but also her struggles with wording things. But you somehow always understood her when she tried her best to explain, pulling together scraps of a cohesive explanation. 
You understood when she tried to explain how happy she was that she was your girlfriend, and you were hers only. Largely, you understood everything she tried to tell you, even when she thought she made absolutely no sense. 
It made her much more confident in speaking with others, and in sharing what she thought and felt in a sincere way, and not because she read a tip online saying that she should. 
You spoke with her over the phone as you ran the last few errands for Christmas dinner, and Wanda was preparing the dish she was going to bring. She asked things like what she should wear and if they’d like the dish she chose, and even things like conversation starters your family would like. 
To the last question, you honestly had no clue, and told her no one had ever asked you that before. It kind of made you laugh, which made Wanda laugh and realize she was overthinking. 
After you hung up, Wanda called her parents like she did every Christmas Day. This time, she was able to tell them that she was going to attend something later. 
Pietro, unlike her parents, for they didn’t understand the significance of what their daughter was trying to tell them, was thrilled for her. Though she wasn’t sure if he would actually hold up his end of the bargain, he communicated that he really hoped to see her for Christmas next year. 
She sent him the pictures of the Christmas Eve event she went to with you, and she promised to send pictures later that night too. 
Pietro was always very supportive of Wanda’s interests, and he said he truly couldn’t remember the last time she was so excited about anything. She hadn’t realized she was so excited about the dinner. 
He corrected her, saying that she seemed far more excited about dating you. 
Wanda knocked at your door, holding her own attempt at the salmon bake she believed you mastered the first time you cooked it last week. She heard the sounds of your family already inside and she felt her chest flutter with both nerves and excitement. 
She thought of Mrs Davis, and how excited she had been to see her. 
She thought of everything you’d told her, and how you’d wanted to know more about her when she thought she’d treated you horribly, and how you didn’t think she treated you horribly at all. 
Maybe she wasn’t so bad at all the things she thought she was. In any case, you still liked her. Though she didn’t think she’d ever get used to that. 
You opened the front door, quickly ushering Wanda in. You took the dish from her as she took her shoes and jacket off. 
“Merry Christmas, Wanda,” you said softly, leaning in and giving her a kiss. 
Wanda beamed at you. 
“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”
1K notes · View notes
changbunnies · 5 months ago
Text
Hopelessly Devoted To You (18+)
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♡ Pairing: Greaser!Bang Chan x fem!Reader
♡ Genre: grease inspired 50s au, some angst and fluff, this was supposed to be a long full length fic but it somehow became just porn with plot lol
♡ Word Count: 11.2k
♡ Summary: You were so excited to see him again– the guy you'd spent your entire summer with, entagled in a fleeting but explosively sweet romance. But the Chris you meet again isn't the one you remember, and now if he wants to win you back he's going to have to prove just how devoted to you he really is.
♡ Warnings: chan is referred to as chris, smoking (cigarettes), some misogyny + toxic masculinity + fuck boy behavior, some 50s references and lingo, 1 instance of reader shoving chan in a fit of anger / sadness, jealous and mildly possessive chan, minor appearances from felix, changbin, minho, and hyunjin (who goes by sam)
♡ Smut Warnings: 1 reference to reader losing their virginity to chan, references / flashbacks to other smut scenes before the main scene, light dom/sub dynamics, switch!chan, pet names (doll, sugar, baby), public sex, car sex, exhibitionism, oral (f rec, referenced m rec), fingering (f rec), nipple play, daddy kink, panty stealing (kind of), squirting, 1 mention of reader having pubic hair, maybe a lil breeding kink??, protected piv
♡ Notes: i've had this sitting in my drafts since december and finally got around to finishing it gfdhgfh this is incredibly self indulgent as grease is one of my fave movies ever and chan as danny zuko is constantly rattling around in my brain. the build up is pretty short (by my usual standards) as i moved the plot along a lot quicker than i normally would so idk if it's my best work but hopefully you enjoy it!
♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.
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You remember well the first time you met Chris. Lounging aimlessly at the beach with the sunset on the horizon, his feet in the sand with a silver dog tag necklace hanging low over his bare chest, a cigarette from his previously discarded jeans held between his lips. Fresh from the ocean with beads of water still dripping off his toned body, slicking back his damp hair before fumbling through a different pocket for his lighter.
You watched him bring it up to his face after successfully digging it out, cupping his other hand around it to protect the flame as he lit the cigarette in his mouth. You watched him take a long drag, watched him blow the smoke out from the corners of his mouth, watched him sigh before deciding to towel dry his legs enough to wrangle his jeans back on. 
The beach had been quickly growing sparse by the time you spotted him. Groups of friends clearing out to make it to the local diner before all the tables were filled, parents wanting to get their kids to bed before the moon fully rose in the sky, couples on double dates bunching up in one car as they decide to hit the drive-in together.
You yourself were in no rush to leave– you came alone, tired of your parents bickering during what was supposed to be a fun family vacation. You’d stay as long as you could, you’d decided– really soak in the peace the sea brings before returning to your aunt’s beach house, where you were all staying for the summer.
But safe to say, the sight of him enraptured you. He was handsome, devastatingly so– you never expected to see a man with a visage to rival even that of James Dean himself with your own eyes, but there he was before you; and your heart stuttered when he glanced over in your direction.
He had just finished pulling his jeans up and over his haunches when he noticed you, cocking a brow when your eyes met– and you could tell in an instant that he knew you’d been staring at him. His smile made your breath hitch, pretty dimples peeking out on his cheeks as he acknowledged you with a playful wave.
Hesitantly, you lifted your hand and waved back, and he grinned, eyes still locked on yours as he pulled up the zipper of his jeans. He turned back to his belongings on the ground, shook the sand out of his white tee before pulling it on. He grabbed his leather jacket, slung it over his shoulder before turning to look at you once more.
You swallowed, face running hot from his gaze alone– you hoped, as he began walking towards you, that you could play it off as having not put on enough sunscreen before coming here. You were sitting on a towel, legs to your chest with your arms wrapped around them, but you lowered them as he approached you.
He tossed his cigarette to the the side once he was close, letting its flame fizzle out in the sand. He looked you up and down when you stood up, introducing himself with a charismatic smile that made your heart race faster. You stuttered when speaking, and his smile widened, one of his hands going to rest in the pocket of his jeans while the other kept his leather jacket in place over his shoulder. 
Chris was the most, to say the least– and when he asked if he’d see you again tomorrow, you promised him he would. You watched him walk over to a beat up, old top down cadillac, throwing his jacket into the car before jumping in– literally jumping in, hand on top of the closed car door as he hopped over it into the driver's seat. 
He gave you another glance after starting the ignition, and you smiled meekly as you offered him another wave. Chris grinned, raising his hand to say goodbye before putting it back on the wheel and burning rubber out of the parking lot.
You spent nearly every summer day with him after that. Days at the beach spent splashing each other in the water while you giggled, hopping in his cadillac to go catch whatever new flick was showing, or sharing a milkshake at his favorite diner. He’d hold your hand as you walked through the sand, giggled with you over silly inside jokes while eating burgers and fries, hugged you tight after you gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek at the end of the night.
Chris gave you dimes to pick tunes on the jukebox, and would sing along to your selections with the prettiest voice you’d ever heard. He took you to the county fair, would shoot you goofy grins after kissing you with lips sticky from cotton candy, got on the ferris wheel with you and squeezed your hand when the height made you dizzy, kissing away your nerves when you reached the very top.
He won you a teddy bear from the soda toss, put his leather jacket over your shoulders when the sun set and the air began to chill, wrapped his arm around your shoulder while you were waiting in line to buy some popcorn. He’d lean down to whisper a joke in your ear, and you’d slap his arm with a giggle while he squeezed you closer.
You watched him soup up the engine of his car, and he’d take your hand after a long day of working on it, pull you in to dance with him while the radio blared the hippest tunes. When he was satisfied with the restoration of his cadillac, he started taking you out on long drives, wind whipping through your hair as he drove fast through the back streets of the city.
He’d drive you to secluded hills overlooking the city, where you’d make out until he had to drive you home in time for curfew. He’d park his car far down the street, away from where your family could see him dropping you off– because Lord knows your mother's heart would give out if she saw you spending your vacation with a guy that looked like him.
And through it all, days spent back at the beach where you first met him were always your favorite. You would let Chris lay you down on a towel in the sand and kiss you over and over, until you were both heaving and hot. You lost your virginity to him like that– alone on the beach, towels laid down and moon high in the sky after having snuck out of the window of your guest bedroom to meet him.
He’d whisper sweet words in your ear, make you fall apart with deft fingers and an equally deft tongue. Sometimes, instead of sneaking out to see him, he’d be the one showing up at your guest room's window, grinning at you as you opened it to let him in. He’d fuck you there, in the bed with his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans of pleasure, lest your family discover what it is you’re really up to while "alone" in your room. 
Chris would crawl over to you in the passenger seat at the drive-in, sink to his knees and dip his head underneath your long poodle skirt, the flick on screen long forgotten as he pulled your panties to the side to kiss and lick your dripping pussy. Sometimes he’d fuck you there too, parked all the way in back with the windows and hood of the car up to hide what you were doing (as if the rocking didn’t give it away to anyone who happened to look.)
Sometimes, when he parked up the street to drop you off after sharing ice cream at the drive thru malt shop, you’d lean over the gear shift, taking his cock out of his jeans and sucking him off right there, with not nearly enough care for who could possibly see you. He’d give you the sweetest kiss before helping you out of the car, promising he’d see you tomorrow too, and the day after, and the day after that, until eventually your family’s summer vacation had to come to an end.
Chris was a dreamboat that day, as he always was– hair greased back with a few curly strands left over his forehead, loose black tee tucked into his jeans, leather jacket on with its collar ever so slightly popped, his dog tag necklace sparkling when the sun hit it just right. He was leaning against the door of his newly souped up cadillac with a lit cigarette resting between his lips, though he promptly threw it to the ground when he saw you walking over.
“There’s my girl! And ain’t she a doll,” he grinned as he pulled you to his body, kissing you sweetly as you blushed. You weren’t wearing anything he hadn’t seen you in before– just one of your usual white blouses and pretty pink skirts, but he always made sure to tell you that he thought you were the absolute most.
He walked around to the other side of the car, opened the door for you and closed it shut behind you when you got in. He hopped into the driver’s seat after, starting the ignition and turning to you with that beaming smile that made your stomach flip. “What’s the plan today, sugar?” he asked, throwing his arm around you while leaving one hand on the steering wheel.
In the end, you spent the day as you had many times before– driving through the city, hitting up the diner to split a strawberry milkshake, and watching the sunset at the beach; the same beach where you met him, and where the house you were staying in lied just a couple hundred yards away. You were sitting on the rocks, his leather jacket off and resting behind you, his arm curled around your waist. 
His jeans were filthy with sand, as was your skirt, but neither of you cared– you just stayed there together, watching the sun sink lower and the waves crash against the shore. Chris kissed you when you looked up at him with watery eyes, agonized over the idea of never seeing him again. He’d given you the best summer of your entire life, and all you wanted was to stay– but you couldn’t. And though he comforted you the best he could, you both knew it was the end.
Chris held your hand to help you off the rocks, gave you a kiss before you turned away to make the walk to your aunt’s beach house. And you both knew it was the end– but not just yet. He came to your window later that night, and you let him in, bringing your hands to his face and eagerly pressing your lips to his.
He walked you back to the bed as you kissed him, laid you back gently and crawled between your legs. He made you cum on his fingers before reaching into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a condom and tearing it open with his teeth. He rolled it easily down his cock, his jeans having fallen down his legs just enough to let him fuck you.
You reached your hands underneath his shirt, hungrily tracing your hands over every inch of his skin. Your nightgown was bunched above your thighs, legs spread wide to accommodate him. He eventually pulled the top of it down too, exposing your chest to him and leaving your stomach as the only covered part of your body.
Sweat dripped from his brow, his normally perfectly slicked hair tousled from your fingers sliding through it– and you didn't care that the pomade in his hair dirtied your fingers; in fact, it made it feel nicer when you brought your hand to one of your breasts, and rolled your nipples between them. Your stomach flipped when he grinned and called you a dirty girl, running a hand through his hair to grease up his fingers too and tweak the other nipple not being played with by your own.
He kissed you to muffle your moans and desperate whines, and it was nowhere near as effective as when it was his hand clamped over your mouth, but it was better. He had to slow down when fucking you fast unintentionally made your bedframe slam against the wall, and you gasped, praying no one woke up from the sound.
Thankfully, no one came knocking on your door– and though you were both desperate, clinging to one another hard and sliding your tongues around each other’s with fervor, he fucked you slow and deep after that. "Chris, daddy, please– 'm gonna cum," you moaned when he brought his slicked up fingers to your clit. 
Chris groaned before kissing you again, and you came with a muffled cry, your nails digging desperately into his biceps. He kept rolling his hips into you through it, your body trembling with sensitivity until he eventually came too, all his cum spilling into the condom. 
He stayed for a while after that, holding you close and wiping tears from your eyes with his thumbs. He snuck out in the middle of the night, promised you despite it all that it wasn’t the end– you’d see each other again someday, he just knew it; he wanted you to believe it too.
You got a couple of hours of sleep before morning, and gave your family the best smile you could manage as you tossed your luggage in the trunk of your dad's chevy bel air. You slouched in the back seat, trying not to cry and wishing more than anything you were in Chris’ old cadillac instead.
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The Chris you reunited with wasn’t yours, and if it was, then fate was cruel for bringing you back to him.
The Chris you knew wouldn’t have looked at you like that– like you’re a desperate and fast girl, or an overly smitten near stranger hoping to get her kicks from him one last time while his friends snickered behind him. The Chris you knew wouldn’t join in on their snickering, tilting his head with an amused expression, tongue poking his cheek as he combs his fingers through his slicked back hair.
The Chris you reunited with wasn't yours, and the realization that you didn't really know him the way you thought you did utterly broke your heart.
You were back in the city– your parents, after having settled whatever marital disputes they were having, decided to settle down here. They loved their time together in the city when all their little tiffs were said and done, and they could tell you loved it here too.
They thought it’d benefit everyone to set up shop somewhere new, where everyone could reset. Plus, your mom wanted to be close to her sister again– and you certainly wouldn’t complain about spending more time at your aunt’s beach house.
You desperately wanted to see Chris again, and you knew it’d only be a matter of time before you did– unlike you, he grew up in the city, lived here his entire life. And while it’d been months since you parted at the end of summer considering your parents had to do a lot of work to shift the family business to a new location while also looking for a decent house up for sale, it would happen eventually– you were certain of it.
And soon enough you did see him, knew in an instant it was him even at a distance– because you’d recognize his restored cadillac anywhere. He was leaning against the car door like usual, cigarette in his mouth and leather jacket on his back, with a circle of friends around him. You never met his friends– he told you they were pigs, said that you wouldn’t like them much.
Besides, you were only going to be in town a few short months– why waste your precious few days hanging around with other people when you could be alone? That’s what he always told you– and as you tentatively began to walk up the street closer to them, you could tell they certainly did talk more vulgarly than you were used to hearing.
“C’mon man, you gotta let me borrow her,” one of his friends begged in reference to his car, “she’s a real pussy wagon. My chick’ll cream if I pick her up in it.” “Get your own wheels, bozo,” Chris shoved him with a laugh, “I ain’t lettin’ you take my girl on any joyrides.”
“What if you come too? Make it a double date, you know– and nobody’s got bigger tits than Annette. I got dibs, but she’ll be real nice eye candy for you,” his friend persuaded and Chris hummed, as if seriously considering it. Would he really go?
“Mm, maybe,” he grinned, tossing his cigarette to the ground and digging it into the gravel with his foot, “You do got a point. Tell her to bring a pretty friend, and I’ll think about it.” You blinked, stopped walking and simply stared at him. Had he moved on already? It’d only been a few months, but maybe you fell for him harder than he fell for you; the thought of it made your heart sink to your stomach.
His friend cheered and hugged him tight, and Chris pushed him away with another laugh, running a hand through his hair to fix it up as he characteristically did whenever it got even the slightest bit out of shape. In that same moment is when he glanced over in your direction, catching sight of you by pure coincidence.
His eyes widened when he saw you, mouth gaping open for a split second before he called your name in a mix of utter shock and joy. That was more like the Chris you knew– and it gave you hope. You ran up to him, and he to you, bringing his hands to your shoulders and touching you up and down your arms– truly, he couldn’t believe you were here, and he had to touch you to be certain it was real. 
“What– what are you doing here? I-I thought you went back home with your folks, I thought–” he was smiling, entirely giddy as he looked you up and down. “We moved! I’m here to stay,” you told him excitedly, bouncing on your heels as you stared up at him.
It made you so, so happy; to the point that the contents of his prior conversation entirely lifted from your mind. It pains you thinking back to how naive and lovesick for him you were– you wish you'd have known better. 
“I can’t believe it! I–” he started to exclaim, but then realized his friends followed him, crowding around his back while shooting him inquisitive looks, and he quickly took his hands off you.
He cleared his throat, tucked his hands in his pockets in a gesture meant to bring him back to his aloof state of being, and he grinned– not that pretty grin that made your heart flutter, but a wicked one. “I mean– that’s cool, baby.”
You didn’t like it, your brows furrowing at the change in his demeanor. “Christopher–” you started, but one of his friends spoke up before you could talk much more. “Who’s the chick?” he asked as he looked you up and down, and Chris hesitated. “Oh, uh–”
“Oh, I know!” the friend suddenly exclaimed, hit by an epiphany, “the one from the beach you wouldn’t let us meet– the one who puts out. This her? It is, isn’t it?”
Your face burned red, unpleasant heat crawling over your body as the rest of his friends snickered. He told them you put out? Why would he do that? Your expression crumbled, body trembling with embarrassment and grief, but Chris kept his own cool.
“Don’t worry, doll, I didn’t tell them all the horny details,” he smirked, and his friends' snickers erupted into full on laughs as they slapped his back in amusement. Your body burned hot with indignation, eyes welling with tears as your frustration and anguish boiled over. You shoved him as hard as you could, though it hardly even caused him to take a step back.
“I wish I’d never laid eyes on you, you– you creep!” you cried before turning away, ready to run back home to throw the teddy bear he won you in the trash and sob into your pillows. “That’s not all she laid on him,” one of his friends commented under his breath, the rest laughing and hooting as you sprinted away from them, back down the street.
Chris just watched, body tense and face sullen, heart twisting in his chest. He watched you turn the corner, wiping tears from your eyes before you disappeared entirely out of view, his friends still laughing and giving him pats on the back.
But when he turned to them, he put the smirk back on, and they all hopped into his car to hit the drive-in as if he didn't care about what just happened with you, as if the guilt wasn't going to eat away at him every night.
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The next time Chris sees you is weeks later, at a new mom-and-pop shop freshly opened on the edge of the city. He’s there with his friends, all of them jumping out his cadillac before he’s even fully parked, rushing inside to grab a good table.
And when he walks in, it’s not his friends that he sees first but you– sitting at a booth with another guy across from you. There's an empty plate with tiny remnants of ketchup still left behind that he just knows you used for your french fries, and a milkshake between you with two straws stuck in it.
Part of him is relieved you aren’t sharing a single straw with the man like you would’ve done with him, but his gut still twists from the sight regardless. And when you giggle at something indiscernible the guy says, Chris feels liquid hot envy boil in his blood, jaw tightening and fists clenching as he cracks his neck. 
“Chris, over here!” his best pal, Felix, calls from across the shop, and that’s when you see him too. You can’t help but look when you hear his name called, eyes widening when they land on him. He tenses, eyes lingering on you for a few seconds longer before he inevitably joins his friends at the table they scouted out in the middle of the room.
He can't focus on anything his friends are saying– the only thing he vaguely hears through the fog in his brain is Changbin begging the others for spare nickels so he can afford the dog-sled delight. It all becomes tuned out noise, because all he can think about is how much he missed you, and how much it pisses him off that you're here with someone else.
It's Chris' own fault, he knows that, and that makes the feeling even worse– like bile in his throat that he can't swallow down. It doesn’t take Minho, the most perceptive of his friend group, to notice that he’s staring at you and to comment on it.
“What, you still hung up on that chick?” he questions, and Chris scoffs as he snaps out of his fog, leaning back in his chair and acting as aloof as he can bring himself to. “What? No, of course not,” he says, but his eyes still linger on you, fingers twitching with irritation when he hears you laugh again, and watches you playfully slap the man’s arm like you would do to his.
Eventually, you hold out your palm to your date, and he watches the guy dig through his pockets to give you something. Chris knows immediately what's happening– you’re waiting to be given a dime or two, and you’ll saunter off to the jukebox to pick a new tune once they’re in hand.
He watches you rise from the booth, waits until you’ve made the walk over to rise from his table, muttering to his friends that he needs to hit the can real quick. He takes a few steps in the direction of the bathroom, and then immediately turns, going straight to you instead.
He props an arm on the jukebox after he approaches, leans against it and looks down at you as you cycle through the record choices. “Hey baby,” he tries, but you ignore him, don’t even spare him a glance as you continue to give the jukebox your full attention.
“Listen– I’m sorry,” he tries again, and you just hum in acknowledgement, still not turning your gaze to look at him. He swallows, glances back at his friends who are perfectly oblivious to what he’s doing, and then back to you. “I just– you know how it is, right? The guys, they expect me to act a certain way, and–”
“That’s why I’m so glad I met Sam,” you interrupt, turning around to look at your date and offer him a sweet wave. Chris hates it, but at least you’re talking to him now– he’ll take what he can get. He still ends up scowling however when your date waves back, and you turn back to the jukebox, still without glancing up at Chris himself.
“What, you like that square?” he scoffs as he looks your date up and down. He’s smartly dressed; pristine khaki slacks and a brown sweater vest pulled over his white button up, his hair in a neatly styled, respectable crew cut– but that’s not your type.
At least, he hopes it's not; because that would make Chris the outlier, and that’s not what he wants to be. He’ll also be damned if he ends up losing you to a goody two shoes like that.
“He’s sweet to me. And I don’t have to question what his intentions are, unlike with you,” you reply, and the emphasis put on 'you' makes his heart sink. While he certainly deserves to hear it, it doesn’t make him any less upset– not with you, but with himself. He really let his pride and reputation get in the way, and he knows he fucked up. But he wants you, and surely you know that, right?
You finally settle on a tune; Those Magic Changes– the one he knows is your absolute favorite. The one he even used to serenade you with once whilst dancing, you giggling away with a cute blush on your cheeks whilst he twirled you around. He sang it more exaggeratedly towards the end, purposely putting on a goofy voice to make you laugh harder as he dipped you down.
He kissed you before lifting you back up, and then again when you were completely upright, your hand on his shoulder and his arm around your waist, your other free hands intertwined. The way you looked at him when he pulled back from the kiss made his heart pound, but he played it cool– shot you that grin that always made your legs feel like jelly, kissing your cheeks when it made your blush deepen.
Chris liked feeling the heat of your blush against his lips, liked having your hands on him even when it was in the purest of ways, liked the way you giggled and smiled at him when he playfully winked at you. The memory strikes him hard when you press the play button to start the song, and he takes a step back from the jukebox, fists clenched at his side.
You look at him then– really look at him. Instantly he feels small, your gaze that once held so much love for him now meeting him with the utmost scrutiny. He fucked up, he knows he did– but what does he do now? He can’t even trust himself to say something without fucking it up even worse. 
And the pain of it all hits you too– he can see it in your eyes just before you steel your expression, and do your best to act unaffected. "See you around, Christopher," you mutter as you turn away from him and the jukebox.
You walk back to the booth where Sam awaits your return with a smile, while Chris just stands there, your favorite song blaring painfully loud in his ears as he stares at your back. "..begs you please, come back to me, please return to me, don't go away again," the lyrics mock him harshly.
He doesn't know what to do, but he knows he has to do something, anything, to show you he’s sincerely sorry. He needs to show you he still wants you, needs you to give him another chance– more than he’s ever needed anything.
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The next time Chris sees you is once again by coincidence, while he’s sitting alone in the parking lot of the sock hop his little sister just begged him to take her to. He was trying to decide what to do with his time– if he left, he’d have to come back in a couple hours to pick her up, but surely it was better than sitting around outside, bored out of his mind while he waited for her.
He could go in, but sock hops aren’t really his thing– the only time he ever danced was with you, and he didn’t plan on changing that. All he’d do inside is stand on the edge of the room and watch his sister dance, and he didn’t much feel like doing that either. Besides, his little sister was a good girl, and she didn’t need, nor want, his constant supervision.
And he’s just about to turn the key in his ignition and burn rubber when he sees you, arm linked with stupid fucking Sam as he opens the door for you with his free hand. And fuck, he doesn't even care that he's about to crash your date– he just needs to talk you. He jumps out of his car in a rush, pulling open the door to the building and heading straight to the line leading to the dance floor.
Chris’ jaw tenses when he sees you– Sam is leaning down to whisper something in your ear while you wait in the line, and you cover your mouth as you giggle. He hates how similar it is to the days he spent with you at the fair, waiting in line for rides and popcorn. The envy bubbling in his gut makes him feel sick, and he has to take a breath to calm himself down before he approaches you.
He steps to where you are in the line when he feels mellowed out enough, you and your date turning around curiously when they hear his voice call your name. Your eyes widen when you see it's him, but you’re quick to correct your expression before your date notices anything off about you. “Can I talk to you?” Chris asks, not at all acknowledging Sam’s presence beside you.
Even when you divert your gaze to glance at your date’s reaction, Chris’ eyes stay firmly on you, awaiting your answer. “Please?” he follows up, and it makes you swallow. It’s the first time he’s ever taken a pleading, desperate tone with you, and he can tell rejecting him isn’t going to come easily to you– it gives him hope that you'll finally hear him out, maybe even take him back.
“I–” you hesitate a moment, and just as Chris’ new, shiny hope begins to dim, you unlink your arm from your date. “I’ll be right back, just stay in the line,” you tell Sam before shooting Chris a look and walking past him. He follows you back outside, and you cross your arms as you stand against the cold brick of the exterior.
“What do you want?” you cut straight to the point. There’s a million things he wants to say, but his built up jealousy causes him to ask the stupid, burning question first and foremost. “Since when do you go to sock hops?” he questions, and it almost makes you laugh– he’s unbelievable, breaking your heart like that and then pulling stunts like this. 
“Since nice boys ask me to go with them. Why, you jealous?” you accuse him and he scoffs, trying once again to play off what he feels. “Me? Jealous? Don’t make me laugh,” he says, unable to help the instinctive reaction to being called out. And he instantly regrets it, but it’s too late to take it back.
“Oh, so you won’t mind if I go back inside then?” you ask as you step away from the wall, starting to walk past Chris and back to the doors. He grabs your arm to stop you, and you look up at him expectantly. “Don’t, I–” he grits his teeth, hesitates for a moment, but ultimately decides to be honest, “I am, okay? So don’t.”
He lets your arm go, and his admission thankfully proves enough to make you stay. You settle back against the brick wall, but you don’t look at him after– instead you look down at the ground, staring at your sleek, black and white saddle shoes instead of meeting his gaze.
It’s silent for a moment, with Chris wracking his brain as he tries to figure out the right thing to say to you. “What you did was terrible, you know,” you end up breaking the silence first, your voice soft.
“I know, I– I meant it when I said I was sorry,” Chris says while moving a step closer to you, and still you hesitate to look at him. “I didn’t believe you. Still don’t,” you reply, and honestly, he can’t blame you– he should’ve been more sincere when he approached you.
But he was being a fucking idiot, still trying to play it cool even though it was just the two of you standing there by the jukebox. And who gave a fuck if his friends happened to look over and saw him talking to you? Why should he care? Is it really so wrong for him to be whipped for you?
Even the first time he saw you again, he should've done all the things he really wanted to do. He should've kissed you and hugged you tight, should've told you how happy he was to know you’re here to stay, should’ve flipped his friends the bird and told them to fuck off if they questioned him. But he didn’t– he cracked under the expectations, and you suffered for it.
There’s a lot he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to say it– he’s never been vulnerable about his feelings before you, but he wants to try. Even if he screws up over and over again, he’ll keep trying– because you deserve it. And he should apologize again, sincerely, but there’s another question burning in his blood that he has to ask.
“Do you really like that guy? You’re not, like– going steady, are you?” Chris questions and you shrug, finally looking up from the ground to meet his eyes. “That depends,” you tell him, peeling your back away from the wall to stand directly in front of him, holding your hands behind your back.
“On what?” he follows up, and you smile– a small one, but it’s enough for him. “On you,” you answer, and the hope flares back up, drowning out the envy and shame in veins and replacing it with pure, unfiltered glee.
“Yeah?” he grins as he tilts his head, and your smile grows the tiniest bit more as you nod. You may still have your doubts about his sincerity, but the fact that you’re willing to give him a chance is all he needs– he’ll use the time you give him to prove it to you, to make sure you’re left with no doubts that you’re the one that he wants, to promise that he'll never break your heart again.
“Come with me then, back inside– you’re gonna be my date,” he says as he holds out his hand to you. Sock hops may not have been his style before, but they can be for you. “What about Sam?” you question, but still take his hand regardless.
“He can stag it the rest of the night for all I care. You’re mine, sugar,” Chris replies, and it sends butterflies sweeping through your stomach as you giggle in delight. “And your friends?” you ask next, knowing it’s very well possible he’ll crack under the expectations of his rep with them again if they see you together.
“Fuck ‘em,” he replies easily; and you’re both sure it’ll be easier said than done for him to not give a shit what they think, but he’ll do his best. He doesn’t want to do anything to make you regret giving him another chance. “Let’s dance, baby,” he grins at you, pulling you along with him as he steps back inside the building with you in tow.
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There’s a thought in Chris’ head that he never before thought he’d ever have– the sock hop was perfect. And well, maybe it’s not the sock hop itself necessarily that he enjoyed, but you– yes, it was most certainly you. The time spent with you was everything he’d been missing, everything he could’ve ever hoped for following your departure from the city and his subsequent abysmal fuck up. 
He knew he didn’t deserve any of it– and he was certain you were going to share a more serious talk about it all later, but he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt walking back into the building and seeing Sam utterly bewildered that his date was now clinging to his own arm instead.
And he won’t shirk his responsibility to do better by you– he’ll own up to his mistakes, he’ll change, be someone deserving of you. It may take a lot of time and effort to unlearn all the dumb shit he’s taken in over the years, but he swears he’ll try– tonight is just the start of a lifetime of proving to you that he’ll do anything to keep you.
All night, you’ve been positively radiant– and truly, Chris has never felt luckier in all his life. He delighted in the way you smiled at him while dancing, enjoyed the way you squealed in excitement and bounced on your heels when the live band decided to play a cover of your favorite tune, couldn’t help the way a goofy grin spread over his face when you pecked him on the cheek following a slow dance.
You’re the only one in the world who’s ever seen it, you know– the only one who gets to see his dimples, or to hear him giggle. The only one he’s ever sung to and danced with, the only one he’s ever wanted to stay up all night talking on the phone with, the only one he’s ever taken out for more than a quick and simple joyride in his car.
He could feel the inquisitive, disbelieving stares too– Chris has lived here his entire life, and everyone knows the kind of guy he is. And maybe he’s simply lucky– he knows he’s nothing but a delinquent, knows his reputation precedes him, knows he doesn’t deserve the affection of a good girl like you. 
Regardless of it all, you love him– enough to give him another chance even when he hasn’t yet done enough to earn it. And effortlessly, you unlock the soft part of him– the part of him that desires and yearns and wants. He burns for you, the only girl in the world his heart has ever raced for, the only who knew who he was beyond the rough surface he projected to the rest of the world.
Now you’re outside tentatively standing next to Chris’ car, waiting for him to come back from confirming with his sister that she’ll hitch a ride home from her friends instead of him. It embarrasses him how she grills him with questions about you– and he answers in the vaguest of terms, having to promise that he’ll fill her in on it all in more detail later, but to please just let him go be alone with his girl.
He’s certain that no one else would believe it if he told them, but his intentions to be alone with you are entirely pure. Now that he’s close to having you as his again, he wants to do right by you– take it slow, kiss you soft and tender, touch you light and chaste, respectfully, sweetly. He wants to take you on dates again, wants to save up all his quarters to buy you something special, wants to devote his every moment to showing you how sincerely he loves you.
He wants you to meet his friends properly (after he gives them a stern warning to be gentlemen in front of you), wants you to meet his parents, and he wants to meet yours in turn. He wants to stop playing it cool and aloof and confident when he feels something– doesn’t want to keep pretending that the way you look at him doesn’t drive him wild, not just with lust but with adoration.
And certainly, you know that Chris is softer than he outwardly appears– you’re not blind to the way his cheeks and ears burn when you kiss him sweet and call him that name that makes his heart skip a beat. And unlike you, Chris knew what he was doing– so it was natural for him to always be the one leading your little song and dance, even when on the inside he felt like he was going to positively combust from the way your eyes sparkled at him.
There’s something you’ve been wanting to try– something that you couldn’t before, because your summer together passed by in a blink, and there was so much you didn’t know when your relationship first began. And Chris has taught you a lot in your time together– maybe more than he even realizes.
He may not know it, but he’s made you into a real insatiable minx. And now that you know he’s willing to beg and plead and grovel for you to take him back, oh how it makes your heart race with the possibilities. How far can you take it? How far is he willing to go for you, to prove that he’s devoted to you entirely? Would he really do anything to keep you?
Chris told you, just a few moments ago as the sock hop was coming to an end, that he’ll do anything and everything to make sure you don’t regret giving him another chance with him. He looked you straight in the eyes, vulnerable and entirely sincere, squeezed your hands in his as countless promises left his lips. 
Could he be manipulating you? Is he nothing but a dirty liar? It’s certainly possible– but you’d like to believe the Chris you knew last summer is the truest version of himself. You’d like to believe that the Chris you saw tonight isn’t an act to keep stringing you along. So you want to try something– something bold, something the you of last summer would’ve never thought to do.
You don’t think your shyness will ever entirely evaporate given that Chris is such an utter dreamboat, but he does well enough at playing it cool, so who's to say you can’t do it too? You can be playful and enticing, can play it coy and innocent while you flutter your lashes at him, can smile and pout at him in a way that makes desire spread through his veins like explosive, hot fireworks.
When Chris walks back out of the building you have to make a conscious effort to ignore the butterflies in your stomach– you’ve decided you’re a woman on a mission tonight, after all. The parking lot is sparse now, and the last stragglers from the sock hop all shuffle to their cars, his sister and her group of friends being among them.
Though you only met her briefly, you offer her a pleasant wave goodbye, and she smiles at you as she returns it– though you don’t miss the way she shoots her older brother a look after. A look that says “don’t fuck this up for yourself.” It almost makes you giggle– you like having his sister on your side; you get the impression she’ll chew him out if he doesn’t shape up the way he’s promised to. 
Chris doesn’t turn to you until after his sister and her friends have peeled out of the parking lot– you’re not sure if it’s because he wanted to make sure she was going to be safe, or if it’s because he felt like she’d gotten enough of an eyeful of him being affection with you, and he’d be embarrassed if she saw anymore. You like either answer.
“Hi baby,” he says, soft and sweet as he smiles, and it makes your heart once again skip a beat. Even after hours of dancing, he still looks utterly perfect– not a single piece of his greased up hair out of place. You hope you’re faring the same– you didn’t really get a chance to look at yourself in the mirror at the end of the night to know for certain, but you want Chris to think you look divine.
“Am I taking you straight home?” he asks; it’s dark out now, but you still have a fair amount of time before you’re expected back home. And while he’d love to spend more time with you, he isn’t going to assume– this is a trial period, after all; he still has to earn that, he’s sure.
Calling you his earlier was more hope on his end than confidence– he wants you to be his, but he knows he has to earn your trust back first. And he’s going to be a gentleman– any boundary you have, he’ll adhere to, no matter what. He refuses to fuck up with you again.
“No,” you answer short and simple, smiling up at him as you do. But before he can ask you what you want to do until curfew, you’re speaking again. “My shoe's untied,” you pout, leaning back against his car while gently lifting your foot from the ground to show him, “can you fix it for me, please?”
“You want me to tie it for you, baby?” he laughs a little as he tilts his head to the side, thinking you’re just oh so cute when you keep up the pout as you nod. He gets down on one knee easily, and you put your foot right on his knee, watching as he ties your laces back together. When he’s finished, you don’t put your foot back on the ground– you press it right to the middle of his chest.
“Baby?” Chris looks up at you curiously– and there’s a twinkle in your eye he’s never seen before. He almost thinks you’re going to kick him back on his behind, but you don’t– you take your skirt into your hands, and start to pull it up. Slowly, it rises above your calf, your knee, your thigh, until he can see your pretty white panties, with its precious little pink bow in the center.
“S-Sugar, what– what are you–” he stammers, struggling to form words in a way he never has before. You’ve never exposed yourself to him like this– just out in the open, with no barrier between you and the rest of the world. You aren’t in your bedroom, you aren’t inside the car with the windows and hood up– you’re out, in the middle of the fucking parking lot where anyone could see. 
Fuck, even the times at the beach, when he made love to you in the sand, were much, much more secluded than this– because those excursions were isolated, close to your aunt’s beach house and happening in the dead of night. And this is very much not– it’s barely even 9 o’clock, and you’re at a public venue; anyone could come by, and for any reason.
“I need your help with something else too, daddy,” you say as you pout some more, clearly acting coy, and he swallows as he stares up at you. “Can you do it, daddy? Can you help me?” You take as much of your skirt's fabric into one hand as you can, keeping it lifted above your thigh while you move your other hand between your legs, pulling your panties to the side to show him your pussy.
The action sends all of Chris’ blood careening to his cock– he can’t believe you’re really doing this right now. “Right– right here? N-Now?” he gulps, taking a quick glance around the parking lot. You’re alone now, but still– he never thought you’d do something so bold. Even just fooling around in the back seat of the cadillac with as much privacy as he could give you made you impossibly shy.
“Yes, here, now,” you tell him, keeping your panties hooked to the side with two fingers, while using the other two to spread your folds apart for him the best you can. You’re trying to entice him, and fuck, is it working. He never thought he’d see you this way, and it’s making him feel so utterly electric– he’s a fucking live wire, and he’ll pour his current straight into you.
Anything you want from him, it’s yours– he doesn’t need any convincing, he’s already impossibly ensnared by the rope that is your desire for him. And fuck, he said he wouldn't do this, said he'd be a gentleman, take things slow and build back up to intimacy with you– but if you're practically begging him for it, how can he resist?
Chris takes your foot into his hand, carefully lifts it from his chest and throws your leg over his shoulder before he crawls closer to you. The concrete of the parking lot ground is brutal against his knees, but he doesn’t give a shit– you need him, and that’s all that matters.
He replaces your hand, keeps your panties shoved aside with his own. Now that your hand is free you use it to hold onto the car door and give yourself some extra support as he starts placing kisses to your clit. His lips always feel so perfect– especially when he licks them first, gets them nice and wet for you; the sensation draws out a pleasant sigh, but you both know it isn’t really enough.
Chris likes to tease you, make you wait until you’re squirming and trembling from all his repeated kisses, gets you so worked up you could beg and cry before he finally gives you his tongue. But tonight is about getting what you want, when you want it– so as much as you enjoy his soft little kisses, you’re not going to let him work you up.
He’ll be the one fraying at the edges, the one desperate and pleading, the one who feels like his brain is filled with cotton, looking up at you from down on his knees with glassy eyes full of need. You let go of the car door, bring your hand to his head and thread your fingers through his hair. You pull back just enough to have his head tilting away from your pussy, making his eyes land straight up at you.
“Baby–” he gasps, and again you meet his gaze with that sinfully deceitful pout. “You said you’d do anything for me, daddy,” you say as you shoot him your best doe eyed look, “Did you mean it? Will you do anything for me?” Fuck, you’ve got him throbbing– you can see his erection straining against his jeans, and it nearly makes you grin in delight.
Still, you don’t crack– Chris always does well at only showing you the version of himself he wants you to see, and you will too. You won’t give him your meek looks or timid declarations of desire for more of his touch– he’ll only see a new you; a confident you who knows exactly what she wants. You’ve learned from the best, after all.
“Well?” you demand when he doesn’t immediately answer, and you watch him swallow, swearing you can see the shiver that spreads down his spine and throughout the rest of his body. “Y-Yeah baby, I meant it. I’d do anything for you,” he tells you, hoping you can’t see how red his face and ears are getting in the low light.
“Prove it– prove you want me, prove you’re good for something,” you say, and again he shivers, breath catching in his throat. “Eat it, make me cum.” Fuck, Chris is reeling– he still can’t even believe it’s really you talking to him this way. His brain feels like a faulty circuit board, all his synapses sparking dangerously as they fire off, ready to ignite his blood and engulf him in an uncontrollable flame of desire.
When you let go of his hair, he wastes no time diving right into your pussy, eating you out like a man starved. He brings his free hand to your ass, squeezes and holds you in place while he shakes his head to get more of you on his tongue, his nose bumping your clit and making your legs quiver.
You bite your lip, doing your best to suppress the loud moan he brings out of you by sucking on your clit. His plush lips wrapped around it, the flicks of his tongue, how expertly he sucks– it’s already so overwhelming, in the best way possible. Chris does his best to sink lower, tries to lick at your hole and get his tongue inside, but it’s hard like this– he’s not sure if he can.
“B-Baby, doll, let me lay you down, in the car, let me–” he pulls away from your dripping center to look up at you, and fuck, he looks ruined in the prettiest way imaginable. His eyes are hazy and pleading, glistening with your arousal from the tip of his nose all the way down to his chin, sweat dripping down his brow. “Need to spread you out, I– please? Gotta taste more of you.” 
Shit, you can’t deny you want it– especially not when he’s begging like this. You nod, and he smiles at you in appreciation, a smile that makes your knees even weaker than they already are. You take your leg off his shoulder, and he quickly rises to his feet, giving you a messy kiss before he ushers you away from the car door to open it for you.
You crawl into the back seat, and he follows, slamming the door shut behind him. He waits until you get comfortable, not acting until you're lying propped against the opposite door of the car. Chris hooks your panties in his fingers, pulls them down your legs and tosses them aside into the footwell; it'll be a sweet treat for him when he finds them again later.
He'll keep them, he thinks– stuff ‘em in his pocket and take them back to his room, where they'll lie safe and protected under his pillow. It's a dirty thought, one that'd otherwise fill his gut with shame, but right now all he feels is need– need for you to cum on his tongue, need to give you everything you want and more.
He settles on his stomach between your legs, and it’s certainly not easy, but he manages well enough. One of your legs ends up over his shoulder again while the other stays spread out with the help of his hand holding you under the knee. And finally, his tongue dips into your hole, and it’s pure bliss– maybe even more so for him than you. He’s hungry, utterly ravenous; all he can think, breath, and taste is you, you, you.
“Chris– your fingers, need your fingers,” you whine more shamelessly than you would've otherwise liked, but you know he enjoys it. He separates from you long enough to run his fingers between your folds, making sure they’re nice and slick for you before he presses them to your hole. 
He slides one finger in first, bringing his mouth back to your clit while you adjust to the feeling. Your legs are already trembling by the time he adds another finger, and when he starts curling his fingers to hit your most sensitive spot while flicking his tongue against your clit you can hardly even breathe– it’s just so, so good.
Your stomach is clenching, thighs and legs shaking hard, your release building up with an intensity you’ve never felt before. “Oh, fuck, Chris–” you cry when he presses the tips of his fingers into your spot harder. You’re certain that if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re still wearing your shoes, your toes would be curling from the pleasure.
Your pussy sounds so sloppy and messy, and Chris himself isn’t making it any better– he’s drooling so much, his saliva drenching you just as much as your own dripping arousal. You’re breathing hard, and even your hands are shaking as they continue to hold up your skirt to watch him devour you.
“Oh my god, ‘m gonna cum, I’m gonna– fuck, gonna cum for you daddy, please don’t stop,” you’re crying loud– and you know you should at least try to be quieter considering how out in the open you are, but you’re too far gone to care. With your head thrown back, you whimper and moan, high pitched and loud, eyes rolling back as your orgasm takes you.
It feels like it’s endless, the waves of pleasure ceaselessly jolting your body as your vision blurs white; and you feel wet; so, so wet. It’s only when you finally come down from the high and lift your head back up from where it thunked against the car door to look at Chris that you realize why you feel so drenched.
It’s not just your thighs that are dampened– it’s your skirt, Chris’ face and shirt, the leather of his seats; all of it is soaked with your cum. Your face starts to burn hot, and you swallow as Chris stares at you, almost bewildered. “Baby– did you just..?” You squirted for him, because of him– he doesn’t even fucking care how much of a nightmare it’s going to be to clean his car, all he can think about is how fucking sexy it is.
You simply nod, because it’s all you can think to do– you really weren’t expecting this to happen. “Oh my god, baby, you have to do it again, please, you have to,” he practically whines, and his enthusiasm over it makes you giggle. You honestly feel more than a little shy about it, but Chris’s apparent elation makes it worth the tinge of embarrassment.
You reach out for him, take the necklace dangling from his neck into your hands and pull, urging him to come closer to you. He crawls up your body, and you kiss him, sliping your tongue into his mouth and tasting yourself all over him. “Fuck, you’re so dirty baby,” he groans when you pull away, “what are we going to do, huh?”
It makes you giggle again, a soft thing full of mischievous delight. He basks in it, giggles with you before he kisses you again. “Need your cock now,” you tell him when he pulls away, and shit, he’d nearly forgotten how fucking hard he is whilst wrapped up in pleasuring you. He can feel it straining against his jeans, desperate for stimulation of its own.
“Yeah? Want my cock baby?” he asks, grinning at you the way he always had before; you tug on his silver chain again in response. “Don’t forget, you’re giving me everything I want. Everything, okay?” you say once his face is mere inches from yours again, making him look you closely in the eyes. Chris swallows as he nods, the smile you offer him once again making his brain feel fuzzy and floaty.
He looks you over once more, really takes it all in before he scrambles over the front seat, reaching for the glove box where he still has some spares from your time together over the summer. Condom in hand, he settles back over you, and you help him with his jeans while he tears the package open. He spreads it quickly down his length, and you take your legs in hand, holding them under your knees to keep yourself open for him. 
The sight of you like that is dizzying– legs open, skirt bunched up all the way to your stomach, pussy wet and glistening, with the hair there matting from how wet you are; you’re perfect. So fucking perfect. He moans as he pushes into you, so slick that you take him with ease. You take his face in one of your hands and pull him down to kiss you, a desperate one that makes pleasure lick over every inch of his skin.
Chris rolls his hips into you slowly to start, while you let go of the leg you're still holding to wrap your limbs around him, keeping him pressed close. He grabs onto the car door, uses it to keep himself steady when he starts to pick up the pace of his hips, harsh breaths and low moans leaving him freely. Neither of you are trying to be quiet, the street lights are burning bright, the hood of his car and the windows are down, anyone could hear you or see you– and the excitement of it all makes the pleasure he feels all the more intense.
“Baby, your tits– let me see ‘em, please, can I see ‘em?” he asks between labored breaths– he needs to see them, has missed them more than is probably allowed. You quickly do as he asks, fumbling with the top few buttons of your blouse to expose yourself to him. You tug down your bra so he can see your breasts bare, and again he groans, bringing his free hand to one of them to brush his thumb over your hardened nipple.
“Oh, you’re so pretty– so, so pretty baby,” he says, groaning when the words make you clench harder around him. It doesn’t take long for the car to start rocking with the motion of his thrusts, his rhythm quickly growing sloppier. He’s been so worked up, and believe it or not, he hasn’t actually fucked anyone since you– he feels so high strung and on edge, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out.
He just hopes he can make you cum again before he does, or at least make you cum with him– he needs you to be happy with him. You can feel his cock twitching and throbbing, you can tell that he’s already impossibly close– so, like the little minx you are, you talk dirty to him, wanting to see him utterly unravel at the seams. “You gonna fill me up, daddy? Make this pussy all yours?”
Chris gasps and shudders, goosebumps erupting all over his impossibly hot skin. He knows he can’t actually– all he’s going to really fill up with his cum is the condom, but fuck, the thought of it is making his head swim. “Y-Yeah, gonna fill you up baby, daddy’s gonna make you so full,” he breathes, and God, that really does it for you.
You bring your fingers to your clit, rubbing in quick, practiced circles. Even through the condom he can feel you gushing and soaking his cock, and it sends him over the edge– as do the sounds of your incredibly pretty whimpers and moans of pleasure. His hips still when he cums, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as his eyes roll back, head thrown back in utmost bliss.
It takes Chris a few moments to recollect himself and catch his breath, and he slowly slips out of you when does. He tucks his softening length back in his jeans before he helps you fix your bra, and smoothes your skirt out over your legs while you button your blouse back up. “You feeling okay, baby?” he asks, wiping messy strands of hair out of your face.
You’re both covered in a sheen of sweat, faces flushed and hot, hair utterly a mess– it’s obvious, even with your clothes fixed up, what you’ve been doing. “Mhm, are you?” you ask, and he smiles, giving you a quick peck on the lips. “I’m peachy keen, jelly bean,” he replies and you giggle, kissing him once more.
He looks at himself in his rearview mirror when he pulls away, does his best to fix his messy hair while you lift yourself up from your propped position and stretch out your aching limbs. He then takes another glance around the parking lot, and notes that you’re still the only ones here– thank God. He was too enraptured by you to check earlier, and he’s grateful that no one else has showed up.
“Should probably get you home now, yeah?” Chris asks, looking at the clock on his dashboard and noticing it’s now getting dangerously close to your 10 o’clock curfew. He helps you get into the passenger seat when you nod, and you smile at him when he settles in beside you. He turns the key in the ignition, one hand resting on your thigh while the other stays on the wheel, and he drives you home.
Chris parks up the street, like he did all those times at your aunt’s beach house. He watches you walk over to your house, and he smiles when you turn around to blow him a kiss. At 11 he leaves his car, walks up the street to your home, and approaches the only window with a light still on– the window to your new bedroom. And you smile as you open it for him, letting him crawl his way inside.
He sees the teddy bear he won you at the fair sitting right in the middle of your bed, nestled against your pillows, and he smiles, delighted that you still kept it even after he broke your heart. “I love you, baby,” he tells you in a whisper after a sweet kiss, “never gonna hurt you again, I promise.”
“You better keep that promise, mister. Or I might just have to make you jealous again,” you warn and tease him with a cheeky little smile. He strips out of his jeans and tee shirt as you turn off your lamp, lies down beside you after you settle into your bed, runs his hand up and down your back as you press yourself against him. Head on his chest, with your arm and leg tossed over him, he kisses your head and smiles once more– because as he promised, this is just the start of a lifetime.
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network tags: @ksmutsociety @skzstarnet
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kupidachillea · 5 months ago
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Olympians x You (hcs or imagines)
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Author note: Geez, it’s been awhile. Sorry, I’ve been in bit of a funk, got both writers block and art block but I just want to drop this. I still have a few things in my drafts, but for now I’ll feed you guys this.
TW (trigger warning):This may have a few Yandere themes in it. And while the Olympians themselves aren’t really yanderes- they do share similar tendencies considering their myths. Please note that this isn’t completely accurate to their mythology- but it’s just a bit of fun so please take no offence and be nice in the comments.
CW (content warning)⚠️: readers either 17-18+ (to read this I mean), light mentions of nudity, molesting and sexual harassment, toxic behaviour. General (hinted) Yandere behaviour. Reader’s discretion is advised.
🏺- You weren’t sure how you got here but somehow you ended up on mount Olympus of all places.
🪡- Your brain was fuzzy and you hadn’t yet registered the 12 + looming faces above you. When you did notice, they were bickering in a language you didn’t understand (or at the very least, understood a little). It was jarring and you were still trying to get your bearings.
-🏺 You noticed one of them, a woman, dressed in garments fit for royalty (in ancient times at least) and had somewhat of a peacock aesthetic to it, yelling and pointing accusingly at a man, presumably her husband. She didn’t seem happy. Hera. Queen of the Olympians..that means the other must’ve been Zeus..oh boy
🪡- Zeus looked as if he was trying to quell his wife’s anger before things got more out of hand. There were a few others in the back that looked bored of the situation- as if a similar thing has happened before, while others looked mildly amused.
🏺- Despite all that- the argument seemed to have turned completely to you. Hera turning her rage towards you. “You! Where did you come from, how did you arrive here!?” She’d ask in anger, it was evident she had very little patience if any at all, thankfully though she was now speaking a language you could understand. You scrambled to answer her, your body trembling slightly at how her voice shook the marble floor you were sat on.
🪡- You tried to explain to her that you didn’t know how you got here. Your brain still fuzzy with images that didn’t clear up or make sense. This obviously didn’t help the Queen’s anger and you could see her patience slipping. She would scoff and turn back towards the other gods, them discussing what they should do with you.
🏺 - Some suggestions were thrown around, some you weren’t so fond of. Multiple times did they suggest either killing you or throwing you off the mountain (which would kill you anyway). However those ideas were shut down immediately by more ‘kindhearted’ gods. This hasn’t happened in centuries- a human spawning on top of their mountain out of the blue..they aren’t really prepared for this.
🪡- They were almost all out of ideas, until one golden haired music deity bent down to your height and took a closer look at you. His eyes shining as he took in your appearance before a smile started to work its way on his lips. “How about we keep them..?” He suddenly asked, his gaze still set on the little (little to them anyway) human in front of him.
🏺- This made everyone pause and even you were shocked by the suggestion. You found it ridiculous and you argued that despite how flattering it was- you didn’t want to stay with them and you wanted to be returned back to your home. The gods only seemed to ignore you, as if you were a child having an unreasonable temper tantrum. They were all considering keeping you here!
🪡- “Well…” Hermes started. You could tell since he was a bit shorter than the others and he had his signature winged sandals. “It has been quite awhile since the gods have had a plaything..” he would mutter reluctantly. He wasn’t entirely sold on the idea, despite how his father and brothers (most anyway) were grinning like idiots. You, obviously , did not appreciate being referred to as a plaything.
🏺- “Then it is settled..this little one shall be our new plaything!” Zeus grinned, a little too happy for both yours and Hera’s taste. You were about to give them a piece of your mind but was swiftly silenced by a threatening gaze from Hera..to your surprise. And thus began your horrible life with the Olympians..
….
🪡- You were stripped of your modern clothing and given a chiton to wear instead. “It’s too modern for our liking..” Aphrodite would say as she felt up your body in ways that made you shiver in discomfort. “We’re use to our people…how should I say this? Showing a little more skin…” the goddess of love would chuckle sweetly, while you would stare at her in embarrassment and maybe even a hint of disgust. While you could understand where she was coming from- it still didn’t stop you personally from being uncomfortable with they way she was touching you.
🏺-You’d also be dressed up in fine jewellery, much to your surprise..anklets of gold, bangles made of bronze, necklaces etc. sweet smelling oil perfumes covering your body- anything to make seem more ‘appealing’ to the gods and goddess. You were their plaything after all, so it made sense for them to dress you how they liked..no matter how much you disliked it.
🪡- They’d occasionally have you pour them wine at banquets or sit on their laps to just sit there and look pretty. The main gods that did this were of course Zeus, Apollo, Poseidon, definitely Dionysus and at some point Hermes. You didn’t really appreciate this, but rejecting their request would result in a ‘punishment’ for you.
🏺- To your surprise..Ares rarely touched you without your permission, but he was a little mean here and there. He along with Athena and Demeter weren’t as…’touchy’ as the others. And Artemis …you appreciated that..though just because they didn’t touch you in inappropriate ways doesn’t mean they weren’t as ‘crazy’ as the rest.
🪡- For example, while Artemis wasn’t big on being a pest in terms of touching you, she did take you out on hunts..which..wasn’t so bad in your opinion. It was much better than being up on the mountain most days..she thought a little more rationally- but of course- her twin, Apollo, would see you hanging out with his sister and get a little possessive about it. Which you didn’t understand- you weren’t any of their lovers (even if they thought so), but even so..most hunting trips were cut short because of him.
🏺- When you finally got moments to breathe away from the gods..you’d spend it out in the garden..hidden away from everyone and thing..it was your quiet time up until one of the gods summoned you. You found out that you weren’t the first human to be in this position (and probably not the last)..according to one of the lesser known gods (maybe Hebe) you were told that centuries before, a young lad was taken into the heavens to serve Zeus but had been placed into the stars as the constellation known as Aquarius.
🪡- You shivered at the thought..you didn’t want that to happen to you. To be placed in the stars? Doomed to forever look down on earth and watch your family and friends grow? It may have been an honour back then but to you it was almost like a death sentence.
🏺- Either way, life with the Olympians got harder to cope with. Your privacy was always compromised and you were forced to many things you didn’t like. Sometimes the gods would be as bold to sneak up on you while you were bathing and either join you in the pool or touching up your nude body.
🪡-Often giving excuses for why they would do so, or simply ignoring your protest. It wasn’t hard to manhandle you after all..they were gods, and you were a puny human. Why should they care about your thoughts and feelings. It progressively got worse with them kissing your neck or cheek without your permission too- Apollo was the main culprit of that..
🏺- Sometimes you found yourself crying in a corner by yourself at the situation you were in. The only person willing to comfort you being Hestia. She obviously didn’t approve of this but she couldn’t do much besides being a safe space for you to turn to, which you appreciated.
🪡- But no matter how you protest, run, hide, or try to defy them; you are still theirs. That how they see it anyway, and they won’t change their mind..
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tititilani · 8 months ago
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I can't stop thinking about if Simon had taken Edwin's offer
Like Charles finds Edwin in the hallway as ever but this time there's another boy there too, cowering against the wall next to him. Maybe the dollhead spider doesn't care about Simon, too busy focusing on its favorite target, so Charles is left standing in the hallway with Simon when Edwin is taken.
They get out of hell, but Edwin doesn't confess due to Simon hovering behind his elbow. He doesn't want to confess his emotions in front of his killer, who he probably hasn't even properly figured out how he's feeling towards yet.
The Night Nurse is pissed they came out with an extra soul but Niko's same loophole still applies and Simon stays.
"This is Simon," Edwin says when it's all said and done, finally introducing the boy that's been hiding behind him since the door closed. "He was a...classmate of mine."
"He saved me," Simon says, looking up at Edwin moony-eyed and Charles knows that look and something settles heavy in his stomach.
"Glad to have ya, mate," he tells him even though the words taste sour. This other boy knew Edwin when he was alive, the thought is slightly terrifying to him.
Simon settles in fine with the agency even if the agency feels a little crowded now with five people in it but he continues to moon over Edwin and Edwin just...never tells anyone how they actually knew each other. He reasons it just doesn't matter, that he can't find the right time, whatever.
Charles never really warms up to him, though he tries to hide it, but he sees the looks Simon gives Edwin, a soppy smitten look that is somehow worse than anything Monty or the Cat King ever tried with Edwin because of all of them, Simon arguably knows the most about like Edwardian courting. That, like Edwin, Simon has also survived hell. Charles hates the idea that someone could potentially understand Edwin more than he does.
He hates it so much that nothing further happens between him and Crystal because the idea of Edwin being left alone with Simon bothers him so much. He sees Simon adjusting Edwin's collar one (1) time and it makes him feel sick.
And then there's the fortune-teller.
They only go to her sometimes for cases because she never fails to freak Charles out but her prophecies tend to be accurate like 60% of the time which is pretty good for a fortune teller. She looks at the two of them at the end, because it is just the two of them for once, and then looks just at Edwin.
"How kind you are," she says, the words a compliment but the tone snide. "To house your killer. Pray tell it doesn't come back to you."
"What." Charles says. "The fuck."
Charles is furious, of course, and it takes Edwin a long time to talk him out of smashing Simon's face in with the new cricket bat.
"He's like me," he insists in that quiet but firm voice. Charles wants to scream that Simon is nothing like Edwin - that he doesn't have a fraction of Edwin's kindness or pissiness, that his blue eyes are not nearly as beautiful as Edwin's green - but before he can even open his mouth, Edwin continues. "He...He likes boys, Charles. He likes me."
Oh. Oh.
Charles stares at Edwin who is looking back at him, trying and failing to hide the fact he's terrified, and Charles doesn't give one shit that Edwin likes boys because he's his best mate forever. He's still pissed that Simon is apparently staying but he has to hug Edwin at that. "I'm still pissed you didn't tell me about him," is all he says, swallowing back the other words he wants to say.
Charles grows even more paranoid about Simon being around, who has to get used to the fact that Charles takes to swinging his cricket bat ominously every time he comes within ten feet of Edwin. He finds out that adjusting clothing was an Edwardian courting thing and wants to break something. The very idea the very person who killed his best mate is now trying to put the moves on said best mate pisses him off.
It also makes him think of numerous times Edwin had readjusted his collar or jacket in the past and it makes his non-existent stomach flip.
Eventually, Simon decides he's ready to move on to his after-life and Charles keeps his hands from fisting when he looks at Edwin with that same soppy look. He knows Edwin has forgiven Simon by now but Charles has always been better at holding a grudge and he knows what is going to come out of Simon's mouth before he even asks. He knows that if Edwin says yes, he won't stop him.
Charles also knows that if Edwin does, there is no way he is going to find any kind of his own afterlife.
"You could come with me," Simon says hopefully and the moment after is the longest in Charles' life.
"Thank you, Simon," Edwin says kindly and Charles has to keep himself from crying. "But I have no interest in going anywhere without Charles."
He steps back - away from Simon and back towards Charles. Ears suspiciously pink, Edwin links their hands and they watch as Simon follows the Night Nurse.
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webbluvrsugar · 3 months ago
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is this too freaky? ykw if you could just roll w it as a prompt i will give you my first born child.
ethan’s the type of guy to be an absolutely stuttering mess when he’s with you in public and then when he’s fucking you he puts his hand on your abdomen and says “feel me all up in your guts”
— 🦚
a/n: deffo not too freaky, this hit just the spot!! I think this is the most accurate headcanon about Ethan <33
proofread
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﹒ ☆ 𓂂 ˚ ☆. ꙳ * ࣭ ࣭ Ethan hides his true nature from everybody else..
His friends don’t get it. They don’t get how you ended up dating a dork like Ethan, specially not one that can’t hold a simple conversation with you, but this ‘thing’ you have with him has lasted a couple months and they’re starting to actually believe you’re not fooling around with the boy, it’s weird to believe so, Ethan is just so… bland, and not to shame him or anything but they can’t help but wonder how you two work it out in the bedroom, it’s weird as hell, they wonder if you’ve even got to that base yet.
Ethan doesn’t like his private life to be out there for everyone to hear so when they do ask.. he just ignores their question with an angry mutter.
You’ve also thought this would never go anywhere, specially with not how Ethan acted around you in public — sure, he was cute, blushed every time you asked him anything, even if just a pen, and if you were thinking before, you’d never believe you’d get with a guy that acts that away. That is until… you’ve finally took the first step.
You were already kissing him when it happened, your hand wildly moving down to his pants, slipping underneath his shorts when he doesn’t complain, palming him through his boxers. His moves got wilder too, his hand went up to your throat and he used that to push you down on your bed, after that, Ethan showed a side of him you’ve never seen before.
You predicted he was a virgin or something, that you would have to guide him somehow — that plan went down the drain when he didn’t hesitate to pull down your panties and fuck you exactly how you wanted him to.
“Shit, Ethan, I —“ you moan, interrupting yourself as he leans down, the sudden movement makes him switch angles, reaching that spot in you that makes you lose all senses.
“You like it like this, huh?” He smirks, one of his hands caresses your face while the other one goes down from your chest to your stomach. “Yeah, I knew it, don’t worry baby, I’ll give it to you the way you wan’it.”
He pecks your lips, slows down his pace torturously, you can almost feel every inch coming in and out as he does so.
“Can you feel it?” He presses his hand down, right on your stomach, earns an exasperated mewl from you. “‘M all up in your guts.”
You’d never expect this from him, specially not the way he talks, the way he’s just so.. bold.
“Fuuck, you’re so tight,” he comments, releases the pressure on your stomach and moves his thumb down to your clit. “Almost made me cum inside you.”
He’s so casual with it, like the chance of him doing so doesn’t just fuck with your head even more.
“But I bet you’d like that, huh?”
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munsonsmixtapes · 4 months ago
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As You Wish
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Eddie Munson x fem!reader
summary: you and Eddie meet at Robin’s Halloween party and realize that you’re dressed up as a couple
based on this request!
Eddie was convinced that he didn’t believe in love at first sight, but the second you walked through the door to Robin’s apartment, he was beginning to think that his mind was changed.
You looked absolutely breathtaking in your Buttercup costume and he was realizing that you were the new friend that Robin had made at work. The one she had gabbed about endlessly, always wanting to make it clear to Eddie you were very pretty and very single.
That was always something that his friends told him and faster many failed dates, he had revoked all of their setting up privileges. But this time…this time maybe he’d let it slide.
He turned away from you when you approached the snack table where he and the other three in his group had been standing. He wanted to remain cool and mysterious even though he knew that he was nothing of the sort. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been chronically single.
“And who might you be?” You asked and Robin patted Eddie on the shoulder to let him know that you were speaking to him. He whipped around, knocking over the bowl of chips in front of him in the process and was grateful that a mask was covering most of his face because it hid his blush.
He was quick to drop to the floor to scoop the chips back into the bowl and was so focused on what he was doing that he hadn’t even been aware that anyone had been helping him until a hand brushed his.
Eddie looked up slowly to see your eyes looking into his, a warm smile on your lips. His gaze shifted to your hands to see m that they were full of chip crumbs that you were picking up from the floor and he was about to thank you, the words on the tip of his tongue, but you had somehow rendered the man who never shut up speechless.
“I-“ he started, but his mouth was now dry and he was suddenly very aware of how hot his costume was. Jesus, he really needed a glass of water.
“Yeah?” You asked, your voice so gentle and he appreciated that you were being so patient with him. A lot of women he had come across would have made fun of him, but you didn’t. You had even gone as far as helping him clean up the mess he had made.
“D-“ he cut himself off again, not entirely sure what he was trying to say. He was blowing his shot at getting a date without and he hadn’t even said anything yet.
You gathered the rest of the chips into the bowl and then stood, offering him your hand and he took it, letting you help to his feet.
“Well, look at that,” you smiled as you got the full view of his costume. “It seems we’ve somehow dressed up as a couple.” You let out a chuckle and Eddie swore it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.
Your words finally registered in his brain and he looked down at his costume before looking at yours, seeing that the two of you actually did look like a couple and that made him feel even more sweaty than he was previously. What were you doing to him?
“Guess it’s fate,” you added with a wink and the man thought he was going to die right there.
“G-guess so,” he was finally able to get out and your smile widened at his agreement. Robin had told you that he was cute and she had been right, at least, you thought she had been even though you couldn’t see most of his face. And you thought his clumsiness was adorable. Most men you had come across had been cocky or way too confident so it was refreshing to see someone who wasn’t.
And his costume was impressive, so close to the one that Westley had worn in the movie and you wondered how much he paid to have it made. Surely something custom like that had to cost a pretty penny. Yours had just come from items you already had in your closet and you were lucky just how accurate everything looked.
“I really love your costume,” you complimented and you watched what you could see of Eddie’s cheeks turn bright pink. “Where did you get it?”
“I um-I made it,” he replied, stepping closer to the table to grab his bottle of beer that he had left sitting there. He took a sip, watching your face the entire time, gauging your face for any negative reaction. How many times had he told a girl that he made his own cosplay costumes only to be met by grimaces? It was all so exhausting to try to put on a facade, to pretend to be someone else and he was tired of it. That was why he had stopped putting himself out there, why he decided that it was better to be by himself.
But your face lit up as soon as the words left his mouth, fascination written all over it and the man swore he was dreaming for a second.
“You made this?” You asked, your beautiful smile getting even brighter. “That’s fucking awesome!” You were now grinning and Eddie resisted the urge to clean out his ears or make you repeat yourself.
“I did,” he nodded, your smile feeling infectious as one spread across his own lips. “I um-“ he cut himself off, but then thought he should continue, deciding that you were a safe space for him. “I make costumes all the time. I love to cosplay.”
Now you were beginning to understand why Robin was trying to set the two of you up. Not only had she probably (definitely) known that you two were going to coincidentally dress up as a couple, but she also knew that you both were into cosplay.
“Me too!”
“Now you’re just pulling my leg.”
“No, seriously, I’ll have to show you my photo album sometime.” Sometime as in…were you setting up a date?
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” you nodded. “Do you want to get a drink-oh-you already have one.” Eddie took another sip of his beer and realized that the bottle was in fact empty.
“Empty,” he held up the bottle and you nodded, feeling a shy smile appear on your cheeks that were starting to burn.
“Let’s go, then,” you held your hand out and Eddie took it without hesitation, letting you lead him into the kitchen for another drink.
“As you wish,” he responded with a smile as he looked down at your entwined fingers, subconsciously letting the pad of his thumb rub along your knuckles gently as he followed you, wondering what the hell he had done to deserve you.
You spent the rest of the night side by side on Robin’s couch, drinking and laughing with the rest of the group. And when the party came to a close and the two of you went down to where you had parked, you exchanged numbers, deciding that maybe Robin did know what she was talking about in regards to setting the two of you up.
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pucksandpower · 9 months ago
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I’m Not Jealous!
Lando Norris x Reader
Summary: you’re definitely not jealous of how your boyfriend and his teammate are eye-fucking each other … nope
Note: thank you to the brilliant @struggling-with-drivers for this amazing idea, I love you so much ❤️
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You can’t take your eyes off Lando and Oscar as they chat animatedly in the McLaren motorhome after qualifying. The way they lean towards each other, the spark of energy crackling between them, the bright gleam in their eyes — it makes your chest tighten with a strange jealousy.
They’re so wrapped up in their conversation, casually touching each other’s arms for emphasis, that they don’t even notice you approaching. You clear your throat pointedly.
“Oh, hey babe!” Lando glances up with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s still buzzing from the adrenaline of the session, and you know how much he lives for these intense post-qualifying debriefs with his teammate.
Oscar throws you an acknowledging nod but doesn’t break his intense eye contact with Lando. “We were just going over the data from ...”
You cut him off with an impatient wave of your hand. “I don’t care about the data. Can I talk to my boyfriend for two seconds?”
Lando blinks in surprise at your curt tone but recovers quickly with a teasing grin. “Someone’s feeling jealous.” He slides an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side with a gentle squeeze.
You stiffen, hating how easily he can read you sometimes. “I am not jealous.”
“Uh huh, sure.” Lando rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Then why are you pouting like a petulant child?”
“I’m not pouting!” You protest, very much aware that your lower lip has surged into an exaggerated protrusion. You shoot Oscar a venomous glare when he fails to stifle a snort of laughter.
Lando laughs too, that bright, infectious giggle that somehow simultaneously melts and irritates you. “Aww, baby, you don’t have to be jealous of Oscar. We both have girlfriends, remember? You’re my one and only.”
He kisses your cheek with an audible smacking sound, as if to emphasize his point. But the reassurance doesn’t land — if anything, it makes you more prickly.
“Doesn’t feel like it when you two are constantly eye-fucking each other,” you grumble petulantly.
Lando blinks, his smile faltering briefly into an almost comically exaggerated expression of surprise. Then he exchanges a loaded glance with Oscar, the two of them breaking into wide grins.
“What?” You demand, feeling your cheeks flush hot with embarrassment and irritation. Did you really just say that out loud?
“Nothing, nothing,” Lando says quickly, still grinning wolfishly. “It’s just … eye-fucking, huh? Is that what you think we’re doing?”
“Well it certainly looks like it!” You retort, frantically trying to backpedal. “With all the intense staring and lingering touches and private jokes ...”
Lando’s grin stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “You’re just jealous because you want my undivided attention, aren’t you?”
Your mouth drops open, scandalized by his blunt words despite how accurate they are. “I … no!”
The protest rings pathetically hollow, even to your own ears. Lando sees right through you, as always. He cups your burning cheek, tsking softly.
“Aww, baby, you’re all needy and flustered now, aren’t you?” His tone is warm, almost purred, sending a shiver rippling through you. “It’s okay, I get it. Who could resist wanting every second of my time?”
You huff out a petulant breath, but it’s impossible to stay irritated when he’s gazing at you with such open affection. “You’re an ass.”
“Maybe.” Lando shrugs cheerfully. “But I’m your ass.” He leans in until his lips are brushing your ear, voice dropping to a hushed murmur. “And tonight, I’ll be giving you every second of my undivided attention.”
A full-body shiver races through you at the heated promise in his tone. You’re abruptly, acutely aware of Oscar watching this whole exchange with a smirk.
“Get a room, you two,” he drawls, not even trying to hide his amusement.
Lando barks out a laugh, pulling back just enough to wink roguishly at you. “Don’t mind if we do.”
“Wait, here? Now?” You squeak out, suddenly flustered all over again as he takes your hand and starts tugging you toward the back of the motorhome.
“Why not?” Lando flashes you a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “I told you, baby — I’m all yours tonight. No more sharing me with anyone else. Just you and me.”
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob to the private room, giving you a slow once-over that makes your skin prickle with delicious heat.
“And I plan to give you my complete … undivided … attention.”
The husky emphasis he puts on those last few words sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You can’t resist stealing a quick glance over at Oscar, who has the decency to look away with a badly concealed smirk.
Then Lando is hauling you through the door and slamming it shut behind you, pressing you up against it as his mouth instantly finds yours in a searing kiss. You melt against him with a breathless moan, all thoughts of jealousy evaporating like mist as his hands roam hungrily over your body.
When you finally break for air, Lando’s eyes are dark with a blazing intensity usually reserved for the racetrack. He brushes a few stray strands of hair from your flushed face with uncharacteristic tenderness.
“You have nothing to be jealous of, you know,” he murmurs gruffly. “Oscar’s my teammate, my rival, almost like a brother to me … but you’re the love of my life. You’ll always come first.”
The raw sincerity in his words steals your breath. You can only nod mutely, suddenly blinking back stupid, overwhelming tears of relief and adoration.
Lando seems to understand. He just smiles that heart-melting smile and guides you toward the small sofa, settling you onto his lap and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His arms wrap snugly around you, holding you close, making you feel deliciously secure and wanted.
“I’m sorry I got jealous and petty,” you mumble, tentatively running your fingers through his sweat-damp curls. “I know how intense your connection with Oscar is on the track. I was just being stupid ...”
“No, no.” Lando cuts you off firmly, pulling back to meet your gaze. “Your feelings are never stupid, baby. If I made you feel like you had to compete for my attention, that’s on me.”
He punctuates his words with a soft, lingering kiss that deepens into something hungrier and needier when you clutch at the back of his neck, wanting him closer, closer ...
Some indeterminable time later, you reluctantly break apart, foreheads pressed together as you both pant for breath. Lando brushes his nose against yours, his eyes practically glowing with devotion.
“I really do love you, you know,” he murmurs, almost shyly. As if he hasn’t already made that abundantly clear a million times over. “More than anything. Or anyone.”
You hum contentedly, snuggling deeper into his embrace. You can feel the steadiness of his heartbeat, a reassuring counterpoint to the pleasant ache of desire still thrumming through your veins.
“I know. And I love you too.” You pause, tracing the line of his jaw tenderly. “Even when I’m being jealous and ridiculous.”
Lando throws his head back with a rich peal of laughter that warms you all the way to your toes.
“Good thing I love you even more when you’re being jealous and ridiculous, then,” he quips, sticking his tongue out impishly.
You swat at his shoulder with a scowl that quickly melts into a reluctant grin, unable to stay annoyed in the face of his boyish charm and unabashed affection.
You know, deep down, that you really don’t have anything to be jealous of — not with the way Lando holds you close and gazes at you like you’re the only person in the world. Still, it’s reassuring having the confirmation out in the open.
You snuggle deeper into his chest, basking in the comfortable silence and closeness. Lando’s fingers idly trace patterns across your back as you breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the sharp tang of adrenaline.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmurs eventually, breaking the peaceful quiet. There’s a rare vulnerability in his voice that makes your heart squeeze. “This life … the racing, the fame, the constant pressure … it would all be meaningless if I didn’t have you by my side.”
You tilt your head back to study his earnest expression, struck by the depth of emotion simmering in his warm multi-colored eyes. Impulsively, you reach up to cup his cheek, marveling at how easily he leans into your touch.
In these unguarded moments, it’s hard to reconcile this open, sensitive soul with the fierce, single-minded racer who commands a global spotlight. You feel extraordinarily privileged to be one of the few people who gets to see Lando like this — soft, devoted, his heart laid bare.
“You’ll never have to find out,” you whisper back fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere, Lando. I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.”
His smile is blinding, making your breath catch. Then his lips are on yours again, kiss brimming with a potent mixture of gratitude, need, and sheer adoration that steals your breath.
When you finally break apart, twin smiles of pure contentment tug at both your mouths. Lando loops his arms loosely around your waist, hands splaying across the small of your back as he simply holds you close and takes a moment to drink you in.
You watch the play of emotions flit across his expressive features — affection, longing, bone-deep satisfaction at having you here, now, anchored in his embrace. A sense of peace and belonging washes over you, chasing away any lingering shadows of jealousy or doubt.
This is where you belong. This is your heart’s home, right here in Lando’s arms, sharing his joy and success and weathering the storms alongside him. A love like this — passionate yet grounded, all-consuming yet secure — is worth fighting for.
You may occasionally get prickly twinges of irrational jealousy. You may bicker and tease and test each other’s patience to its limits. But at the end of the day, you know there’s nowhere else either of you would rather be.
Lando seems to read your mind, his grin taking on a distinctly smug edge as his fingers trace deliciously distracting patterns along your spine.
“See?” He murmurs. “Eye-fucking the teammate is all well and good … but this?” He punctuates the words by pulling you flush against him, letting you feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal. “This is what I really want. What I’ll always want, baby.”
You can’t resist rolling your eyes at his signature cockiness, even as you melt against him with a soft hum of contentment. Typical Lando — somehow managing to be both charming and infuriatingly self-satisfied at the same time.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, unable to keep the goofy smile off your face. “I get it, casanova. Now shut up and kiss me already.”
His answering laugh is pure sunshine, bright and carefree. Then he’s pulling you down into another heated kiss, effectively silencing any lingering self-doubt or jealousy.
This — the two of you, tangled up in each other with no barriers or secrets, just pure affection and insatiable desire — is what true love feels like. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
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roseghoul26 · 10 months ago
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Cooper Howard | The Ghoul x fem!Reader
Synopsis: After being captured by The Ghoul, he had dragged you through the hot desert of the Wasteland. You were so thirsty, and you’d do anything for a drink of water. And you meant anything. Tags: Smut, Practically No Plot, Humiliation, Begging, Spit, Blowjobs, Throat Fucking, Thigh Riding, Biting, Hate Sex(?), maybe OOC The Ghoul but I think I got it right, Not Beta Read, there's still consent because i can’t write severe noncon Author's Note: i had so many “why am i writing this” moments yet i still finished it i’m so sorry. 
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You don’t think you’ve ever been this thirsty in your life. 
Scratch that, you don’t think anyone’s ever been as thirsty as you currently are. 
Even though you had no saliva left to swallow, you tried anyway, your throat feeling like sandpaper. It caused you to cough, earning a disgruntled noise from the ghoul currently holding you hostage. 
The Ghoul. Infamous bounty hunter and the cruelest person you’d ever met. Of course, you only found out who he was after he captured you. You’d never even heard of a ghoul until a few days ago, your sheltered life in Vault 14 withholding information about the surface to you. 
You wished you were back home, suffocating as it was. At home, you wouldn’t be forced to walk countless miles under the boiling Wasteland sun. At home, you wouldn’t have a lasso around your neck, preventing you from running off. And even if you did manage to somehow escape the rope confines, you’d seen how accurate of a shot he was. He’d kill you before you managed to keep a foot away from him. 
You glanced back at him, The Ghoul, who had his sawed-off shotgun casually trained on you. He seemed unaffected by the heat, by the sun beating down on your faces. His hat made sure of that, and you supposed that you didn’t have to worry about sunburn if all your exposed skin was melted by radiation.
It had been hard, looking at him at first. After spending your entire life surrounded by “normal” humans, it was a shock seeing him for the first time. You’d seen burn scars before, sure, but never this severe, every inch of him covered in them. Of course, that wasn’t the most off-putting part. That had to be the complete lack of nose, an empty socket where the cartilaginous appendage should be. 
It unsettled you deeply, but you found that you couldn’t stop looking at him, a sick part of your brain enjoying it. You didn’t dare delve into that part of your mind right now, though, your current circumstance is significantly more important. 
He had stopped you in Filly, and after a brief discussion had decided that he was taking you with wherever he was going. You had no say in the decision, and even when you fought and kicked and screamed he still managed to get you bound. A few people tried to help, not because they cared about you, but because they had also wanted to get their hands on a “Vaultie”. Apparently, you were worth something to them up here, a commodity of sorts. It made your skin crawl. You’d gotten firsthand experience, then, of how good of a shot The Ghoul was. 
How you longed to be back in the stuffy Vault, working as a teacher to those kids. As annoying as they were, at least they weren’t currently threatening your life, or making you walk to who the hell knows. You’d take that over this any day. Hell, you’d take latrine duty with overflowing toilets every single hour over this. 
You fixed your attention back in front of you, the endless stretch of sandy dunes in front of you broken up by partially destroyed houses and skeletons of buildings. Your feet were in incredible amounts of pain, every step feeling like you had fifty pounds of bricks attached to your ankles. And that thirst, never ending, overwhelming thirst you felt nagged at you, consuming every thought of yours. You’d take anything to drink now, even that definitely radiated puddle you’d passed hours ago. Or was it minutes? You couldn’t tell.
You knew dehydration had long since started affecting you. You were no longer able to form sweat, and you were certain that your body was slowly cooking from the inside. You were almost certain it would be a better fate than whatever The Ghoul was leading you towards. 
You hadn’t even realized he’d stopped until you felt a sharp tug at your throat, nearly toppling you on your ass. You heard him chuckle as you steadied yourself, and you shot him a glare. Even faced with death, you weren’t going to let yourself be treated like this. “We’re stopin’ here,” he gestured to a dilapidated building to his right.
You had been surprised when he spoke the first time, not expecting a southern drawl. You’d never heard an accent like his before, only ever hearing them on the Holotapes your Vault would play for movie night. You’d also believed them to be fake, or to have died out with the rest of humanity. You had to admit, the one good thing to come out of this whole experience was hearing his voice. 
Momentarily confused as to why you were stopping, your eyes focused, and you realized that the sun was half set. You’d learned rather quickly that it was suicidal and stupid to travel across the Wasteland at night, after an almost perilous encountered with what you assumed to once be a bear. You’d barely escaped with your life, climbing a tree until the creature grew disinterested and found new prey. 
You almost wished it had torn you apart then. 
Apparently you were taking too long, and you felt another tug at the rope, pulling you closer to him. “Ain’t got all day, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The name was anything but sweet, saying it with so much condescension that it made you flush angrily. At least, that’s what you told yourself. 
Grumbling something under your breath, you stormed past him, another low chuckle leaving him. “Nothin’ good is gonna come from that mouth on ya,” he threatened, waving the gun at you in a go on motion. 
The shifting sand nearly caused you to stumble as you ducked into the house through a window, and your eyes struggled to adjust to the low lighting. Holding your breath, you listened for anything else in the house besides the two of you, and when you were met with only your heartbeat, you continued further in. 
Entering what used to be the living room, you saw a large couch, still in relatively decent condition, and luckily free of decomposed bodies. Any wood furniture, however, had already decayed, leaving only fragments where they once stood. You realized that if you were to sit on the couch, it would probably crumble under the weight.
The Ghoul entered behind you, and you made your way down the hallway, checking each room for anyone or anything that could do you harm. The first room was a bathroom, sand filling the bathtub like it was water. Out of desperation you almost tried to turn the handles on the sink, lift the seat of the toilet, do anything for a drop of water. But you refrained, not willing to stoop to that level yet. But you could feel that you were close. 
The next room was a large master bedroom, completely destroyed from when the bombs fell. Sand covered everything, and the walls had practically caved in, leaving you exposed to the outside. There was no where you would stay there willingly tonight. 
The third and final room was also completely devoid of life, but the empty crib in the middle of the room had you gasping, and you heard the click of a gun behind you as The Ghoul prepared for anything. You quickly shut the door. “Nothing, sorry,” you managed to croak out, and you heard him scoff.
However, you saw that he did manage to catch a glimpse of the room before you closed the door, and in those still human eyes you saw something flash through them. Sadness? Longing? Anger? You couldn’t tell, but you sure as hell weren’t about to ask him about it. 
Living room it is, then. Heading back to the original room, you watch The Ghoul sit on the couch, right in the center of it. It held, surprisingly, but you could hear the wood groan in warning. Spreading his legs, you watched him tilt his head back, a content sigh leaving his mouth. 
If you had the energy to blush, you would’ve as you watched him, finding yourself having to look away. Maybe dehydration was messing with your brain, the way you thought that was attractive. What the hell was wrong with you, you thought. 
Thirst quickly chased those thoughts away, and you attempted to lick your dry lips, your tongue mostly sticking to them instead. You were about to go explore the bathroom until you remembered the rope around your neck. 
Like he could read your thoughts, you watched him regard the lasso in his gloved hand. “You gonna run off on me if I take this off, sweetheart?” 
You shook your head, excited to have the irritating rope no longer chafing your neck. “You’ll kill me before I could,” you responded, voice barely a whisper.
The Ghoul barked out a laugh. “Damn right I will.” He considered your response for a moment, and you fully believed that he was going to keep it there. That was until he stood, almost inhumanly fast, approaching you with long strides.
Holding your breath, you felt his tug the rope off your neck, those eerily human eyes never leaving yours as he did. You flinched when you felt one of his leather-clad fingers brush over the irritated skin. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest, mostly because of fear, but also for another reason that you refused to name. 
With a satisfactory smirk, he looped the lasso back onto his belt. You quickly exhaled when he stepped away, eliciting a coughing fit, which was dry and only irritated your throat more. Fuck, you were so thirsty. 
The Ghoul sat back on the couch in that same lounging position, and you debated sitting on the floor in front of him, but you feared that if you rested now then you’d never get back up. You watched him set a lantern on the ground, the weak oil based contraption the only source of light in the entire room. You didn’t ask why he didn’t start a fire; you also learned to not do that early on too. 
So you remained standing, even though your feet screamed for relief. You ignored them, shifting to try and alleviate the pain slightly. Rubbing your neck, you could feel that he hadn't once taken his eyes off of you, and it was making you increasingly unnerved. “You gonna stand there all night?”
You crossed your arms. “Yes.” You tried to sound defiant, but it came out more like an airy noise.
“Suit yourself, then.” He rolled his eyes, making a show of getting comfortable on the couch. “It’ll be a long night for you, that’s for sure.”
Swaying, you leaned your back against one of the barely-standing walls, screwing your eyes shut. You occupied your thoughts with memories of home, trying desperately to ignore the pain. You were mostly successful, that was until you heard the sound of a canister being opened. 
Curious, you opened your eyes back up, nearly falling to your knees when you saw him drinking from a circular canteen. You must’ve made some noise, because he was now smirking at you. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and you watched a droplet of precious water trail down his scarred chin, dripping onto his dusty clothes. 
“See somethin’ you want, sweetheart?” He was unabashedly cocky with his tone. 
You son of a bitch, you thought, glaring daggers into him.
“Now, now, no need to be like that,” he chuckled, taking another sip. “Just tell me what ya want.”
He wanted you to ask for it. He wanted you to be at his mercy. Groaning, you rest your head back against the wall. You don’t think you’ve ever hated anyone as much as you hated The Ghoul. Any humanity left in him had been stripped away, leaving behind a cruel excuse of a human. Despite that, you couldn’t deny the way your heart continued to patter in your chest as he stared at you expectantly, that cocky attitude doing things to you that would leave anyone who knew you horrified.
“I…” you tried to talk, but your voice proved to be too scratchy. Clearing your throat as best you could, you tried again, ignoring the way he looked at you like a predator would his prey. It was similar to the bear from earlier, but you’d take that now over the ghoul in front of you. “I need water.”
He tsked, crossing a leg over his lap. “And here I thought you Vaulties were raised with manners.”
It took everything in you to not just snap at him, but that would leave you without any water. “I need water, please,” you gritted out. 
The Ghoul shook his head disapprovingly. “Shame,” you heard him mutter, before he was slowly pouring the water out onto the floor behind him.
Sheer panic tore through you, and if you were able to form tears, they would be in your eyes. “Wait, wait, wait,” you pleaded, your voice cracking and breaking, and you lunged forward. The click of a gun had your blood going cold, but he at least had the decency to stop pouring. You held your hands up, taking a few steps back.
Registering that you weren’t going to attack him, he lowered the gun, but he still kept it on his lap. If he had any eyebrows left, you’re sure one of them would be raised, waiting for you to continue. 
“I’m- I’m sorry,” you stammered out, keeping your hands in the air. “I just… Can I please have some water? Please, I-I… I need it. I’m begging you… please.” You wondered if he could even make out your words. 
You watched his eyes travel up and down your body, and he cocked his head. “Are you?” You made a confused noise, and he chuckled lowly. “Are you beggin’ me?”
One problem that you always had at the Vault is that you never knew when to shut your mouth, and what you said next certainly made it clear that you hadn’t learned yet. “You want me to get on my knees, then?” You had meant it sarcastically, and you immediately regretted it when his eyes went dark. 
You heard the creak of the couch as he planted both feet on the ground, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. His guns barely stayed in his lap, but he didn’t seem to care. “Now that you mention it… yeah.”
Humiliation warmed your cheeks, and you nearly let your pride stop you from sinking to the floor, but then you saw the way the canteen hung precariously in his hand. Damn it all. Taking a deep breath, you lowered yourself slowly, unable to look at the man, not wanting to see his victorious reaction. The sand shifted beneath your knees as you rested on them, but you could barely feel the relief your feet finally felt.
“Can-”
“Closer,” he cut you off gruffly. “And I want those eyes on me.” His voice had turned husky, and you realized he was enjoying this. Were… were you enjoying this too? You honestly couldn’t tell.
Wordlessly, you obeyed, shuffling forward until your knees bumped into his shoes. Your ears burned worse than they did out in the sun, and you wished it would just explode and incinerate you right now. “Eyes up, sweetheart,” he practically purred. 
You took a moment to prepare yourself before you were looking at him through hooded eyes. The brim of his hat cast a shade over his face, and you could only see the hungry glint in his eyes matched with a predatory smirk. Oh, he was loving this, and you couldn’t help but squirm under his gaze, heat pooling in your belly that was quickly doused by shame. 
“Can I please have some water? Please? I- I’m really thirsty and… just a bit. Please.” 
His grin grew more as you begged, and you sagged with relief when he brought the canteen closer, no longer dangling over the back of the couch. “See, that ain’t so hard now, was it?”
“I’m sorry,” you found yourself apologizing, for what, you weren’t quite sure. You weren’t too upset about it, though, especially when he brought the canteen to your lips. 
“Head back,” he ordered, and you did, your neck straining at the angle. You swore you heard him groan when you parted your lips, never breaking eye contact with him. The water was disgusting and acidic, but damn if it wasn’t the best thing you’d ever had the pleasure of drinking. He poured it into your mouth, and you desperately swallowed every single drop, the dryness in your mouth and throat instantly being quenched. 
But it wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t help the disappointed noise you let out when he ceased the pouring. “More, please,” you found yourself whining, any remnants of shame tossed out the broken window you’d climbed into.
“Manners, Vaultie,” he growled.
“Thank you, thank you,” you repeated like a mantra, and The Ghoul let out a pleased hum. Thirstiness still clung to you like a second skin, but you felt better than you had moments ago. Some of your energy had returned, and you felt like you were no longer in the grasp of death. 
“You want more?” He asked, and you immediately nodded.
“Please,” you whispered, and you saw something almost wicked pass over his features. 
“Don’t worry,” you felt one of his gloved hands sneak around your back, collecting a handful of hair and tugging, forcing your head back even further. You cried out, a mix of shock and pain. “You’ll get more. Just keep that pretty mouth wide open, just like that.” His normal drawl had turned into an almost rasp, and you shuddered. 
You watched as he took a swig for himself, but he didn’t swallow, keeping the water in his mouth. Confused, you closed your mouth, but as soon as you did you felt him pull hard at your hair. Obediently, you opened it back up, a shaky exhale leaving you.
If he had a nose, it would be currently pressed up against yours. He adjusted so that he was practically towering above you, and man did the angle kill your neck, but you didn’t dare complain. With increasingly widening eyes, you watched as he slotted his mouth above yours, not touching, but you could still feel the heat from his body. 
You nearly flinched when you felt the water hit your mouth, fighting every instinct that told you to shut it. The act was filthy and degrading, but you’d be a liar if you said it wasn’t getting you incredibly aroused. Your Vault-Tec suit was becoming suffocating; it hadn’t even felt this bad when you were outside. 
As he sat back on to the couch, his lips glistened in the dim light, stray remnants of water still coating them. As you held the water in your mouth, he frowned disapprovingly. “Do I gotta spell it out for ya?” He shifted forward again, grasping your face. “Swallow.” 
When you did, he let go, tapping your cheek lightly. “Atta girl,” he cooed, and you sputtered, cheeks growing warm. Shifting where you sat, you tried and failed to relieve some of the tension in you. You thought you were subtle in your movements, but his sharpshooter gaze locked onto it immediately. 
He laughed, a mix of surprise and condescension in one. “This gettin’ you turned on? Maybe you ain’t all that innocent, Vaultie.”
You eyed the half-hard tent in front of you. “I’m not the only one,” you grumbled out, and he laughed again. 
“I ain’t the one on my knees, sweetheart.”  Scoffing, you watched him lean back again. You expected him to say something, do something, but he simply watched you with anticipatorily. Something shifted in the atmosphere, and you realized he was putting the situation in your hands, wordlessly asking you how far you were willing to take this. 
You needed this. You needed him, as bewildering as it was for you to admit to yourself. 
Desire running deeper than that for water coursed through your veins, and you nodded. “More.” You both knew that you weren’t fully talking about the canteen in his hand. 
“Good answer.” Before you could even register, he was gripping your face again. Fingers pressed into your cheeks harshly, opening your mouth back up. Taking another swig, you expected him to repeat what he’d done last time, but you were startled when you felt his lips on yours. 
It was a strange kiss, his closed mouth against your open one, but it didn’t stay like that for long. His lips pulled apart, and without needing further prompting you swallowed another precious mouthful of water. You could feel that bastardly smirk against your mouth, and if you were anywhere near being able to create a coherent thought you would’ve said something. 
But you didn’t, you couldn’t. It was like you were caught up in some haze, but you were sent out of it when you felt his tongue sweep into your mouth. You’d kissed a few people, sure, but never like this. It elicited a startled noise from you that had him pulling back an inch, and you had to fight yourself to not chase after his lips.
“Never had that before?” He chuckled, and he found your following silence an adequate enough answer. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”
He didn’t even give you a moment to react before he was crashing his mouth back against yours. It was all tongue and teeth and it had you moaning, and you felt the grip on your face tighten. Your head spun, and you tried to keep up with his movements, but you ended up just letting him take over, moving his mouth against your however he’d like. 
He nipped at your lower lip with his teeth, and your hands shot out, no longer able to just keep them idly in your lap. You found purchase on his thighs, the sinewy muscles tensing under your touch. But the grip on your face tightened more, almost incredibly painful. Your eyes shot open, alarmed, and a pained noise left you. 
He had pulled away again, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths, but he was glaring down at you. “You better watch those hands.” Even though his voice was husky, the threat didn’t make you any less terrified. 
You were confused, and you watched his eyes trail down to his lap where your hands were. Unable to move your head, you had to strain your own eyes to look down, and sheer dread washed over you when you saw his gun still in his lap, your hands a mere inch away from it. 
“I- I wasn’t… I didn’t… ” you gasped breathlessly. “I didn’t know! I- I’m sorry! Please.” Out of all the times you’d begged and pleaded tonight, this time had to be the most genuine. Immediately retracting your hands back to your lap, you awaited his response tensely. What you failed to notice was the way his eyes darkened as you groveled, his pants growing tighter.
His gaze returned to your face, and out of the corner of your eye you watched as he moved the gun from his lap into his hand. You half expected him to point it at you next, but you let out a very audible sigh of relief when he set it on the couch beside him. It was completely out of your reach now, but he could still easily grab it. 
He loosened the grip on your jaw, still holding it, but no longer digging into your flesh painfully. “I won’t stop you next time,” he growled, and it took you a second to register what he was saying: he won’t stop you next time because you’d be dead as soon as you began to reach for it. 
You nodded as best you could. “Good,” he’d lost the threatening tone, but his voice was still gravely and raspy. “Now, where was I?” His eyes flicked down to your lips, and you sure they were swollen and shiny. “That’s right.”
Like nothing had happened, he returned to his ministrations, teeth grazing your bottom lip again. You hesitated when you set your hands back on his thighs, gaining more confidence when he didn’t stop you. In fact, he was actively encouraging your explorative touches, a pleased noise rumbling his chest as your fingers trailed up his thighs. 
Another swipe of his tongue and a particularly harsh bite had you gripping onto him, barely able to find purchase on the thick material of his pants. You desperately needed air, but he held his grip on your jaw, seemingly unaffected by the issue you were having. Did ghouls need to breathe? It seemed like they didn’t, because he had yet to tear his mouth away for air once as he first kissed you. 
As your hands reached his belt, it was then he finally tore away, a groan leaving him. Sucking in as much air as your lungs could handle, you ran your touch across the prominent bulge. You felt the hand on your jaw go lax, falling to his lap. “You gonna take care of that?” He was giving you another out, giving you an opportunity to stop you from doing something you could regret. 
Rationally, you knew you should stop here, and pretend like this didn’t just happen. You knew the version of you from the Vault would do that. But this new part of you, exposed to the Wasteland and the savagery of the surface world found that you wanted to continue. Besides, you were probably going to end up getting killed in the next few days; why not have some new experiences before your time was up.
You didn’t respond, you simply began to undo the buckle of his belt. You couldn’t get the thing off of him, so it just rested open on his thighs. “Oh, you’re filthy,” he chuckled, spreading his legs even further apart while leaning back against the couch. “Go on, sweetheart. Let’s see what that mouth’s good for.”
This also wasn’t your first time in a situation like this. You’d only ever done it once, but you apparently weren't too terrible at it, as he frequently requested for a second time, but you always turned him down. You kinda wish you hadn’t now, wishing you had more experience now, but a part of you knew that this was about to be incredibly different from anything you would’ve experienced in the Vault.
With hands that you prayed weren’t incredibly shaky, you pulled down the zipper of his pants. He kept his eyes locked onto you the entire time, darkening even more as the unzipping noise hit his ears. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from him, no matter how hard you wanted to. Something about his expression had you locked in, and you shifted again. 
“Don’t let me stop ya,” he rested his arms along the backside of the couch, and you realized you’d just been sitting there. Steadying yourself, you slipped your hand into the confines of his pants, underneath the waistband of his briefs. You heard him let out a small hiss when your fingers brushed over his cock, and you desperately wanted to hear him make more noises like that.
It took a bit of maneuvering before he was free, head brushing against his navel. The skin was pocked like the rest of his body, which you were expecting. What you weren’t expecting was how long he was, much longer than your previous encounter.
Before you could let nerves disarm you, you moved closer to him. Bracing your hands back on his thighs, you kissed his tip, and you heard his hiss again. Sneaking your tongue out, you ran it up his length, pressing another kiss when you reached the top. “Don’t tease,” he growled, tangling his gloved fingers back into your hair. 
When you took him into your mouth, he let out a noise that sounded like a laugh and a sigh, the grip on your hair growing painful. It didn’t deter you, rather it drove you wild, and you took as much of him as you could. When he hit the back of your throat, you had to stifle the urge to gag. Taking the rest of him in one of your hands, you began to bob your head, hollowing your cheeks. 
You couldn’t see the way his eyes locked onto his cock leaving and entering your mouth, but you could hear the small grunts he made in tandem with the movement of your head. He kept his hips surprisingly still, but his fingers were somehow getting even tighter, as if all of his restraint was being poured into his grip, and it was on the verge of snapping. “You can take more.” It wasn’t a question, and you felt his press down on the back of your head when you had him fully in you.
Startled, you tried to make a noise, but the vibrations just went straight to his cock. He groaned, louder this time, and he didn't let up. “Relax,” he bit out, and you tried. You really did. Taking as deep a breath you could, you forced your muscles to relax, your hands going back to his thighs. Tears sprung to your eyes as you really tried not to gag, but a garbled sound still left you as he pushed himself further down your throat. 
“Fuck,” he drawled out, “just like that.” It felt like five years had passed before your nose was finally pressed into his skin, his cock fully sheathed down your throat. Tears dripped onto his skin, but he didn’t seem to feel them. Your scalp stung as he lifted your head up, and you took in a shuddering breath, your lungs screaming for air.
You didn’t have a long reprieve before he was shoving you back down again, and even though the intrusion wasn’t new it still caused you to make an awful noise. It took him pulling you off again for you to realize what he was doing; he was fucking your mouth, using it for his own pleasure like you were just a toy. The realization had you moaning, the discomforts becoming an afterthought as he chased his pleasure, your own growing. 
Your Vault-Tec suit was becoming unbearable arousal tightening in your core, and you snuck a hand down between your legs, trying to touch yourself through the thick material. It didn’t help, but you still tried anyway, desperate for any sort of relief. The Ghoul laughed, not letting up the way he moved your head. “Oh, sugar, is suckin’ my cock gettin’ you bothered?”
Your head spun, the new nickname and the crude words making you dizzy, and you let out what you hoped was a confirmatory sound. He only huffed in response, and you could tell that he was starting to get close to his release. His hips had started to buck, albeit slightly, and his groans had turned to unintelligible moans. 
He cursed again, and you were barely able to glimpse his head roll back, hat hitting the ground. He didn’t care, continuing to fuck your face, and you desperately ground against your hand. “So good, fuck,” he panted, and you let your eyes flutter shut.
They shot open when you heard him moan your name, but you had little time to appreciate the way he said it. He pressed down hard on the back of your head, holding you there, your nose pressed flat against his body. A plethora of curses fell from his lips as he came, his cum spurting deep down your throat. 
He let go, hands falling to his sides, and you removed yourself, coughing and gasping for air. Your cheeks were wet with tears, your jaw aching, but it was the best pain you’d ever felt. He stared at you with lustful eyes, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. 
Holy shit. You were tired, but you wanted more. But you weren’t expecting him to do anything else tonight. This wasn’t a partnership; he’d gotten his release. You’d need to deal with it on your own. 
So caught up in what you were expecting, you gasped when you felt his lips graze the corner of your mouth. His hand cradled your cheek, leather growing damp, and you felt his lips brush the tears that had fallen on the other cheek. You realized he was licking your tears away, and when he registered that you noticed he chuckled, muttering something about not wanting to waste water. You let out an airy chuckle in return, still not fully wrapping your head about what had and what is transpiring. 
“Guess one good thing came from that mouth,” he teased, referencing his earlier threat. He tugged you up, and you stood with knees shaking like a fawn. You’re certain you looked like a mess but he either didn’t care or really enjoyed it. 
You really had no idea what was going to happen next. You observed him with wide eyes, and you couldn’t help the bewildered look when you saw him stroking himself, still rock hard like he hadn’t just come. He chuckled when he saw what had caused you to react. “One good thing ‘bout bein’ a ghoul,” he rasped. “Stamina.”
His own raked down your body, honing in on the way your thighs pressed together, and they flicked back up to your own. “Take it off.”
You didn’t have to be told twice, the zipper on your suit quickly becoming undone. Even though the air was hot, it still felt nice against your hot skin. He didn’t blink as you undressed, eyes clocking in every new inch of exposed skin. Tugging it down your shoulders and off your arms, you let it fall to the ground, the material pooling at your ankles. 
Left in only your bra and underwear, you kicked the Vault-Tec suit off your feet, and you stood there, unsure. “All of it,” he continued, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 
As you reached for the clasp of your bra, you watched him lean forward slightly, eyes watching you like you were the most delicious meal he was about to devour. Tossing the garment beside you, you reached for the waistband of your underwear. He raised a hand, making your halt, your fingers barely looped under the band.
With two fingers, he gestured you forward, grinning when you complied easily. His hands batted away your own, and you felt he begin to peel it away himself. He was almost eye level with your navel, and you felt his breath caress your stomach. It was like he was unwrapping a present, the way he ripped it down your legs, and it fell around your ankles like the suit. 
You were hardly able to kick it away before he pulled you onto his lap, your hands bracing against his still clothed chest. The couch made a very audible noise, on the virgo of collapsing, but neither of you seemed to hear it. One of your legs straddled his thigh, your bare center pressed against his pants, no doubt soaking the material.
 “You’re wearing too much,” you found yourself commenting, and you felt him chuckle. He took his hands off your waist, holding them in front of you so you could clearly see him take off his gloves, tossing them by his gun. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, realizing that that was all you were getting from him. 
You weren’t complaining, though, when his bare hands touched you for the first time. Along with the marred skin, his fingers were calloused, years and years of harsh life, fighting, and shooting making them so, but they were the best things you’d ever felt touch your soft skin.
He seemed to be having similar thoughts, humming appreciated as he felt your body, fingers dancing up your sides. Goosebumps erupted across your skin, and you sighed as he continued his exploration upwards. Worn hands cupped your breasts, fingers toying with your perked nipples, and you unconsciously pressed your chest forward. “Look at ya,” it felt like he was mostly talking to himself, “you ain’t gotta mark on your body.” You felt his mouth graze your breasts, lips ticking you as he spoke. 
You jumped when his teeth made contact with the delicate skin of the top of your breasts, and he chuckled. Moving lower, he took one of your nipples between his lips, his hand making sure the other one was receiving the same attention. His tongue flicked, sucked, and the occasional nip had you crying out, jolts of pleasure shooting through your body. One of your hands settled on the back of his head, the other sneaking back between your legs.
With that surprising speed, he caught your wrist, not even tearing his mouth away from you. You let out a noise of complaint, and you could feel him grin. His hands left your breasts, settling back on your waist, and you felt him begin to rock you back and forth on his thigh. With every rock, your clit ground against the tensed muscle, and you let out small moans, small waves of pleasure crashed through your body.
When he felt you begin to move on your own, he let go, returning his touch to your breasts, playing and massaging them as you got off on his thigh. His mouth trailed up your body, leaving a trail of small kisses and ginger bites, your once smooth skin now slightly indented. Having been worked up for a while, you felt that you were growing close to release, his ministrations bringing you closer. 
He was at your neck now, and he bit particularly hard at the thick tendon there. He laughed when he felt your hips begin to rock harder, and you felt his tongue smooth over the bitten skin. “I-” you tried to speak, but an airy whine from your throat cut you off. Your thighs were trembling, and you could feel the damp patch that had formed on his pants, but you couldn’t be bothered to feel embarrassed right now. 
“You close, sugar?” Not trusting your voice, you nodded instead. “Fuck, yeah you are. C’mon, let me feel ya,” he groaned, mouthing at your neck. 
It only took a few more rolls of your hips before you came, his name tumbling from your lips as a loud cry, pleasure igniting all your nerves. Your stubbed nails dug into the back of his head, and he growled. Your whole body was trembling as you rode out your high, only ceasing the movement of your hips when it became too overstimulating.
A shocked laugh left you, and you slumped forward. That seemed to be the last straw for the couch, the furniture collapsing beneath the two of you. It nearly caused to tumble off his lap, but you felt his hands secure under your thighs. He stood, holding you like you weighed nothing, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his body. 
He eased you to the ground, the sand digging uncomfortably into your skin, causing your back to arch off the ground to avoid feeling it. You couldn’t help the gasp you let out when you watched him shrug off his jacket, tucking behind you wordlessly. These small glimpses of humanity you’d seen from the Ghoul, like when he saw the crib, or when he gave you a way lead you to believe that maybe he wasn’t as bad as you originally believed him to be.
Well, you still hated him, and you were still his captive, but you realized that he wasn’t a complete monster. It was moments like this, where those high walls he’d built to survive in the Wasteland began to crumble, and you could see glimpses of the man you assumed he once was.
He didn’t give you much time to reflect, though, because his lips were crashing against yours, and all thoughts disappeared. Your legs were still wrapped around his waist, and you could feel his cock pressed against your folds. He didn’t press in though, and you whined against his lips, moving your hips as best you could to try and get him to move. “Whatdya want, sweetheart?” He murmured, nestling his head in the crook of your neck. 
“You,” you gasped out.
“I’m right here,” he chuckled a bit, and he still didn’t move.
Groaning, you ground against him again, trying to get him to just push himself into you. He groaned, yet he still didn’t move, his resolve stronger than you anticipated. “Fuck me, please,” you choked out, and you could see him smirk in satisfaction. 
He didn’t respond, and you felt him press into you, sheathing into you with a single thrust. Similar noises of pleasure escaped both your mouths, and your fingers wove into the fabric of his shirt, desperately trying to find something to grip onto. He stretched you out so well, and you gasped when you felt his hips press against you. He was so deep inside of you, father than any other person you’d taken to bed, and it overwhelmed you in all the best ways.
“Sugar, you feel incredible.” You babbled something in response, and you hated how proud he looked. He didn’t give you time to adjust before he was setting a brutal pace, hips snapping against yours. The sound of skin on skin and your cries of his name filled the room, and you swore if you gripped any tighter on his shirt that it would rip.
Small puffs of air tickled your neck with every thrust, whispers of your name hidden in the gasps. Fingers dug into your waist, most likely going to leave marks in the morning, your once smooth skin littered with marks of him. You couldn't see what your body looked like right now, but you had a pretty damn good idea, and the picture you visualized in your mind had you clenching around him, causing him to falter, albeit it only for a second.
Despite the slight overstimulation you were feeling, you could feel another orgasm begin to form, slowly but surely. Letting go of his shirt, you grasped at his face, pulling back up for another breath-stealing kiss. You were so caught up in the way he continued to thrust into you and the way his mouth slotted against yours that you failed to notice the way one of his hands left your waist. 
You broke the kiss with a startled yet pleased nosed when you felt his fingers begin to work at your clit, rubbing fervent circles into the sensitive nerves in time with the thrusts of his hips. “Cum on my cock, sweetheart. C’mon,” he groaned out, and your head hit the ground, barely softened by the jacket and the sand. 
His name had turned into soft pants, unable to form a coherent thought as he relentlessly fucked you. The added stimulation brought you closer to the edge, and you tried to let him know you were getting close. “Go ‘head, lemme feel ya,” his accent had been cranked up to a hundred, and in any other situation you would’ve found that funny. 
With a final cry of his name, you came again, your vision going white as you temporarily spaced out, the pleasure too overwhelming. When you came to, he had pulled out of you, leaving you empty and shivering. You watched as he stroked himself a few more times before he came all over your stomach.
It was only the sound of breathing in the room now, both of you just staring at each other as you calmed. Relaxing on his coat, you watched as he stood, tucking himself back into his pants as he did. Closing your eyes, you focused on your breathing, jumping when you felt a cloth on your stomach, wiping away his release from your skin. 
He didn’t say anything, tossing the cloth to one of the corners of the room when he was done. He placed your clothing beside you, before sitting and resting against the collapsed remnants of the couch, head rolling back. 
Groaning, you broke free from the post-orgasmic haze you were in, sitting upright. Both pleasure and pain still lingered in your muscles, making your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Slipping on your undergarments, the dampened fabric of your underwear was incredibly uncomfortable, but you gritted your teeth and ignored it. After putting on your bra, you debated putting on the Vault-Tec suit, but the idea of putting it back on made our overheated body cry. 
The Ghoul watched you as you redressed, thinly veiled desire and interest flicking in those eyes. You were now sitting upright on his jacket, and you got up onto your knees, freeing the garment and holding it in your arms. Scooting towards him, you held it out to him with shaking arms, almost like a peace offering. His eyes didn’t leave you as he took it, setting it beside him.
Before you could decide that it was a bad idea, you sat down next to him, shoulders brushing. If he was surprised, he did a good job of hiding. Exhaustion returned, and you felt your eyes begin to flutter close, head bobbing as you struggled to stay awake.
It was your turn to be surprised when you felt him pull your shoulder down, resting your head in his lap. You were even more surprised when he draped his jacket over your shoulders, the material thin enough to not overheat you. You glanced up at him with wide eyes, but he avoided your gaze, staring at the half-standing wall in front of him.
“Rest. We’re leavin’ at sunrise.” His voice was hoarse, back to that commanding tone from earlier. 
Getting as comfortable as you could, you let your eyes shut, sleep beckoning you. You had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow, but as you felt his fingers comb delicately through your hair, you knew that he was no longer going to be following his original plan for you.
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darkmatilda · 3 months ago
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𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer struggles with a relapse in addiction after emily's death when he meets you, a person who wants to help everyone around.
𝐭𝐰: there's going to be a lot… all topics related to mental health issues, mentioning the death of a loved one, suicide, relapse into addiction, violence. stay safe guys 𝐚/𝐧: please, read before reading. this is the full, ridiculously long version of "with the light off" that I posted yesterday. i’ve never seen a fanfiction this long on tumblr, and i won’t lie, i'm fking insane.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 25k
Spencer Reid was a genius.
Everyone knew it; he knew it himself, though he didn’t always see himself that way. It’s not difficult to explain what a genius is. One defining trait was that his brain worked at an incredibly fast pace. Metaphorically speaking, of course. In any case, he had no trouble connecting facts and forming assumptions that later proved accurate. With the amount of knowledge he had about various situations and people, it wasn’t hard to predict the course of certain similar events. It was simply a matter of connecting the proverbial dots—that’s what the vast majority of his work entailed. The rest involved risking his own life, something he had recently experienced in a painful way.
Spencer knew hundreds of stories about people struggling with addiction. He had read just about every available resource on the subject, trying to help himself. He understood the topic from firsthand experience and was aware that relapses were entirely normal in the face of difficult life situations. Yet, once he had overcome his addiction, he never imagined— even in his darkest visions—that he would ever reach for Dilaudid again.
But that’s exactly what he did. Well, technically speaking, not yet. But it was only a matter of time—minutes, to be exact.
He was walking through the city with the drug in his coat pocket, as if it were an ordinary item, like a wallet or car keys. At the same time, he felt as though everyone was staring at him. A shiver ran through his body every time he accidentally made eye contact with someone. She knows what I’m about to do. He knows too. They all do.
He was acting like a complete paranoiac. 
He had a substantial dose of Dilaudid on him and knew he’d take it the moment he was alone in his apartment. Yet, he hadn’t used it—he was still technically clean. Could he call it Schrödinger’s relapse?
He started to laugh, a bit hysterically, as he fumbled to open the door. Suddenly, the key seemed too large, or maybe the keyhole had somehow shrunk? Or perhaps his hands were simply shaking so much that he couldn’t line it up? The second option seemed far more likely, though admitting it was difficult for someone as devoted to logic as he was.
Spencer pressed his forehead against the door, taking a deep breath. He was ready to break down the damn thing…
“Everything alright, sweetheart?” came a voice behind him.
He turned around. One of his neighbors had poked her head out from the apartment across the hall—a sweet-faced elderly woman with an even kinder demeanor. Talkative and prone to asking questions. Knowing her love of sensation (she really did seem to have more energy and bravery than he, an FBI agent, did), it wasn’t all that surprising she’d stepped outside the moment she heard strange noises from the hallway.
Her question, the very presence of another person, somehow brought him back to reality.
"Just fine, Mrs. Schulz," he said, forcing a calm tone.
Standing with his back to her, he closed his eyes and took a deep, slower breath. His neighbor lingered for a moment in her doorway, and even without looking, he could imagine the suspicious look on her face. But finally, he heard the sound of her door closing—she’d let it go.
He slapped himself on the cheek, trying to snap out of it. He hadn’t been drinking—he was just coming back from a funeral—but he felt dazed, as if he were drunk. Slowly, he raised his hands again, and this time he slid the key into the lock without issue.
He didn’t even turn on the light or take off his coat; he went straight to the bedroom and tossed what could only be called a junkie’s kit onto the bed. In a plastic bag were a clean syringe and the main event.
Dilaudid.
He hadn’t wanted anything this badly in a shockingly long time. He’d promised he’d never touch it again. He’d made that promise to JJ and Gideon, but most importantly, to himself. Only when he pictured their faces and heard their voices in his mind did doubts start to creep in. He couldn’t get addicted again.
But on the other hand, did using it just this once, after all this time, really mean falling back into addiction? He knew people who had quit smoking years ago but occasionally had a cigarette—just to see if it still tasted the same. They’d end up thinking, Wow, was I really addicted to this? It’s disgusting!
It should be the same for him. He’d do it once, just this one time.
He recognized that particular thought. It was the voice of addiction.
He ran a hand over his face. He’d once gone to a support group for people struggling with addiction, sitting in the back, practically hiding, but he listened intently. That was what they talked about—how to separate his own thoughts from those of addiction. It all came down to the fact that addiction had no real power over him; it couldn’t physically force him to take the drug, only tempt and seduce him.
And he had to fight it.
He ran his hands through his hair, and then, on impulse, grabbed the bag on the bed and shoved it into the small safe in his nightstand. He kept his gun and badge there, along with his most valuable belongings. And now, also, the thing that could destroy him.
Breathing heavily, he backed out into the hallway. He couldn’t stay in the apartment. If he did, he’d give in. The problem was, he didn’t really have anywhere to go. He didn’t want to show up at JJ’s or any other team member’s door; he didn’t want to admit his moment of weakness. Besides, that day had been Emily’s funeral—everyone was too absorbed in their own grief to have to worry about him too.
The only place that came to mind was the library.
In his teenage years, it had been his only, truest friend. He’d spend hours there, loving the feeling of being surrounded by walls of books. He loved running his fingers over hardcovers, as if reading a message written in Braille. And above all, he loved to read. Was there any better escape from reality?
The next hours were spent immersed in the works of his favorite authors, pinching the back of his hand every time his thoughts wandered toward Dilaudid. A red mark appeared on his skin, and after another attempt, he began to bleed, though he didn’t even notice until he accidentally stained the page while turning it. He hurriedly set the book aside, feeling guilty for damaging it.
To make matters worse, someone appeared by his side.
"Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, you were so engrossed in your reading, but I need to close now. It’s midnight," the librarian informed him, looking every bit like the most stereotypical library worker.
Spencer looked at him pleadingly, not even knowing what he was hoping for. That the librarian would let him stay until morning? In silence, he put on his coat and headed for the library’s exit. It wasn’t a standalone building. Upon stepping out, he found himself in what looked like a hallway, with stairs leading, as far as he knew, to the laundry room, and wide-open doors to another room.
He was about to head for the actual exit when something caught his attention. A sign, like the ones warning about slippery floors. However, instead of a typical message, it had an inscription written in a handwriting resembling that of a child, with a flower replacing the dot on the letter "i."
If you feel like you can’t handle it, come in. We’ll talk, or not, if you don’t want to. But know that you’re not alone :)
He stared at the message motionless. It sounded a bit like some social campaign he would have ignored in 80% of cases. Yet, something about the simplicity of the message kept his gaze fixed.
Let’s be honest, Spencer was fucking terrified of going back to his apartment. And probably because of that, he decided to walk through those doors.
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"As if I didn't have enough cleaning to do every fucking day," you muttered under your breath, moving yet another chair so you could mop the floor with the poorly wrung-out mop. A puddle formed on the old brown panels. ” I’ll be a twenty-five-year-old with the spine of a life-worn retiree. Amazing”
Even though you had been complaining for over twenty minutes, deep down you were pleased with how things had turned out. You could use this room from midnight until six in the morning and even got your own set of keys. For free. Well, not entirely. In exchange, you had to clean at the end of each day. It hosted meetings for Alcoholics Anonymous and other support groups. And anonymous chip-aholics, you thought, noticing crushed crumbs under one of the chairs.
Your earnings as a bartender and occasional office cleaner didn’t allow you to rent any space for your... let’s call it a project. However, you believed you’d rather strain your back a little and perhaps save someone’s life than spend these already sleepless nights watching shows or partying.
You couldn’t quite remember how you came up with the idea. It probably happened while reading some sprawling discussion thread on a random forum online. Reading how people argue over the best cheesecake recipe on some website was one of your favorite late-night activities (don’t be fooled by the trivial topic—the discussion included a serious threat of arson and ended at a police station). Anyway, one night, while you were browsing a forum for parents of teenagers out of boredom, you came across advice from a woman who claimed that her communication problems with her daughter ended when she started talking to her late at night, rather than in the afternoon when she got home from school.
The thought wouldn’t leave you alone. You looked into it and found that, while most support groups met in the evening, it was usually early evening. Well, that made sense—few people could dedicate their whole night to it. But you could. You’d been struggling with insomnia since college, ever since your mother passed away. After finishing your evening bar shift at eleven, you’d rush to this place, put up your homemade sign on the door, and wait. You’d catch up on sleep in the mornings. And then, repeat.
Was it exhausting? A little. Had your social life nearly vanished, with the only people you saw being your equally nocturnal roommate and the neighbor’s kid you took to daycare in the morning for a few extra dollars? Absolutely. Did it bring you satisfaction? Only one person had shown up since you started, but yes, it brought you immense satisfaction.
It might sound a bit overdramatic, but helping others was your calling.
You continued cleaning, muttering a few more curses under your breath. One earbud dangled from your ear; listening to music went against your personal code. You knew that if some desperate person rushed in after reading the sign on the door, the sight of you—the person offering them a conversation—with earbuds in might be a bit discouraging. They might think better of bothering you and back out, and you wouldn’t even notice, absorbed in the music. But you couldn’t help it—you hated silence.
So, you bent your own rules, using only one earbud.
You swung the mop in a wide arc, in perfect sync with the rhythm of the song, and couldn’t resist doing a spin. Cleaning and dancing—was there a better combination?
When you turned around, you only then noticed that someone had been watching you the entire time. Which meant they’d heard every curse word that had come out of your mouth over the past twenty minutes. And there had been... a lot. You pulled the earbud from your ear, like a teenager caught watching something they shouldn’t.
Congratulations, you idiot. Whatever’s bothering him, he’ll definitely want to talk about it with someone like you...
“Hi!" you said, in the friendliest tone you could manage. You had to somehow get rid of all those curse words from your mouth. The man didn’t respond, but you noticed his chest move, as if he was taking a deep breath. Unfortunately for him, every time the other person stayed silent, you started babbling nonsense. "Sit down if you want, and don’t worry about the wet floor. I mean, maybe worry, if you care about your teeth. I slipped here yesterday too, but luckily on my back…I can’t afford a dentist visit, do you know how much they charge now?"
"I’ve read... I’ve read the note on the door," the man said shyly, pointing his thumb behind him. Only then did you take a closer look at him. A black coat with a piece of a black shirt peeking out, matching trousers, and elegant shoes...You straightened up, still holding the mop, realizing he must be coming back from a funeral. "Can I really stay here for a moment? If so, for how long?"
The desperation in his voice tightened your chest.
"Yes, of course," you said gently, much less chaotic than before. "You can stay as long as you need."
You held back the playful remark, At least until six in the morning, because after that I’m not welcome here anymore. Humor could ease tension in tough situations, but it wasn’t always appropriate, as you had learned many times. This man didn’t look like he’d be helped by your silly jokes…
He looked, above all, lost. He must have felt that way, since his feet had led him to this place. Despite your earlier words, he didn’t move, seeming unsure of how to act.
"I…I don't have to talk to you, right? That’s what the note says…"
His stuttering didn’t seem like the result of shyness. You got the impression that his lips were refusing to cooperate, too tired to express what his still sharp mind wanted to convey.
"If you don’t want to, I’m not going to force you. But sometimes, you know, it’s better to say what’s on your mind."
It seemed like he only heard the first sentence. Completely ignoring the second, he took a seat in one of the chairs in the last row. They were arranged like pews in a church, one behind the other. Surprising, considering it was a space for support group meetings. Usually, in such places, the chairs were set up in a circle—you knew that from experience.
For a moment, you kept staring at him, fighting the urge to speak again. His appearance moved you deeply—actually, the suffering of every living person touched you. And he was definitely suffering, moving stiffly as if in constant pain, with a vacant expression on his face. But since he had decided he needed silence, you couldn’t impose yourself on him. It could have the opposite effect, driving him away rather than encouraging him to open up.
You had no choice but to return to cleaning.
Moving around the room, you tried to take steps as light as a ghost. You tucked the earbuds into your pocket. You gathered all the lost trash and items, finishing mopping the floor. From time to time, your gaze would instinctively drift toward the man. Staring wasn’t in good taste, but you couldn’t help it. He looked... intriguing?
He was definitely young, around your age or maybe a little older, but still very, very young. His skin was unnaturally pale, contrasting sharply with his black clothes. Brown hair, short but longer than most of your male friends', a bit unruly. His eyes... so much was happening in them. While the rest of him seemed cold and unmoving, those eyes were a window to all the pain inside him.
You looked into his eyes just once and knew he wouldn’t say anything more to you. You’d spend a few hours in silence— you would finish your work and take a seat in the first row, far enough so you couldn’t hear each other’s breathing, but in a position where he could see your back, remember your presence, in case he decided to speak. But that won’t happen, you thought, and you were right.
At five in the morning, the mysterious, troubled man left the room.
You stared at the door, overwhelmed by your own thoughts. Maybe you had made a mistake by respecting his request? Maybe you should have sat right next to him, taken his hands, and begged him to tell you everything? You had no idea if those few hours of silence had soothed him, or if it had been the opposite. You were afraid he might have dangerous plans for himself, but that realization came too late. You couldn’t run out after him into the street; you wouldn’t find him in the cold, December night.
All you could do was sigh, certain that you’d never see him again.
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Seeing him in the doorway the next night, you thought you had fallen asleep and that it was just a dream. 
But you never slept at this time. 
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Spencer couldn’t reasonably explain why he went back there the following night.
Or why he was heading there for the third time.
He also didn’t know why he was so surprised that Hotch had given them a few days off. After all, he had long since learned that behind his cold exterior lay a genuinely caring and understanding nature.
Maybe he was simply hoping for the quickest possible return to work, something that would occupy his mind. He’d even be willing to stay late at the office, analyzing some old, unsolved cases, and only head home in the late hours, when he’d be longing to collapse into bed.
He’d be so exhausted that he wouldn’t even think about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe. He still hadn’t gotten rid of it, for a deeply humiliating reason. He feared that if he so much as tried to open the safe, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.In the evenings, he was gripped by an anxiety so intense that his breathing would grow shallow to the point of causing severe dizziness. He couldn’t sleep either. An irrational fear haunted him—the fear that he might simply stop breathing in his sleep. That he’d never wake up again. In a few days, maybe a week, one of his friends, let’s say Derek, would decide to check why he wasn’t showing up to work. Derek would find him still lying in bed, his skin gray and cold, his limbs stiff.
His merciless mind seemed to be conjuring these images on purpose. Imagining Morgan over his lifeless body would send him back to Emily’s funeral, making him feel that same painful tightness in his chest.
These weren’t even flashbacks. He was almost certain he was sending himself back to that moment at the cemetery deliberately, purposefully crafting these visions. He wanted to amplify his suffering, to make a possible relapse feel more justified. It felt as though he was faking his tragic state, which made him dismiss any thought of asking anyone for help. Why would he, if he didn’t deserve it?
Besides, he didn’t want to intrude on anyone else’s grief. JJ couldn’t afford to break down; she had to stay strong for her family, for little Henry. Derek had nearly lost Emily in his arms, bearing an unbearable guilt and pain—it would be cruel to burden him with more. And Hotch was still reeling from his own tragedy; Hailey had died not so long ago, and Prentiss’s death could easily reopen those old wounds. They were the ones who truly deserved these few days off. Their struggles were real; he was just an addict—a boy supposedly intelligent.
Supposedly, because if he really were, would he keep something capable of destroying him in a safe by his bed, within reach at any moment.
Because of these thoughts, he feared the night more than anything. That’s when he became weak, vulnerable to the voice of his addiction. So, spending his nights away from home felt like the only solution.
He’d already developed a sort of routine. First, he’d head to the library, usually packed with students preparing for exams. As the hours wore on, they would disappear one by one, until by closing time, he was left alone with just the one librarian in square glasses.
He’d wander out to the hallway, glancing into the next room with the same curiosity he’d felt the first time. He wondered if that girl was still there. It seemed almost unbelievable that anyone would willingly spend entire nights sitting in silence with a gloomy stranger. Didn’t she have work to get up for? Or classes. She looked like a student—the kind who’d doze off in the front row without a shred of humility, doodle strange symbols in the margins, and engage professors in conversations on topics wildly unrelated to the lecture. And, somehow, they actually responded to her.
He stepped through the door, certain he’d find her there, yet…the room was empty. A chill ran through him at the thought that maybe he’d finally lost his mind and had only imagined her. In men, the first symptoms of schizophrenia usually appeared a bit earlier, but as everyone knew, every rule had its exceptions…
Something crashed forcefully into his back.
“Damn, sorry!” said the girl, her face obscured by the enormous box she was carrying.
She leaned it against her hip so she could see who she had just bumped into. Spencer was surprised to realize that he had been waiting for what she might say. The day before, when she saw him, she had said, "Oh, Mr. Mysterious. Good to see you, I was starting to think I made you up..." That had been their only interaction that night, and he wondered if she was going to greet him with a similar line.
But she simply smiled, adjusted the box in her arms, and walked past him. Did he really feel… disappointed?
He quickly shook his head. After all, he had asked her from the very beginning if they could not talk. He spent so much time there because it was the calmest place he could imagine, not because he was looking for new friends. He didn’t need them. New friends quickly turned into real friends, then old friends, and eventually, they only left wounds.He sat in the same spot as the previous and the one before that night. During those, he barely moved, spending those hours solely on thinking—about matters both important and trivial. This time, he brought something to occupy himself, specifically a pocket edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Even though he knew the book by heart and could recite any page from memory, he still found comfort in the story. Besides, this particular edition had been a birthday gift from Emily. He opened to the first page, but then his eyes fell on the inscription she had written by hand… As he began to read it, the words of her dedication blurred with the words spoken at her funeral. His head was filled with a ringing, and he immediately closed the book and placed it back in his pocket.
So, he was left with the escape into the depths of his own mind. He knew that most people wouldn’t be able to spend so many hours just thinking, but for him, it had never been a problem. He wasn’t sure whether it was a matter of his nature or simply a matter of habit, a skill he had mastered during his lonely teenage years.
Then, he glanced briefly at the girl still there. It occurred to him for the first time, what on earth she needed that huge box for. He found her standing on tiptoe on a chair, trying to reach the corkboard hanging on the wall. Attached to it were reminders about the benefits of belonging to a support group, etc., so people who got bored during meetings could constantly remind themselves why they were actually sitting there. The girl was trying to frame the board by pinning… Christmas lights to its edges?
Given her short stature, it was quite a challenge. Sensing that her fall was only a matter of time, he stood up from his seat. He didn’t even particularly wonder why she was hanging Christmas decorations in November.
“I’ll help,” he offered.
She looked at him, first a little surprised, then almost with relief.
“I’d like to, as any altruist would, refuse your help and say that you don’t have to…but for God’s sake, please, just do it,” she said, immediately jumping off the chair and onto the floor. “I think I’ve already told you that I can’t afford a dentist, so I’d rather not take the risk.
“You mentioned it,” Reid replied, not sure what else he could add. He stopped trying to come up with any elaborate responses. Once again, he reminded himself that he hadn’t come here to make new acquaintances; he didn’t need to present himself in the best possible light. He could afford a little blissful silence and grumpiness.
She watched his actions with her arms crossed. He reached the spot where she wanted to attach the lights without much trouble.
“I know it’s not very hygienic,” she muttered, cutting a piece of tape with her teeth. “But I don’t have scissors, and as they say, you have to make do somehow.” She handed him a transparent piece, which, though almost invisible from a distance, was meant to keep the lights from falling. He accepted it without a word.
“The owner requested that I decorate this place for Christmas,” she continued. “He mentioned something about how the atmosphere positively affects most people, so it’s best to start as early as possible. But for me, it’s a bit too soon. What do you think?”
Absorbed in the task, he hadn’t heard her question. She didn’t seem bothered by it. Leaning against the wall with one arm, she clapped her hands when he finished.
“Thanks a lot, stranger. Now that I’ve used you once, maybe we should finally introduce ourselves?”
Spencer prolonged the process of getting off the chair as much as he could. For some reason, he didn’t really want to reveal his name. In a way, he liked that, entering this room, he was just a shell without characteristics, data, or past experiences.
“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” she added, noticing his hesitation. “Actually, names don’t really matter. I can always just call you a stranger. You could suggest some adjectives. Think it over carefully; it’s an opportunity to be, for example, a handsome stranger…”
He couldn’t help himself and chuckled. The girl’s eyebrows raised slightly, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.
“Spencer,” he revealed, extending his hand.
She shook it, offering her own name in return. Her nails were of varying lengths, especially those on her thumbs, which didn’t even extend past the tip of her finger, as if she only bit those particular ones.
“Well, considering we’ve theoretically known each other for three days, it sounds a bit funny, but nice to meet you, Spencer. Thanks again for the help. So, let’s see if it works.”
He had planned to return immediately to his seat, but the girl spoke so quickly that he didn’t have time to pull back. Instead, he found himself standing in front of her, watching as she switched on the Christmas lights, her face showing the intensity of an inventor presenting their latest creation.
“No way,” she muttered when the lights didn’t turn on.
“Probably the batteries,” he replied.
She looked at him as if he had just said something groundbreaking.
“You know what kind we’ll need?”
“AA, the thin ones.”
“Alright, then let’s go,” she decided, moving forward with determination.
“What? Where to?”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or just referring to herself in the plural. It was... unexpected.
“To the store, across the street. I need to decorate this place if I want the owner to keep letting me do what I’m doing here. Since you’re a battery expert, you can tell me which ones to pick.”
“AA, the thinnest ones. I’m not an expert, it’s common knowledge. Haven’t you ever changed batteries on a remote?”
He hesitated a bit about leaving the room with her. However, she had already put on her jacket, a brown leather one, at least two sizes too big. Underneath, she wore a green, lace blouse with an asymmetrical cut and flared sleeves, giving it a slightly fairy-like style.
“I guess not, I don’t know. My mom was against television, and we watched it so rarely that we never had to change batteries. Or maybe she changed them herself, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I just want company so let’s go.
If she had phrased it as a suggestion, he would probably have replied that he’d prefer to stay inside alone, if that were possible. However, she used a command, delivered so quickly that his brain didn’t even have time to process what was happening before his body moved forward.
After a moment, they crossed the street, heading toward a small, 24-hour shop on the corner. Spencer figured he might have dropped by there once before or after a visit to the library; after all, it wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar neighborhood.
Almost immediately after stepping inside, they came face-to-face with the guy behind the counter, who looked like he was counting down the hours until closing, the way prisoners count down the years left on their sentences.
“What do we need, expert?” the girl muttered to him, as if they were about to buy a part for constructing a rocket launcher, not just a couple of ordinary batteries.
Spencer asked for batteries and, after a moment’s thought, a coffee, too—the kind served in those ridiculously inconvenient cups without any sleeves, making it easy to spill and burning hot to hold. The girl glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, so he added, asking for one for her as well.
As they waited for their order, an incredibly awkward silence settled over them. It was odd, considering they’d spent the last two nights practically without exchanging a word. She stood with her elbow casually resting on the counter, while he kept his hands in the pockets of his brown coat. The harsh, almost clinical lighting inside revealed details about her appearance that Spencer hadn’t noticed before. For instance, her light-blonde bangs fell in a heart shape on her forehead, her eyebrows were slightly asymmetrical, and her eyes were the coldest shade of blue he’d ever seen. Or maybe it was the effect of the black eyeliner on her waterline?
Noticing his stare, she tilted her head in question, assuming he had something to ask. Caught off guard, he mirrored her gesture without knowing why. They were spared further awkwardness by the arrival of two coffees on the counter in those unfortunate cups.
“Thanks for paying,” she said as they stepped back outside. As the door closed behind them, he felt like muttering no problem but she beat him to it. “I was counting on it. I don’t have any money on me. That’s my way of saving—just never carrying cash.
A comment about how it wasn’t the wisest method came to his lips—after all, accidents happened, and sometimes having a bit of cash on hand could actually save one’s life. He was surprised, though, by his own concern and sense of responsibility toward a stranger.
As they left, she locked the door, then handed him her coffee to hold so she could unlock it again to let them back in.
“If it turned out you didn’t have a cent in that fancy coat of yours, I would’ve just stolen it,” she admitted in the same casual tone one might use to comment on the weather. Her bluntness startled him every time. “I even considered it, but then you pulled out your wallet. Hey, you’re not a cop or something, are you?” she asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
“I am,” he replied automatically. Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. He’d already given her his name, and now his profession. At this rate, his anonymity would burst like a soap bubble.
From her expression, he could tell she took it as a joke.
“Oh no. Are you going to arrest me now?”
He shrugged.
“If I did, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”
Saying this, he felt a twinge of inner humiliation. His slightly improved mood sank back to square one, as he was reminded that he wasn’t on a casual outing with a friend—he was on a forced exile from his own apartment.
She pushed open the door and stepped through first, walking backward, facing him as she went.
“I’ll take that as a no. Although, on second thought—do you have hot water in your place?” He nodded, answering her question, clueless about where she was headed. Her comments were too unpredictable. She clapped her hands together. “That’s great! They cut ours off in the building two days ago for some maintenance work, and honestly, I’ve missed nothing more than a hot shower. So, officer, maybe you should reconsider that arrest?”
She literally pushed her wrists right under his nose. For a moment, he regretted not having handcuffs with him. He imagined the shock and amusement on her face if he actually snapped them around her wrists. He shook his head, not understanding why he was picturing that—or why, suddenly, he felt so amused. Well, at least it was a relief compared to how he had felt an hour ago.
“Well, I don’t know the procedure for a cop taking an arrested person to his own home,” he replied.
“I’ve heard they do that with the worst criminals,” she said.
“Like battery thieves?”
“Every serial killer starts somewhere.”
“I don’t know of a single case where it started with stealing batteries.”
“Well, maybe you don’t know enough about criminology?” she asked, spreading her hands.
Spencer fell silent for a moment, then simply started laughing. Not mockingly, but genuinely, like he hadn’t in... a long, long time. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t have known the true reason for his reaction. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t know the true reason for his reaction. She tried to take the coffee from him, still holding it for her. As he was still overcome by some boyish chuckle, he flinched and accidentally brushed her pale hand. The girl didn’t even seem to notice the fleeting contact, grabbed the cup, and took a small sip of the still-hot drink. His fingers twitched, curling and stretching. He had never been a fan of physical contact, accepting it only from those closest to him. Whenever he tried to touch someone, he had an overwhelming feeling that it bothered them. Spencer considered it an incredible paradox that he worked by conducting in-depth psychological analyses of individuals, yet in his personal life, he struggled so much with understanding others' feelings.
Standing in the same spot, he watched as she approached the Christmas lights.
“Well, come on, techie. Time to change the batteries.”
She pulled him out of his thoughts. He joined her by the corkboard, this time offering her his coffee. It took him less than a minute, but when the lights blinked on, she patted him on the shoulder with such admiration, as if he had spent an entire day working on it.
It was a purely joking gesture, but somehow it still reminded him of all those pats on the back at the funeral—the last time anyone had touched him. He was really starting to hate his brain for dragging up memories like that every damn time he began to feel even a little bit better.
The girl must have noticed the slight withdrawal on his face after she touched him. He could almost see the invisible notebook in her mind, where the words never touch him again, he doesn’t want it seemed to appear. He suddenly wanted to open his mouth and explain that it had nothing to do with her, but he knew it would come out sounding pathetic.
That’s why he just sighed, like a beaten dog, wondering if taking Dilaudid that day would have allowed him to talk to her—and anyone else—with far more ease, without the heavy burden on his shoulders and the eternal tornado of painful memories storming through the depths of his mind.
“So…” the girl began after a longer pause. Her voice sounded different for a moment, stripped of its playful and cheerful tone, and Spencer almost felt as if she forced herself to bring it back. “Thanks again for your help and for unwittingly stopping me from committing theft. Oh, and for the coffee, though it’s one of the worst I’ve had in the past ten years of my life. Which is about as long as I’ve been drinking coffee at all. Anyway, if you’ve grown tired of my chatter, your lucky moment has arrived, because I need to get back to hanging the rest of the holiday decorations, cleaning the floors…”
"I can help you with all that," said Spencer’s lips—certainly not him, at least not so quickly or so confidently. That didn’t mean he disagreed, though.
She bit her lip, gently shaking her head.
“No… I don’t want you to feel obligated, like you have to help me with something. Or like you need to repay me for hanging out here. Since… let’s say I started this place, I’ve been managing everything on my own. This room is pretty small, there’s really not that much to clean. So just relax. Enjoy your book—I noticed you brought one.” She nodded toward his coat pocket, where it indeed rested. “Yeah, I stared at you for a second. Subtly, of course, so you wouldn’t notice. But don’t worry, you weren’t, like, picking your nose or anything. Not that I assumed you would. I mean, you don’t seem like the type.”
“Thank…you?”
One thing about Spencer—he often heard that he talked too much. That was just his nature. When a broad topic genuinely fascinated him, he couldn’t help diving into even the tiniest details. It always left him feeling a bit ashamed, worried that whoever he was talking to wasn’t remotely interested and was only rolling their eyes internally. For the first time in a long while, he’d met someone who made him seem like the quiet one, maybe even a bit grumpy.
The thought surprised him, but he regretted not meeting her at a different point in his life. Just a few stupid weeks ago, when Emily was still alive, and he wasn’t constantly battling the urge to soothe himself with Dilaudid. Maybe then he could have mustered more energy, started a truly engaging conversation. But now his throat was bone dry. He realized he was stuck in the belief that a part of him—the part everyone seemed to like the most—was gone, and the only way to get it back was locked in the safe by his bed.
His ears started ringing, and his own body felt like it no longer belonged to him. It was just an ordinary object with a delicate structure, cracking under the loud sound filling his ears.
The girl kept staring at him. God, he must have looked pathetic in her eyes. Was she talking to him because she wanted to, or because he came here every night and she had no other choice? He could have sworn he saw some disgust in her eyes. For the first time, he noticed that when they stood side by side in the store under such harsh lighting. It allowed her to examine him closely, and she noticed the bags under his eyes and the tired grayness of his skin. Furthermore, he spoke so little—she must have despised him.
He felt the urge to simply run out of the room, head straight back to his apartment, ignore the old neighbor on the stairs, and with trembling hands, open the safe... then it would all be over, the pain and the tension...
“Spencer?” A sound pierced the heavy dome surrounding him. His name. It was the first time she had used it, instead of some mocking label like stranger, officer, or techie “Spencer, is everything okay?”
He sank heavily into one of the chairs. It was the only way to stop himself from leaving. Not enough, he felt. Something kept urging him to stand up and go to his apartment. The apartment, the safe...
"Could you... could you say something to me?" he asked pitifully, in the voice of a beggar pleading for a piece of bread.
He had to distract himself somehow, get rid of these thoughts.
"Say something to you?" she repeated, confused.
"Anything, please. About inheritance and gene mutation, why you even come here every night, it doesn’t matter, just talk to me…"
"Okay," she said, a little feverishly, sitting down right next to him. He avoided her gaze, but briefly noticed she was looking at him with concern in her cold, blue eyes. "Okay... okay... so I'll tell you I have no clue about inheritance and genes, sorry...what was the other topic to choose? Why do I come here?"
He didn’t answer, not even realizing she had asked a question. Trembling, he listened only to her voice and her words, paying much less attention to the tone. He forced himself to listen. You’re not leaving this room, at least not until she finishes speaking. Listen. She has a nice voice, doesn't she?
"Spencer, you’ve gotten very, very pale."
"It’s okay, just talk to me. I need... to forget about something."
The girl suddenly nodded, with more readiness and understanding.
"Alright... Why do I come here? My friends, the ones who even know about this, slash one roommate and a guy from the bar, I'm not going to pretend I have a lot of friends...Anyway, they asked about it, and I told each of them a little bit of something different, but with the same general meaning. I didn’t go into details, I didn’t go into details, but I’ll tell you now, not just because you look like a dying man and I feel a bit like I’m fulfilling your last request before you drop dead on the floor. By the way, I wonder what I’d tell the police if that happened. Would you stand up for your old good friend, officer?"
His hands clenched around his knees, his head hung low, and for a long time, he had been hearing the beating of his own heart. His smile in response to the question was crooked and tired, but that didn’t change the fact that it was still a smile.
"How, when I'd be dead?"
"Oh, you like to nitpick words?"
"I just like logic. Usually."
"If I wanted to finish you off, I'd start telling you about my roommate's love life. That one's completely devoid of logic. You’d die listening to that.”
“So maybe another time? Besides, as much as I'd prefer not to die in an AA meeting room, I'd rather listen more about you."
"So listen. And breathe, deeply. You can take my hand if you want, or if it helps. Don’t you think I sound like I'm giving advice to a woman in labor? Breathe, hold my hand..."
Spencer exhaled again, followed by a burst of laughter. Her train of thought was simply exceptional, and he was genuinely curious about what would come out of her mouth next. He was beginning to forget about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe by his bed…
"Oh God, I forgot again what I was talking about, I’ll never finish telling this…" The girl groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Ah, college. No, wait, something about friends. I know, why I started this place! Alright, so it all probably started in college. The need to help, not the idea. I came up with that through an internet forum and arguments about cheesecake. Anyway, at my college, we created this really small organization. It's hard to even call it that, it was just... at that time, we were all moved by a girl I shared a room with who had attempted suicide. After everything, she dropped out of college... nearly cut contact with us, and we felt the need to do something, to help someone. Young, ambitious psychology students, you know? I think it was even my idea. I was sober for the first time since the academic year began, longer than two days, and immediately started having flashes of brilliance. It was about this: late at night, when most people were contemplating suicide, we swarmed all the nearby bridges. "It sounds heroic, I know. But in reality, we intervened only two, maybe three times. I was really surprised by that, I thought it was one of the most popular methods."
"In the United States, the most common method is hanging. It accounts for 25 to 30% of cases. After that, there’s..." He felt the need to swallow. "Overdose. Especially among the young. Falls from heights or deliberate drownings are less common, but still present in the statistics."
"I'm a little concerned about your knowledge on this subject."
"I read a bit."
"Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, as someone whose favorite book is Girl, Interrupted, but maybe it’s time for some... less... devastating reading?"
"Maybe I'll think about it. Anyway, what’s next with your... project?"
The girl rested her chin on the back of her chair, recalling where she had left off. Spencer finally straightened up, and as he became more engaged in the story she was telling, his hands stopped shaking as much.
"Well, as students go, we kind of lost our drive. They left one by one. The only thing I can say in their defense is that it was a damn cold winter, and you could have gotten hypothermia just from standing on that bridge at that hour. But I... somehow got more involved in it. My mom... passed away barely a month after I started college, completely unexpectedly. You know... or maybe you don't, I don't know what the beginning of a semester looks like in college. More parties than studying. My body had a full Mendeleev’s table inside at that time. Those nights spent on the bridges were the first sober and fully conscious ones in a long time. I liked standing there, thinking. To the drivers passing by, I might have looked like I wanted to jump myself, but I never considered it... not in that particular way. I had been dealing with insomnia for a long time, so I could come there very late. And one time... I really managed to save a man. I noticed him, and we talked for almost an hour. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, but... after that time, he actually stepped down from the railing, hugged me, and walked away. I don’t remember what I said to him. I’m not even sure if it actually happened, maybe I made it all up?
She took a deep breath to calm herself. Spencer stared into her lost gaze, devoid of the false positivity that usually covered it. He wanted to... he couldn’t quite determine if he wanted to hug her. He wanted to do something, but he wanted it to be more than just a hollow gesture. Still, he flinched, holding himself back from wrapping his arm around her.
"I'm sure it really happened," he said, his voice quieter and hoarse. The girl was surprised by the certainty in his tone. "And that's because... maybe you don't realize it, but you're doing exactly the same thing now as you did on that bridge, just in a different place and with a different guy."
He saw her slowly blink, the weight of his words settling in. One of the most talkative women he had ever met was suddenly rendered speechless. They stared at each other in silence for a long time, her lips parting and closing a few times. He felt a strange tension, as if whatever she was about to say would determine something significant in his life.
"Is that... why you come here every night?" she asked finally. "To avoid standing on the bridge?"
Spencer hated metaphors, couldn’t stand when others used them, and struggled to create them himself. So he knew he had reached a truly strange point in his life when he found himself using one.
"I stand on it all the time, every moment."
Her fingers moved restlessly, her face momentarily expressionless. Then, she simply reached for his hand, the one farther from her.
"Nighttime is the hardest, isn't it?"
"Yes," he admitted. He kept the next sentence in his mouth for a long time, chewing on it repeatedly, questioning whether it tasted right and whether he should say it. He felt... that this request might be too much. Yet, at the same time, he was painfully desperate. For the first time, truly motivated to do it. He hesitated, licking his lips, and the girl followed the movement of his tongue, as if wondering what he was about to say. He finally decided to just say it. "I have something at home that I'm afraid I'll take. I know that when I try to get rid of it, I won’t be able to stop myself. I know I probably shouldn’t ask you this, but I can’t do it on my own... I don’t have anyone else who could do this for me..."
She looked at him with a cold seriousness.
"Are you trying to lure me to your apartment?"
"No!" he assured hastily, realizing it really did sound that way. He quickly shook his head. "You're right, you shouldn’t go to a stranger’s house, and I shouldn’t even ask you. We barely know each other..."
"I was joking," she interrupted, reaching for her jacket. "I want to help you, I really do."
"No, I’ve thought about it, and I think I can handle it on my own..."
"After what you just told me? Forget it. I’m not taking the risk that something might happen to you."
"But..."
Determination sparkled in her eyes.
"How far do you live from here?"
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You were doing something incredibly stupid.
You were going to the apartment of a man you had met three days ago and knew nothing about except his name.
You were practically risking your life. You could have ended up subjected to excruciating tortures beyond anything you could imagine, then murdered and desecrated.
This was how Spencer lectured you the entire way, trying to convince you not to follow him, but it was already too late. You had made up your mind and tried not to think about the potential danger. It was incredibly difficult, thanks to the vividly detailed stories he kept sharing.
During the twenty-minute subway ride, he managed to summarize the biographies of six serial killers who targeted women just like you. He even called you someone in the highest risk group for assault and violence, to which you sarcastically muttered thank you and clamped a hand over his mouth—mainly because the woman sitting next to you looked like she was dialing emergency services.
“You know an unsettling amount about that topic too,” you remarked as the two of you covered the last stretch of the walk on foot. “You know, murderers and crimes.”
Of course, you had locked up your space, even though you’d never left it before sunrise. Night after night, you had stubbornly stayed until morning, even though, apart from Spencer, only one other person had ever shown up, and you’d spent most of the time bored out of your mind. Yet, you didn’t feel guilty about abandoning your post. After all, your intention from the start had been to help people in crisis—those who couldn’t or wouldn’t seek professional help, who needed more of a friendly, honest chat over a beer but without the beer.
Since the moment that man had first walked through your door, he had occupied your thoughts more than you wanted to admit. You had been incredibly afraid he’d spend every night silently sitting with you and then suddenly stop coming, leaving you with guilt and endless questions. Instead, he had opened up almost by accident.
Even though you knew far less about him than you wanted to, you felt a strange connection between the two of you. Mostly in the form of sleepless nights, the shared loss of someone dear (you guessed this from his attire during that first night), and likely a history with various substances.
Many people would look at him and refuse to believe he could be an addict. Well, aside from the state he was in after several sleepless nights in a row—exhausted eyes, a few days' worth of stubble, and a slouched posture—he looked quite respectable. But you had encountered enough people struggling with addiction to know that appearances were no indicator. Judging based on looks in such matters was simply harmful.
“As I mentioned, I read a bit,” he replied to your question.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah? What, The Silence of the Lambs as a bedtime story every night?”
He chuckled but didn't press the issue further as you both reached the building where he apparently lived. He stopped, signaling for you to do the same. Above you, a streetlamp cast the only light in the starless night. Spencer was wearing a brown coat that you really liked, and a light breeze ruffled his hair.
"Maybe you should text your roommate, let her know where you're headed?" he suggested. "You know, give her the address..."
"Oh my God, Spencer..."
"I just want you to feel comfortable," he said.
You sighed and grabbed your phone, wanting to ease his worry.
"It's just common sense to do this every time you're going somewhere with someone you don't know. Or when you're coming back alone. It's not just about women."
"Now I'm starting to think you're really a cop," you muttered.
You pulled up your friend and roommate Jude's number on your phone and began typing a message.
i'm going to some weird dude's place, here's his addy. if I'm not back by noon, just know my head's probably in his fridge xoxo
Jude worked nights cleaning office buildings. She must've been slacking off because she replied almost immediately:
you little slut. 
After a moment she added:
don’t let him tie you down
if worse comes to worse bite his dick off
not as hard as it sounds
“She replied that I’m being a bit irresponsible and I should be careful. She’ll call me in an hour to make sure everything’s fine.”
Spencer seemed satisfied with the response.
“Sounds like a really good friend.”
“Yeah, the best. Let’s go in. 
As soon as you were at his apartment door, he noticeably tensed up. And when he turned on the light, you saw his skin pale again, just like earlier when you had been worried about his state. You didn’t look around too much. The apartment was definitely nicer than the one you shared with Jude, but it had been kept in a style from a decade ago, which immediately impressed you since you weren’t a fan of modern architecture.
“Where is it?” you asked, referring to the mysterious thing you were supposed to take from him.
Uncertainly, he opened the door to the bedroom for you. If he really intended to kill you, it probably would have happened right then. You watched as he approached a cabinet near the double bed. He opened its doors, revealing a simple safe. He typed the code so quickly that even if you had wanted to, you wouldn’t have been able to memorize it. You held your breath as he came over to you, handing you some plastic bag. You shoved it into your pocket without even looking at it.
You didn’t want him to think for even a moment that you were judging him. Besides, the moment he handed it to you, that concern no longer mattered. He could finally breathe again in his own home.
“I haven’t taken anything for a long time,” he confessed in a quiet voice. “Actually, I thought I was completely clean. But something happened recently, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t get rid of it.”
You stood in front of him, your head tilted up, the plastic bag weighing lightly in your jacket pocket, even though its contents were virtually weightless. The silence between you became intimate, and a smile of appreciation crept onto your lips.
“You’re incredibly strong.”
“I’d be strong if I hadn’t bought it.”
“Spencer, you kept it in that safe, what, for three days? You spent nights away from home so you wouldn’t think about it? You asked me to come and take it so you wouldn’t risk giving in. Think about it. So many people would’ve broken down in your place.”
You could see that he didn’t completely agree with you, but you didn’t want to push him to change his mind. You were just sharing your opinion. For a moment, you both stayed silent, his head leaning in your direction so you could hear each other clearly despite the softly spoken words. It was as if you were sharing secrets so big that even the walls couldn’t hear them.
"I hope that by taking this, you'll be able to sleep for a bit," you said, feeling a little like you were committing a sin by breaking the silence. Spencer stepped back to his usual distance.
You knew there was nothing left for you here, but somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the room. You didn’t have even the slightest excuse to stay, so you sighed and glanced meaningfully at the door. His expression was unreadable, his shoulders hanging loosely by his sides.
"Well, I’m off. I’ll drop by the place for a few hours," you said. You were really about to walk out when you cursed in your mind and finally forced yourself to say what had been bothering you. "So... even though you’ve gotten rid of it, do you still plan on coming by? I mean..."
You didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
"We’ll see each other tomorrow," he assured you shortly, but firmly, which was enough for you.
You wanted to leave with a sense of mystery, but you couldn’t stop the wide smile that spread across your face. Spencer opened his mouth, probably to say something about safety and walking alone in the city late at night. You gave him a quick, caring look and disappeared through the door.
You’d been living a nocturnal life for years, aware of the dangers that the darkness held, but you’d also come to know the comforting feeling that it left behind in its embrace.
*
One might expect that after an entire afternoon at work and a sleepless night, you would collapse into bed exhausted by morning. But that never happened. Every day, you returned to your apartment in that dark green building with red fire escapes and spent two hours tackling your dreaded household chores—washing dishes or doing laundry.
You hated mornings, though you didn’t know why. Nights were loud and alive, and so were you during them. Mornings were quiet and seemed to trap you like wounded prey. They cornered you, gnawed at you, and forced you to confront... what exactly? Your own life? Your thoughts? Longing and emptiness?
One thing was certain: you wouldn’t trade your lifestyle for anything in the world.
Around eight in the morning, you would take your neighbor's son to preschool. She was a single mother, just two years older than you, earning a decent income but, as a result, constantly busy. Sometimes she left the boy with you, rewarding you generously afterward.
That was also when Jude came back from her night shift, usually dropping into bed without even greeting you. By then, you would often shut your eyes for a few hours, too—you weren’t a machine, after all, capable of functioning entirely without sleep.
And yet, you were always the first to wake up, spending an hour or two in bed with your laptop before your friend joined you, and the two of you would have breakfast. At two in the afternoon.
You spread homemade jam on your toast. Jude was obsessed with unprocessed food, and if she had the time, she’d probably bake her own bread—from flour she milled herself from grain she grew. You could easily picture her in some tiny, bygone village, growing vegetables with a scarf tied around her head—a funny image, considering she lived a thoroughly urban lifestyle and spent every weekend in a club.
“So?” she asked, walking into your small kitchen after her shower, wearing a black satin robe that revealed glimpses of her freshly pampered brown skin. Even the lack of hot water in the entire building didn’t stop her from sticking to her twenty-step skincare routine. She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “How was the night? Did you have to use your mouth?”
“If you’re referring to that advice you gave me yesterday—no, I didn’t have to.”
“Probably used it in another way,” she said with a smirk.
“Sometimes you’re as gross as teenage boys in high school.”
“Sorry,” she said, waving it off while making herself some coffee. “I’m just happy for you. Lately, you never go out, never see anyone. You spend your nights acting as a free therapist in an empty room, and when you’re not at work, you’re glued to your laptop. It’s not healthy, babe. Sometimes you’ve gotta have fun and blow off some steam. So, who’s the guy? You said he’s kind of a weirdo.”
“He kind of is,” you admitted. “But in a sweet way. We didn’t fucked by the way.”
Jude turned to you, looking utterly crushed.
“Then what the hell did you do? Play chess?”
“You immediately assumed it was a quick hookup. This is a guy I met while acting like a free therapist in an empty room,” you quoted her own words back at her, slightly sarcastic.
She was silent for a moment, arms crossed, staring at you. “Hot?”
“What does that have to do with anything—”
“Well, he must be, considering how quickly you agreed to go to his place. You know what, girl? Need any help with your ‘business’?”
You snorted with laughter, swallowing the last bite of your toast.
“Whore”
“Single young woman, I prefer” 
You weren’t very talkative, your mind constantly drifting back to the events of that night. You regretted not getting Spencer’s phone number. You needed to know what happened after you left and how he was holding up, to the point that you couldn’t focus on anything else. You comforted yourself with the thought that you’d see him again that night. An intense need to learn more about him, to understand him, and a bit of concern for him lingered with you.
Jude was sipping her coffee when there was a knock at the door. You flinched, and she, stiff as a board, stopped you with a gesture of her hand.
“I have a bad feeling about this…” she muttered under her breath, nervously clutching her cup.
As if on cue, the light knock at the door turned into a loud pounding. “Jude!” a male voice shouted. “Jude, come on, let’s talk!”
Your friend hid her face in her hands as you sighed. Richard was her ex-boyfriend, and a complete psycho. They had broken up a year ago and had no contact since. Yet, every now and then, he would remember she existed and stalk her like some kind of obsessive. Then he would disappear again. You had almost gotten used to it, though you still insisted she should report it to the police. Jude, on the other hand, thought it wasn’t worth the trouble since nothing would come of it anyway.
“Pretend we’re not here,” she ordered.
You sighed again, looking at her gently. “I really think you should do something about it.”
“He’ll get bored in a week. We just have to wait. Maybe one day he’ll break his neck on those damn stairs, and we’ll be done with him.”
You couldn’t help but snort, despite the seriousness of the situation. The steepness of the stairs in your building was truly terrifying. So much so that when you went out to the club, instead of heading home in the early hours, you’d crash at some mutual friends’ place. Trying to climb those stairs drunk could end tragically. 
Jude was right about one thing. Richard quickly lost interest, and after ten minutes the knocking stopped, but you didn’t leave, afraid he might be lurking somewhere in the hall. You both left the apartment together—she was heading to meet some friends, and you were off to work.
You liked the bar where you worked. The afternoon shift started quietly, mostly with a few guys stopping by on their way home from the office, chatting calmly and not causing any trouble. As night fell, the atmosphere picked up, becoming livelier. You always finished your shift just when the fun was starting to turn into chaos and arguments. As you left, you noticed the jealous looks from your coworkers, who, after months or even years, still watched some people with fear. Well, a drunk person is an unpredictable one.
You walked back to your rented room as if wings were carrying you. You were curious about what time Spencer would show up. You suspected he spent his evenings in the nearby library, which closed at midnight. You also hoped that besides him, others might show up as well.
Once inside, you started wondering if you should move the sign from the door to a more visible spot, so more people could learn about your initiative.
 Spencer usually showed up right at midnight. Not waiting for him, you got to work on your usual chores. You were certain he’d appear in the doorway any moment, just like he always did—silently, like a ghost. As you scrubbed the floors, you kept turning over your shoulder, always convinced you’d see him there. But every time, there was no one. You glanced at the clock and went back to work, because what else was there to do?
You really regretted not exchanging phone numbers.
Sure, you had taken his Dilaudid, but that didn’t rule out the possibility that he might eventually crack and reach for it. That was the dark scenario that had formed in the pessimistic part of your brain, and it lingered there only for a moment. You remembered the determination and certainty in his eyes last night—he really didn’t want to return to addiction. Most likely, something had just come up. After all, not everyone can afford to stay up so many nights in a row. Work, studies, responsibilities... You realized you didn’t even know what he did for a living. There were so many questions.
Hours passed. You looked at the Christmas decorations you’d put up yesterday. Your mom had never liked Christmas, considering it an unnecessarily stressful time, but at your request, your home always drowned in lights and Santa hats. As an adult, you walked past such things in stores with your head down. Every association with your mom brought memories—positive ones, true, but sometimes the greatest joys also brought pain.
You sighed, catching yourself in those thoughts. This was exactly why you hated silence. It always led you down a path of sadness. You considered putting in your headphones when someone appeared at the door.
You straightened up with hope, but it wasn’t Spencer. Instead, it was a man in a burgundy sweater, glasses on his nose, and a touch of gray in his hair. You recognized him as the librarian, who sometimes left work when you were arriving. He greeted you in an extremely polite manner.
“I’ve noticed that sign on your door for a while now, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to come in. Do you work here?”
At first, you were disappointed it wasn’t Spencer, but that feeling was quickly replaced by a smile. Someone had finally taken an interest in your notice.
“It’s not really a job. More of a personal project. I sit here and listen to what’s weighing on people’s minds.”
The librarian turned out to be a kind, though very shy, man. You talked for a while; he made you laugh more than once, and the rest of the night didn’t seem as depressing. He unexpectedly confided in you that his retired wife was battling cancer. He must have felt the urge to get it off his chest as soon as he entered, maybe even as soon as he saw the sign. He tried to maintain composure, but inside, he was terrified of losing her. His aging hands trembled as he spoke about it, and you listened with a heavy heart.
When you returned to the apartment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You sat on the fire escape, your legs hanging into the dark space, until the sun rose. You heard the key turn in the lock and jumped to your feet, rushing to the door.
“Jude, Jude, Jude!” you called to your roommate. She stepped back, her exhausted mind unable to handle such an enthusiastic greeting. Without waiting for her questions, you said, “You need to find someone for me. Get their phone number, preferably. I don’t care how, I know you have your ways.”
Your roommate wiped her eyes.
“We’ll talk after I get some sleep. And after you make me breakfast. Eggs, just how I like them.”
You agreed to the arrangement. Jude had incredible stalker skills. Once, she found an online profile of a guy just by knowing what kind of watch he wore. You didn’t want to wait until the next night hoping Spencer would show up, so you decided to track him down yourself.
While Jude was sleeping, you wandered aimlessly around the apartment, eventually collapsing on the couch with the laptop on your stomach, reading through discussions on poaching forums. Why? God knows. You just couldn’t sleep.
A king’s breakfast appeared on the table: fried eggs on toast with avocado, freshly brewed coffee. Jude sighed at the sight.
“If only my future boyfriend treated me like this.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, finishing off half an avocado raw. “I’m only doing this because I really need you to find someone for me.”
“Did you meet some handsome guy again?”
“It’s the same one.”
She laughed.
“You slept together and now there’s no trace of him? Sounds familiar…”
“Oh, just shut up with the toast. We didn't sleep with each other. How much longer you’re gonna eat that? 
She rolled her eyes at your rushing and deliberately prolonged eating her breakfast, just to watch the vein on your forehead throb. When she finally finished, she pushed her plate aside and placed her laptop on the table instead. Cracking her knuckles like a piano virtuoso before a performance, she said:
“Alright, tell me everything about him. Every little detail—not just his name and address. Which metro line you took, what shoes he was wearing, what type of condoms he used, everything. That’s how I’ll find him.”
“Condoms?” You raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly. Give me thirty minutes.”
You started losing faith in the success of this plan, but when you shared the information with her—though not everything, to preserve at least some of his privacy—she actually went silent for half an hour, fully focused on her laptop screen. You waited, tapping your nails on the table.
“Ha! Got him!” she exclaimed, both amused and proud. “Oh, crap… did you know the guy’s a doctor?”
"What?"
Surprised, you shifted in your seat. Not that it was entirely implausible… actually, the more you thought about it, it kind of fit him. But his career path was the least of your concerns at the moment—you were looking for a way to get in touch and find out why he hadn’t shown up last night despite his promise.
“Doctor Spencer Reid,” Jude read out. “Sounds sexy. Were you two playing some kind of role-play game?”
“For heaven’s sake, Jude, I told you…”
Once again, you explained to her that you hadn’t spent the night together, but she just cackled through your entire speech.
“Fine. Whatever. You know what, you’re right—we had sex. BDSM, ropes, the whole deal. I’ll tell you all about it…”
“Okay, on second thought, I don’t want to hear this anymore.”
“So plug your ears and give me his phone number if, by some miracle, you managed to find that too.”
*
The first case they got right after Emily's death involved murders that had taken place... in another state.
They were supposed to have one more day off, but it turned out to be a child abduction case—something that simply couldn’t wait. They were called in and had to go. Unless, of course, they wanted a life on their conscience…
Spencer remained silent throughout the entire flight on the jet. He barely slept at night; after the girl left, he stared at the door for a long time, then at the empty safe where his old, despicable colleague had just been. He felt that with the disappearance of the threat, his motivation to leave the apartment or do anything had faded. He no longer viewed the place with such intense disgust, but now considered it... incredibly lonely. When she left, a silence of an unparalleled intensity settled in, causing a sharp headache. He lay down in bed, fearing it might worsen.
The news about returning to work simply terrified him. He was unable to think, at least not as intensely as usual, and after all, that had always been his role—the brain of the team. Without the ability to focus, he was useless.
In child abduction cases, the first twenty-four hours are always the most critical. Pressured by time, he stared at the case files, analyzing all the information gathered so far, and he was losing it. Inside, he was simply losing it. In the past few days, he had started to accept that due to grief and the return of his addiction's voice, he might not be as effective as usual. As a pure realist, unwilling to lean toward either extreme, he finally came to the conclusion that this state would pass. It would pass... he just had to wait.
But he couldn't afford to wait. Someone's life depended on him. A child's life.
This is how he justified it to himself. This one time, he would give in, not to satisfy some fleeting, selfish need. The reason was far more complex, morally justified, even sacred. One could say he was sacrificing himself for the greater good of the case.
"Spence," a voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see JJ with a gentle smile on her face, though it lacked much joy. "I can see you're feeling better."
He hesitated before answering. His mind was a jumble of intertwining conclusions, assumptions, and calculations related to the case he was investigating. Having been torn from his own world, he didn't quite grasp what she had said.
"Sorry, what did you say?"
"I said that it’s clear you’re feeling better. You were really distant on the jet. I was worried."
He swallowed hard, overwhelmed by a wave of shame. If only she knew why he felt better...
Looking at her face, he felt the urge to cry, to fall to his knees and apologize to her. She shouldn’t even be worrying about him—he didn’t deserve it.
"Spencer?” she asked, worried, as he once again failed to respond.
Panic began to rise within him, the same paranoia he’d felt when returning from Emily’s funeral with Dilaudid in his pocket. Everyone knew what he’d done, they’d seen it, could read it on his face. He was as transparent as water, unable to hide anything.
And then, as if fate, weary of watching his pitiful behavior, decided to intervene, his phone rang, saving him from the situation.
"Oh, sorry JJ, this is something important," he said, even though he didn’t recognize the number.
His friend looked at him with suspicion.
Having received the call, he didn’t even have time to speak when someone on the other end beat him to it. That was enough for him to guess who was calling.
"Hello. Dr. Spencer Reid? This is the investigative department. We have a few questions for you regarding a missing woman who was last seen with you."
JJ noticed the change in his expression and surely registered how he took a few steps away so she wouldn’t hear his response.
"Very funny," he snapped. He was surprised at how pleased he felt hearing her voice. His muscles relaxed a little, like when she told him about herself at his request. "You know that the investigative department doesn’t contact suspects by phone?"
"Jerk, fool, and fun killer."
He let out a laugh so soft it sounded more like a sigh.
"You know why I’m calling, right?" she asked. He could hear her moving around the apartment, closing some doors, as if she were hiding. "I’m not going to yell at you now about why you ditched me, because it’s not exactly that you ditched me, but you kind of did. Are you keeping up?"
"Ditch me?" he repeated, surprised. "You mean... our late-night meetings?"
"No, I mean the book club where we meet every Monday."
"Something came up at work," he explained, ignoring her sarcasm. "Something really, really important, and it didn’t occur to me to let you know... Actually, I didn’t even think you’d be waiting for me."
He said it sincerely. Until now, he had thought that the girl's question during their last conversation about whether he would come was merely out of politeness, not because she actually wanted to see him.
"Of course I waited. And I was worried when you didn’t show up. You know how few people visit me, when someone finally came through that door, I dropped the mop because I thought it was you."
He fell silent, feeling a warmth in his chest. Lately, he had felt lonely, not just with his own problems but in other areas of life as well. The sadness made him think he was losing interest in things that had once brought him so much joy. Without all of that, he felt a little like a lighthouse in the sea, with nothing and no one within a few miles’ radius. On top of that, he had isolated himself a bit from his loved ones, he had to admit. It was only these late-night meetings and this phone call that made him realize he wasn’t completely alone.
By chance, he caught JJ's gaze. He wasn’t completely alone—he had friends around him—but that didn’t change the fact that he felt like he didn’t deserve them.
"Can you even talk right now, Doctor? If I’m interrupting something important, you can just say so."
"In literally one minute, I’ll have to get back to work…"
"Alright. Setting a timer for sixty seconds. Damn, I’ve already wasted like ten saying that. Never mind. Anyway, I get that something might have come up and you couldn’t make it. I’m not mad. But I’d really like to talk to you. If you get the chance, stop by. You know where."
"I’ll come by as soon as I’m back. Probably not today. I’ll call you then."
"No, don’t call," she asked. Surprised, he furrowed his brows. "Just show up. It’ll be romantic, don’t you think?"
"I hate to break it to you, but neither of us has what it takes to be a romantic," he replied gently, regretting that he was talking to her over the phone instead of face to face. It was always so hard for him to understand the intentions and meaning behind others’ words when he couldn’t see them.
"I do," she protested. "Maybe not you. You seem like the type who, when a woman asks for flowers, buys her a flycatcher."
"And what’s wrong with a flycatcher? It has an exotic and intriguing look, is a natural insecticide that helps reduce the use of chemical ones, and it’s very easy to care for. Besides, let me remind you that once you told me to take your hand and breathe, then asked if you didn’t sound like you were coaching a woman in labor. Is that your idea of romance?"
"That has nothing to do with my sense of romance. I just sometimes can’t keep my mouth shut. But honestly, flycatchers are freaking awesome. I’ve always wanted one. Still, my advice is, if you ever find yourself debating between buying a woman roses or a Venus flytrap, it’s safer to go with the roses."
"And what if I’m certain that the only woman I’d ever want to buy flowers for would prefer a Venus flytrap?"
"Deduce that yourself, Doctor."
He couldn’t help but smile. It felt strange—his cheek muscles had grown unaccustomed to that kind of effort.
"I know my sixty seconds are up," she said after a moment, her voice calmer and less chaotic. "But there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you."
"What is it?"
"How are you doing with, you know, the addiction? Was it easier for you after I took the Dilaudid from your apartment?"
The phone began to feel heavy in his hand, and the next breath was simply uncomfortable. He felt the same kind of shame as when JJ had asked if he was feeling better. The girl had been the only person he had confessed to about struggling again. His honesty on that front had made her quickly rise in the ranks of his closest people. It would have been easier to admit to her that he had relapsed. He even had a full explanation ready in his mind: he’s working on a missing child case, and had to do it to focus... He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bring himself to say it.
"Sorry, I have to go," he lied instead. "We’ll... we’ll see each other soon."
"Alright," she replied, somewhat coldly, certainly with concern. "I understand. See you soon."
He noticed that JJ had started glancing in his direction again. He hesitated, wondering if he should approach her, but he felt so bad about himself that he needed to disappear from anyone’s sight. He needed to focus on something, like the case but wasn’t sure if the fog in his mind would even allow that. 
Disappearing for a moment in the bathroom might help, and at that moment, it seemed like the only solution. And maybe it should have dawned on him much earlier, but only on his way did he start wondering, where the hell did she even get his number from?
*
That same night, you were calm. You were happy that Jude managed to get his number and that he could explain everything to you, which, in turn, made you stop worrying.
You felt the same on night number two and... night number three.
But when Spencer didn’t show up for the fourth time, you began to worry.
On the fifth and sixth nights, you called.
By the seventh, you were pissed as fuck. 
On the eighth day, you decided that since he couldn’t be bothered to call back, you’d stop acting like some damn wife waiting for her husband to come home from war. He was probably cheating on you. Well, not literally. Just extending the metaphor. 
You still spent every night in that room, but you no longer wondered whether he’d show up or not. You just did what was expected of you. As usual, you cleaned the floors. The owner of the hall called, asking you to clean the windows on both sides as well. You couldn’t help but greatly appreciate that you were on the ground floor. The cold air that made its way inside left pleasant kisses on your cheeks. The librarian came by to say goodbye. He did this every night exactly at midnight, when his shift ended and he was heading home. Sometimes he stayed to chat, but not always in the mood for it. Lately, he was feeling better and shared with you that the treatment for his wife’s cancer was showing positive results. Overjoyed, you almost fell out of the window and asked him to deliver good news to you next time when you’re actually standing on the ground.
You had always hated silence, but then it became unbearable. Through the open windows, the sounds of cars reached you, but not enough to drown out your thoughts. After a moment of hesitation, you shoved the headphones into both ears. When you felt particularly bad, you would return, body and soul, to equally painful moments. It usually happened in chronological order, without skipping even a single detail. There would be some minor inconvenience, and suddenly you were back in the dorm, banging on the bathroom door while your roommate was carving herself up in the tub. And a second later, you were at your mother's funeral, with no other family member around to hug you. You had never needed it so much before or after.
You closed your eyes. Usually, this happened in the morning, during those hated hours, not during the beloved nights. You opened them a moment later, and in the window, your face was reflected... along with someone behind you. Scared, you jumped out in a place. 
"I'm sorry," Spencer said, looking guilty. "I really shouldn't have sneaked up on you when half of you was hanging out of the window."
At first, in shock, you pulled the headphones out of your ears. You stared at him... furious. There had been no contact with him for so long, and now he appeared as if nothing had happened, looking unbelievably good, and holding in his hands...
"Is that a flycatcher?"
He seemed surprised that you were the one to ask about it first. However, he smiled and lifted the plant higher. 
"That's right."
"Shove it up your ass."
He opened his mouth, but no words came out, seemingly surprised at how quickly your calm tone shifted to anger. You took a moment to examine him more closely. He was dressed neatly and meticulously in a black cardigan, the collar of a white shirt peeking out from under it, and a red tie. Over that, he wore a black coat, not a single crease visible on any of his clothes. He was freshly shaved, his hair seemed a little shorter... but his face still carried that unhealthy expression, and his eyes looked exhausted. It also seemed to you that... he'd lost weight? As if he were trying to hide what was going on inside by his outward appearance. 
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, while his fingers tightened around the pot. "Look," he began, his voice a little unsteady. "I've been going through a really rough time. Actually, it's been like this for quite a while. On top of that, work's been stressful, and then I got sick..."
You interrupted him, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. "I called," you said, your voice sharp.
“I know,” he admitted. “I saw, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to call back because... I was ashamed...”
“Ashamed that you started taking Dilaudid again,” you stated more than asked, almost certain your guess was correct. You weren’t really angry anymore, just disappointed. Not in him, or in the fact that he hadn’t been able to fight the addiction. It hurt you how much he feared admitting it.
He didn’t answer, which was confirmation.
His gaze darted away from yours as fast as his legs could carry him. You sighed and moved closer, until the only thing separating you was the flycatcher he held. Your hands rested on the soft fabric of his coat, near his elbows. Due to the difference in height, he would have to lower his head to look at you. But he stubbornly kept it straight.
"Spencer, are you afraid I'll judge you?"
A long silence.
"I know you won't," he finally replied. "You're not the kind of person who judges someone for their struggles, I know that. But it's still so hard for me to talk about it."
"Hey, remember, you don't have to explain anything to me. Or say anything now. We can focus on something else first, and whenever you're ready to talk, I'll still be here. Like every night. Unless you just dropped by for a moment?"
Spencer finally looked at you, and as he lowered his head, a few stray strands of hair fell onto his forehead. You were still holding both of his shoulders, tightening your grip slightly to reassure him.
"I've got the whole night free. We finished working on the case, and I don't have to show up at work tomorrow."
You frowned slightly.
"A case?"
"A child abduction," he explained.
Something about this didn't add up.
"I thought you were... a doctor. You know, like, hospital stuff."  You could see how much that amused him. "Don't laugh at me! That's what my friend told me. I asked her to find your number, and that's the information she came across."
"I have a doctorate," he clarified, glancing at you with a small, indulgent smile. "That's why 'doctor.' I don't work in a hospital."
"And here I was already picturing you in a lab coat with a stethoscope around your neck," you groaned. "More than once, actually. No offense, but you don't  look particularly sexy in white. So, what do you do, then?"
He scratched his nose, hesitating slightly before answering.
"I'm an FBI agent."
For a moment, you stared at him silently, your lips slightly parted like an idiot.
"So, you really are a cop... I was joking about that the whole time we last saw each other! That’s why you were laughing so much." Finally connecting the dots, you crossed your hands on your hips, still surprised. You let out a short laugh."A doctorate. Impressive. Now I feel embarrassed around you for dropping out of college."
Spencer's eyebrows shot up.
"I didn’t know that. Psychology, right?"
"Last year. I rarely admit it to people, to be honest. I just don’t feel like hearing, 'How could you drop out when you were so close to finishing?'"
"I'm sure you had your reasons."
"Well, I like to tell myself that. But honestly, I was just in a really bad place mentally."
"That's a reason too."
For a moment, you fell silent. You’d never felt particularly ashamed of it, but you also didn’t like delving too much into the topic. Wanting to change the subject, you brought a smile to your face and pointed to the plant in his hands.
"Is that my apology gift?"
Spencer handed you a terracotta pot with a young, elongated flycatcher inside.
"Something like this. You're not mad at me for not reaching out, are you?" He tried to make sure.
You looked at him and shook your head.
"Not anymore. I'm very easy to bribe. Shouldn't I water this?"
For the next hour, at your request, he told you about this type of plant with such tiny details that you started to wonder if it was possible for an average person to have such an extensive knowledge… on any subject. But you listened intently. First of all, he had that way of talking about things that you always admired in others. It was captivating, filled with passion. Secondly, you were about to become the "mom" of a Venus flytrap. You had to know everything about your baby to take proper care of it.
"Am I boring you?" he asked during his talk.
You shook your head, encouraging him to continue his lecture. Then Spencer asked how your past few days had been, and the conversation flowed on. Easy and pleasant, sometimes abruptly shifting from one topic to another, but then slowly returning to it. Comparing it to your first longer conversation here… you were glad to see how much he had opened up.
Carefully choosing your words, you managed to find out that work had been the trigger that led him back to taking Dilaudid. When he finally said how terrified he was that his distraction might cost the child’s life, you simply didn’t know what to say. Sitting right next to him, you just melted into his side, resting your head on his jacket and wrapping your arm around his back.
"You lost someone recently, didn't you?" you risked asking. "That must have been some kind of trigger too."
A long silence fell, during which you could easily count his breaths. Two long ones.
"She was a member of our team. And to me, like a sister.”
You were surprised when Spencer gently laughed at those words.
"I still carry it with me," he said, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a small, pocket-sized edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. You’d seen him with that book before. "But I just can't manage to read a single page. I'd really like to, though. I loved that book as a kid."
"I hated reading as a child," You recalled. "My mom loved it. Mostly fantasy; for my sixth birthday, she gave me all of Tolkien’s books. But I preferred the adaptations. I felt like my imagination couldn’t grasp all those beautiful images, I preferred to have them in front of me, on screen. It wasn’t until college that my roommate gave me The Bell Jar. She was obsessed with Sylvia Plath, which, now that I think about it, was incredibly unsettling. Well, you know, considering what happened later. But maybe I’m adding things in. Anyway, that’s when I fell in love with books. The ones that don’t take place in distant, magical worlds, but in gray cities or sad suburbs. About people, happy or less so, with good hearts or complete bastards, as long as they’re realistic."
"Do you have any books left from your mom?" Spencer asked, intrigued. You realized you hadn’t talked about her with anyone in a long time, and certainly not in such detail. Until now, you had considered her an intimate memory, reserved almost exclusively for you.
"I donated them to the library near our place. They’d just gather dust at mine, I don’t know if I could bring myself to reach for them. It’s not even about my dislike for fantasy… I also have two boxes of her clothes hidden in my apartment, I don’t even look at them anymore, let alone wear them. She had a wonderful style. A bit like a fairy. She was a psychologist at my high school, and everyone, literally everyone, told me they envied me for having such a mom."
"You also dress like a fairy," he said, studying you more closely. His gaze slowly traveled over you, starting from the light, ruffled blouse and ending at the heavy martens. He snorted. "Okay, like a fairy who goes to rock concerts in her free time."
"Thank you, that’s the style I’m aiming for,"
"So what’s wrong with your mom’s clothes? From what you’re saying, I gather you had quite a similar taste."
You hesitated to respond, thinking about those unopened boxes in the tiny attic of your apartment. You couldn’t even remember exactly what pieces of clothing were in them. It was just… the thought of wearing any of them for an entire day, at work or in your free time, terrified you. Your brain couldn’t separate the good memories from the destructive ones; you simply couldn’t have anything that reminded you of your mom. All the time.
You noticed Spencer was watching you. His expression was gentle, yet painfully sad.
"It never gets easier, does it?"
You realized he was talking about grief and quickly shook your head. Your words might sound incredibly pessimistic to someone who had recently lost someone.
"No. It does get easier, really," you assured him. "God, that’s probably not what you want to hear right now..."
"I want you to be honest," he asked.
"It gets easier, but it will never get easy. At least not for me. Though maybe it’s because I just haven’t confronted it yet, you know?" You laughed bitterly. "I live in constant denial, and when it gets hard, I put headphones in my ears to stop thinking. And the more time passes, the harder it is to face it.”
"So is that your advice? To accept it as soon as possible?"
"I'm not sure you can give advice on grief, Spencer. It's such an individual thing."
You saw his chest move as he sighed. You both spent some time in silence, as it seemed like you both needed it. Spencer didn’t take his eyes off the cover of Alice in Wonderland. You didn’t take your eyes off him, but your gaze wasn’t fully present, so he didn’t even notice you were staring.
You continued your conversation, and the morning arrived at an incredibly fast pace.
There was some tension accompanying the moment of goodbye, for some reason.
"I just want you to know that now, with all the work I have... I won’t be able to come here. Sometimes, sure, but not every day, no chance," he said, standing in front of you as you both got ready to leave. You threw your leather jacket over your shoulders and froze, your hands clenched tightly around the fabric. You quickly corrected yourself. What did you expect, that every night would look like this?
"I totally understand," you assured him, pretending to sound casual. "But if you need this meeting, you know where to find me. No need to announce it."
He nodded, and for a moment, silence hung between you again. You grabbed the pot with the carnivorous plant and froze, not really wanting to head toward the apartment.
"Or maybe..." Spencer started, clearly unsure of himself. "Maybe we could meet somewhere else. You know, like any other... friends. For dinner or whatever you suggest."
You pressed your lips together, feeling an even tighter knot in your stomach.
"Maybe," you said, in a very weak voice. You knew where this was heading. "But... you’re aware of what my day looks like, right? I’m busy most of the afternoon with work, then I come here for the whole night. At the moment, I’m only available in the morning..."
You didn’t have many friends, nor did you enter into long-term relationships for that very reason. Sometimes you met a fellow night owl, someone with whom you spent some good moments... but it was never forever. You never came across someone for whom the nocturnal lifestyle was a permanent state. Usually, after months or years, they decided they’d had enough of that way of life and tried to cure their insomnia. But you planned to live that way until the grave.
"There are still weekends. Though sometimes I work then too, if a tough case comes up... But let’s not think about that. I’m sure we can figure out how to make it work." You had a strange feeling that Spencer didn’t believe his own words. He swallowed with a kind of desperation. "At least from time to time, because... I really like you."
You really liked him too. But despite the fact that you deeply hoped you could stay in touch, you were aware that it wasn’t a very realistic scenario. You shook your head to stop thinking about it. You grabbed the Venus fly-trap in such a way that you could hug him goodbye. He prolonged the moment, holding you tightly with both arms, and in that gesture, there was... gratitude?
"See you then," he said, barely nodding as he did.
"Soon, I hope," you replied.
He left as you turned to lock the door. You could still feel his strong embrace around your body, and it was as if your body itself was telling you that something was missing.
 It was truly a tough morning return to the apartment.
*
"One more time, what’s the name of that bar?" asked Morgan, who was behind the wheel.
The other matter concerned the murderer targeting female students, with a recurring detail being that each victim had spent the night before their death at the same bar.
“The Tipsy Cow,” Spencer repeated, without a moment’s hesitation.
He was incredibly focused because he had taken Dilaudid. The first dose after a period of abstinence always put him in quite a pleasant state. The following doses, however, brought unwanted effects. After the first one, he didn’t even sweat. When they finished working on the search for that child, he was so stressed about meeting her that he deliberately delayed the moment in order to show up clean again, as if it had never happened. Later, he admitted everything to her anyway, so all the suffering was somewhat pointless when looked at from a broader perspective.
Though he desperately wanted to maintain their relationship... day by day, it became clearer to him that it probably wasn't possible. It was all about time. After a whole day at work, he simply couldn't afford to visit her late at night. Still, he tried to drop by even for an hour. Her mere presence gave him pleasure, the simplest pleasure in the world. He valued their conversations, loved her sometimes chaotic way of speaking, and how attentively she could listen to him. These meetings also motivated him to resist his addiction.
But in the last two weeks... something always came up. December, the end of the year, was always a bit intense.
It seemed to him that she was also drifting away from him a bit. Well, for the past fourteen days and six hours, she hadn’t sent him a single picture of how her flycatcher was growing. He didn’t know if he had done something wrong or if there was some other reason. In any case, the current case was so complicated and shocking that it looked like another week without contact was ahead…
“The Tipsy Cow,” Morgan muttered, shaking his head in disdain. “That’s gonna be the bar with the worst name I’ve ever set foot in. And there have been many.”
“A party animal, huh?”
“I used to be, yeah.”
In recent weeks, Derek had been throwing himself deeper and deeper into work, making it his top priority and always staying late. It was his way of coping with Emily's death. Spencer envied him a little for that. He, on the other hand, was so drained that sometimes, with no real plan... he would scroll through job offers he kept receiving. There were plenty to choose from. But for now, he felt he couldn’t bring himself to leave, even though the thought lingered in the back of his mind.
Together, they stepped into the small bar. The colorful, shifting lights gave the space a slightly club-like vibe, but the crowd inside wasn’t overwhelming. The music wasn’t too loud, and it was easy to move around. The noisiest spot was a small group of men playing pool in the corner, loudly cheering on a brunette in a black jumpsuit.
“We need to talk to the bartenders, find out who was on shift Friday night. Honestly, it’d be best to question everyone,” Morgan said as they approached the bar, where a burly man in a black polo shirt was busy mixing a drink. 
"Hey, man. We need a word with you."
He didn’t even look up at them.
"Order something or don’t. I’m not here for chit-chat..." he trailed off, his expression shifting the moment he saw the badge. "Okayyy. That changes things."
Spencer stood sideways at the bar, arms crossed over his chest. He was more of an observer than an active participant in the conversation, but his focus was sharp, ready to catch any details crucial to the investigation.
“Were you here last Friday, around 9:30 to 11:00 PM?”
The guy leaned against the bar with one arm, chewing gum as he thought about it.
“Nah, on Fridays and weekends, I usually come in later.”
“We need to know who was tending the bar then. This is serious, dude.”
“Damn, someone died?”
Their looks said it all.
At that moment, a petite bartender with light hair emerged from the back, carrying two glass bottles in her hands. Initially, she didn’t look at any of them, seeming a bit detached from her surroundings… Spencer straightened up completely.
 What a damn coincidence.
The bartender addressed her by name.
“You’re here Friday nights, right?” he asked.
The girl, caught off guard, nodded, only now noticing their presence. Her eyes shifted to Morgan, who was closer to her and holding his badge up. The muscles in her face tightened slightly with unease. Her eye makeup was heavier than usual—black with a touch of shimmer in the corners.
Only then did her gaze linger—suspiciously long—on him. Her lower lip parted slightly in surprise. Spencer had no idea if he should acknowledge her. He was keenly aware of how nosy Morgan could be when it came to his personal life, and he’d never mentioned his new acquaintance to anyone on the team—or in his life, for that matter.
Swallowing hard, he felt a slight panic rise, urging him to say something.
“We need to talk to you,” he told her, his tone carefully balanced between serious and gentle.
She seemed uneasy about the FBI’s presence; he could see the stress in her piercing eyes, which hadn’t left him for a second. He felt a sharp urge to reassure her, to tell her not to worry.
“But don’t stress—it’s just a few questions,” he added, his voice softening.
When he turned his head, he noticed Morgan watching him intently. He avoided his gaze at all costs, pretending to be at ease.
“Was anyone else working with you that night?” Morgan asked.
“Peter,” she replied. “But he’s on leave right now. His girlfriend just had a baby. A boy. Not that it’s any of your business,” she added quickly. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure I have his number somewhere if you need it…”
She began hurriedly searching her pockets, tugging at the fabric of her black jeans. She was also wearing a dark purple blouse tied at the waist, with a deep lace-trimmed neckline and wide, flared sleeves that didn’t seem particularly practical for bartending.
“You can give it to us later,” Derek reassured her. “What we really need are the details. I want you to try to remember everything that happened that evening. If you can’t, because it’s too loud here… Reid, maybe you two can head to the back?”
There was a faint, sly glint in his eyes. Did he… figure it out?
Derek shifted his gaze to the gum-chewing bartender. “And I’ll have a chat with you.”
Spencer let her lead him to the small back room. He turned to close the door and, when he faced her again, noticed her raised eyebrows and the faint smile playing on her lips.
“Coming to work today, this was the last thing I expected,” she chuckled.
Spencer smiled slightly as well. “It’s been a while. You look good—like you’re sleeping better. Does your partner know we know each other, or are we sneaking around like we’re in some kind of movie?”
“He doesn’t,” he replied, quickly adding, “But of course, it’s not a secret. And the fact that we know each other has no impact on the investigation. By the way… I really like your blouse.”
She raised her arms, showing off the flared sleeves, clearly pleased he’d noticed.
“Guess where I got it,” she said, and without waiting for his attempt, revealed, “It’s my mom’s”
He clearly remembered their conversation on the topic, so he tilted his head with a smile.
“I’m glad you finally pushed through,” he said quietly. He, too, had something to share. “As for me… a few days ago, I started reading Alice in Wonderland. I’m not sure if you remember…”
“The edition you got from your friend? Of course, I remember. That’s good news. Are you feeling better?”
He scratched his nose, unsure of what to say. It had been hard for him to identify his state lately; things were stable, maybe even better, if not for the fact that he had gone back to taking Dilaudid.
“And how’s Steven?” he asked, referring to the flycatcher they had named together some time ago.
“He’s good. The kid I sometimes look after stuck his fingers inside recently, and she bit him. I got a little scared that his mom might sue, but it turns out she doesn’t hurt people,” she said, but then straightened up suddenly. “Wait, here we are chatting, and I think you were supposed to be questioning me.”
Spencer immediately caught himself.
“Yeah, right. So, I’d like you to close your eyes, okay?”
She followed his instructions, responding to his quiet and focused tone. He needed her to recall everything that had happened that evening, to bring back any memories that could help them catch the unsub. As her eyelids lowered, she took a step closer. Suddenly, the room seemed even smaller than it was, as if the walls were trying to pull them together, closing in. Spencer lowered his voice further, causing her face to twitch slightly.
The last time they had been this close, they had accidentally found themselves too near. Her gaze had dropped to his lips, she sighed, and kissed him. He had been caught off guard, unsure of what to say, and she... acted like nothing had happened. He felt the gradual distance between them, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He didn't even allow himself to acknowledge how often he thought about that kiss. In fact, it had been the only thing on his mind since they entered this room and stood face-to-face once again. At the same time, her expression and behavior suggested as if nothing had ever happened. She always had a more relaxed attitude toward touch than he did, but the kiss must have meant something to her, especially since she had initiated it, right?
Not knowing what the hell he was doing, he brought his head closer to hers. He didn’t touch her, just froze in place, very close to her face. She had already said everything she knew, he’d gathered some valuable information, but still, she didn’t open her eyes. Was she aware of how close he’d gotten? Could she feel his presence right next to her?
He had no intention of getting closer to her; they were both at work. It was just… he’d been overcome by temptation and was curious about her reaction. But he quickly withdrew and cleared his throat quietly.
“That’s it. You can open your eyes,” he issued the final command. He knew it looked awkward, scratching the back of his neck, but he couldn’t help it. “Thanks a lot for your help. I think this could be important for the investigation.”
“I hope so,” she said, sadly. “They were… innocent girls. I can’t believe this man just comes here so casually now.”
“You never know what the other person is hiding,” he remarked, feeling a sudden tightening of concern in his chest. They had already left the back room and were approaching the bar where Morgan was still talking to the bartender. He slowed his pace. “Be careful when you walk alone at night, okay?”
“Am I in danger?” Worry flashed across her face.
“From this particular killer? Well… you’re not his type. But he’s not the only person with bad intentions in the world. Just be careful, please.”
She nodded, looking him in the eyes.
“For the first time, I’m glad I’m not anyone’s type,” she added after a moment, breaking the seriousness of the situation. Spencer held back a chuckle. Morgan glanced their way briefly. “Goodbye, agent.”
“Goodbye,” he replied with a short grunt. He wanted to ask if they would see each other again soon, but he knew it was highly unlikely, especially while they were focused on their work.
He never thought any relationship he had with a woman would be tested by something as mundane as differing daily rhythms. Still, he intended to hold on to the hope that it might work. Maybe something would change soon?
A sly grin tugged at Morgan’s lips as they walked back to the car.
“She caught your eye, didn’t she?” he teased.
Spencer looked at him, feigning pity.
“I’m a professional. I don’t get distracted at work.”
“Should I remind you how…”
The faint, really faint trace of a blush on Spencer's cheeks prompted Morgan to burst into laughter.
*
The owner of the room across from the library called, asking that you not come that night. Apparently, there was a meeting planned that would stretch into the early hours.
You had become so accustomed to your routine that, when you returned to your apartment from the bar, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Jude was getting ready for work; you exchanged just a few words before she left. So, you laid down on the couch with your laptop on your stomach, unbuttoning your pants for comfort as you lazily read a book review online.
Your gaze kept drifting between the screen and the flycatcher sitting on the coffee table
Earlier, you had thought about Spencer a lot, but more out of concern or curiosity. Since your encounter at the bar, however, those thoughts had shifted in another direction. He was literally occupying more space in your mind. At random moments, you even found yourself catching his scent—the same one you had noticed when he was so close.
You kissed him because you wanted to. Simple explanation. If it were up to you, you would have gone even further. But you knew that wouldn’t be good for either of you. You were already starting to grow attached, and it hurt to realize how little future you could see in your potential relationship. Potential relationship. You were imagining too much.
You closed your laptop with a resigned sigh and got off the couch. Jude was at work, Spencer was probably either working or already in bed, and the rest of your friends might not appreciate you suddenly reaching out after months of silence. But just because you were alone didn’t mean you couldn’t have fun on your own, right? You hadn’t gone out in ages. You were in the mood to dance, to have some fun, to meet someone new—a wild girl or guy for just one night, then forget about them completely. You needed that. Lately, there had been so much tension inside you.
So, you spent an hour in front of the mirror, touching up your makeup and thinking about which shoes would go best with your black mini dress. It wasn’t just any black dress—that would be boring. This one had short sleeves, exposed shoulders, and a subtle, astronomical pattern with a delicate sheen.
You left the apartment barefoot, holding your heels in your hand. The stairs in your building were too steep to navigate in those shoes. On the way, you threw a jacket over your shoulders, heading to a club you and Jude had been to before, where you both loved the atmosphere. It was there that you met a group of five friends who pulled you into their circle even though they didn’t know you, and the whole night felt like it lasted only a minute. Jude still kept in touch with a few of them. You were hoping for a similar adventure.
You didn’t drink much when you went out alone for safety reasons. You quickly found yourself lost in the rhythm of the club’s music, dancing with strangers and clearing your mind in the midst of the chaos. Hours passed, and someone tried to kiss you, pulling you into a tight embrace, but you couldn’t feel it. It didn’t bring you any pleasure, yet you had a twisted feeling that it would’ve been different if it had been someone else…
You stepped outside to get some fresh air. Your cheeks were likely flushed from both the dancing and the stuffy atmosphere inside.
The phone rang. Jude?
"Hey, girl," she said, her voice clearly worried. "Are you home?"
"I went out to the city," you replied, feeling uneasy. "Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing... it's just that the neighbor called me saying Richard is hanging around our door again. Be careful, okay? You know, you never know what might go through his head. And we don't even know if he's sober. At this hour, probably not."
You clenched your lips. The December chill hurt like knives, it was almost three in the morning, and you hadn’t planned on staying out until dawn. From the start, you intended to head back early, maybe relax in front of the TV for a bit, and perhaps even try to sleep, since nothing else seemed more appealing. Of course, you weren’t angry at Jude; it wasn’t her fault that her ex turned out to be a psycho.
"Thanks for telling me. Don’t worry, I’m not going back to the apartment for now."
Your roommate hung up, as she had to return to work. You stood there facing a dilemma. Should you go back to the club? You felt too drained to dance, and sitting alone in a corner seemed incredibly boring.
Maybe it was that one drink you had, but your legs seemed to take you in a certain direction.
You weren’t sure if Spencer was even home. But if you had nothing else to do, why not check? A short walk. You were a little desperate, after all, you didn’t have anywhere else to go. That’s how you justified it. You were going to him because you had no other option.
He opened the door, dressed in a wrinkled shirt, trousers, and a tie loosely hanging around his neck. His hair was in disarray, and you felt an urge to run your fingers through it and style it the way you wanted, but it would’ve been awkward.
"Hey. Am I interrupting?"
Surprised, Spencer shook his head.
"No... Actually, I was asleep."
"In those clothes?"
"I fell asleep while reading..." he explained, trailing off when he noticed your appearance. To put it modestly, you looked incredibly hot. For a long moment, his gaze lingered on your dress, visible beneath the open jacket and ending high on your thigh. "Very... nice dress. Is it... is it your mom's too?"
You chuckled.
"Can you imagine my mom, a school psychologist, in a dress covering half her ass?"
Embarrassed, Spencer raised his hands in apology and also chuckled softly.
"Sorry, I'm still half-asleep. Anyway... is there something wrong that you're here?"
"My mentally unstable ex-boyfriend of my roommate is lurking under our apartment.” You confessed bluntly “I'm a little scared to go back, and... I didn't know where else I could go."
It seemed like he was suddenly waking up quickly. He swung the door wide open, letting you in.
"Of course, come in. Is he dangerous?"
"He shows up every now and then and then disappears. It's like a lottery. Jude doesn't want to ever see him again, so we just pretend we're not here when it happens."
The inside looked just as you remembered. The lights were off everywhere except the bedroom, where he was probably reading. You allowed yourself to take off your uncomfortable shoes and set them by the door.
"Why don't you report it to the police?" His forehead furrowed with concern.
"Jude doesn't want to. And I don't want to do anything against her will. But I swear, if this happens again, I'll convince her. Or I'll do it myself."
"You should," he said, and suddenly a silence fell between you.
You weren't sure how to act. You'd barged in on him in the middle of the night, pulling him from his sleep. Not to mention, you hadn't seen each other since that conversation at the bar.
"Let me take your jacket," he said after a moment, as if remembering how to behave when hosting a guest.
You slowly took it off, revealing the full dress. Spencer momentarily let his gaze linger on it, but then he caught himself and turned away to hang your jacket. The glance didn't embarrass you in the slightest; if anything, you expected to catch him looking.
"Sorry if I woke you," you said, realizing you should probably apologize. It was only then that you began to feel a little awkward about the situation.
"You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault. And I'm glad I can help," he said, and once again, silence settled between you. Spencer placed his hand on his forehead as he realized you were still standing in the hallway. "Sorry, it's been a long time since anyone's visited, and I don't even know how to act... Do you want something to drink, or need anything?"
"I’m fine," you assured him, walking behind him into the living room. "I don't want you to act like I'm some important guest, Spencer. Or like you need to serve me."
"But you are an important guest," he replied.
A warm, gentle smile appeared on your lips.
"What were you reading?" you asked, leaning your lower back against the kitchen island, the two rooms connected as one. You glanced around the cozy interior, in soft, almost warm hues, where the darkness of the night blended with the orange light of the lamp. "Let me guess, some spine-chilling thriller?"
"I have spine-chilling thrillers every day at work," he snorted. "I was reading... Emma. Jane Austen."
Your eyebrows shot up.
"You fell asleep reading classic literature on a Friday night? Spencer Reid, what kind of man are you?"
"In a good way or a bad way?"
He stood across from you, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. Your eyes lingered on the first few undone buttons of his shirt.
"Of course, in a good way. Why would I judge someone for reading?"
"I don’t know," he shrugged. "Some people think it’s boring. And weird, especially on a Friday night. And what about you? What were you doing before your roommate’s ex showed up?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes as he nodded meaningfully toward your outfit. "Were you reading too?"
You lifted your chin high.
"Exactly. I was reading my favorite Shakespearean drama in my favorite dress. And those incredibly comfortable shoes I left by your door."
"That goes without saying."
"I definitely wasn’t at any club."
"I wouldn’t even suspect you of that."
"I was doing what any God-fearing virgin would do," you said, bursting into laughter at the absurdity. "Alright, alright. I’m getting carried away. Now I actually feel like reading something. But nothing too classic—I don’t have the brainpower for it. Do you happen to have any romance novels?"
I'm afraid not."
"Really? You have more books in your home than the library in my hometown, and not a single romance? I’m not talking about dark erotica or anything—just something subtle. Friends to lovers, polite sex..."
Spencer choked on a laugh.
"Sorry, but are you drunk?"
You were just horny. 
"Not a drop of alcohol has touched my lips. I'm just hyperactive. That’s what the night does to me."
"Yeah, I can see that."
"So? Aren't you hiding any sinful books in there?"
He rolled his eyes, clearly amused rather than annoyed by your persistence.
"You're welcome to look," he offered, gesturing toward one of the shelves. "But I’m not promising you’ll find anything like that."
"But if I do, you owe me a drink."
“And if it turns out I’m right, then what?”
You bit your lip, pondering. 
“I’ll figure something out.”
“You know, I won’t enter a bet unless I know what I get in return.”
“And what do you want?”
“A dinner together,” he replied without hesitation. “Or breakfast, if you prefer.”
“Deal,” you answered just as quickly. You weren’t worried about regretting it—your blood was buzzing too much for that.
He extended his hand for you to shake on it, sealing the deal. Instead of letting go, you held onto his fingers firmly and tugged him toward the bookshelf. He stood so close as you examined the books one by one, taking some out to inspect their covers to see if they suggested any hint of romance. When they didn’t, he let out a short laugh, his breath brushing against your neck and sending a shiver down your spine. You didn’t let it show.
“Spencer…” you started after a while, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “It counts if the book has a romantic subplot, right?”
“No, it doesn’t count! We agreed on a romance. A full-fledged, contemporary one.”
“We didn’t say contemporary.”
“I assumed it was implied since I mentioned owning Jane Austen books. Pride and Prejudice is a romance, among other things…”
“Ha! So you do have one. I won!” You raised your hands high in victory.
“…But it’s also a social and domestic novel. Doesn’t count.”
You poked him in the chest with your finger. “You don’t know how to lose.”
He glanced at the spot where you touched him, clearly trying not to smile.
“Maybe I just care a lot about that dinner,” he admitted boldly.
You didn’t know what to say. You tried to look at him confidently, but it was hard to think and maintain eye contact with him at the same time.
“Or breakfast,” you murmured.
“Or breakfast,” he agreed. Realizing how close he was standing, he instinctively stepped back half a pace. “So, are you ready to admit my victory?”
You shot him a defiant look.
“Not a chance. I haven’t even checked all the books yet. I’m only about three-quarters through. Who knows what kind of BDSM might be lurking in the last quarter?”
“Seriously?” he asked with a sigh. “Okay, just look at me. Do I seem like the kind of guy who reads stuff like that?”
“Honestly, you look like the kind of guy who reads encyclopedias. But the one thing I know about people is that appearances can be deceiving. Still waters run deep.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
“You’re as stubborn as they come.”
“Maybe I just really want that drink,” you teased.
“I can make you one,” he offered unexpectedly.
“Seriously?” The suggestion caught you off guard.
Spencer shrugged casually.
“I don’t drink much, but some friends gave me a few bottles for my birthday.”
You hesitated, considering.
“I’m not really in the mood,” you admitted. You felt good, even without alcohol. “But I do have another request… Do you happen to have something I could change into? I won’t lie, this isn’t the most comfortable dress… though it’s absolutely stunning.”
He smiled softly.
"You’re right. And yes, I’ll find something for you to change into. Just… it’ll be something of mine."
Following him into the bedroom, you let out a small chuckle.
"You know, I didn’t expect you to have a closet full of women’s clothes. Plus, in my size. Although, who knows what girls leave behind at your place. It’s a tactic, you know? You leave a sock at a guy’s place to have an excuse to come back. Unless you didn’t like it, then you have to accept losing the sock."
He didn’t say anything, opening the wardrobe to find something appropriate for you. You’d been in his bedroom before and didn’t feel the need to look around; nothing had changed inside.
"Do you do this often?" he asked, inspecting a t-shirt. "Use the sock strategy?"
"No," you replied, shrugging. "I’m too straightforward for that. If I like it, I just go back and say 'Let’s do it again' Or I don’t leave at all. I’m a bit of a parasite too."
He chuckled at the comparison and finally handed you some clothes. You didn’t really look at them; you just needed something looser, something you hadn’t danced in for hours at the club.
"You know where the bathroom is, right?"
You confirmed and were about to head in that direction when you stopped.
"Wait," you said, turning back toward him. But then, you turned again, facing him with your back. "The zipper on the dress," you explained, pulling your hair to the front. "I could manage it myself, but I don’t want to risk breaking it. Could you…?"
"Y-yeah," he agreed after a moment, stepping closer.
He stood just behind you, reaching for the top of your back. Before he pulled the zipper down, there was a moment where he simply paused, unmoving. Your knees suddenly trembled, almost impatiently. Then, he tugged at the zipper, unfastening the dress, and the coolness and freedom teased your skin.
You could have said thank you and headed to the bathroom, but you didn’t. Something kept your body rooted in place, right there next to him, feeling the pads of his fingers on the lower part of your dress.
Even his breath, louder and irregular.
When you began to, slightly disappointed, assume that he wouldn’t do anything more, his lips found a spot on your neck, kissing it slowly. You inhaled deeply, your head instinctively tilting back, giving him more access, as if you had been waiting for just that.  He stopped for a longer time in this specific place, pressing on it harder, as you barely hold a groan. 
Your breath was given a free rollercoaster ride.
You reached your hand back, wrapping it around his head and pulling him closer to you. You felt him sigh directly into your skin, leaving another two hungry kisses on an exposed skin on your shoulder. God, why were you still wearing that dress?
You abruptly stopped, turning around and almost hitting the top of your head against his jaw. You didn't care about it, and the thought of apologizing never crossed your mind, just simply pushed him, planting a strong kiss right on his lips.
The clothes he gave you slipped from your hand and fell to the floor, but neither of you were concerned about it, as you were both too absorbed to care. You pushed him again, this time onto the bed, on which he sat, surprised by your suddenness. You saw red marks creeping onto the parts of the neck exposed by the undone shirt. 
"Spencer, Spencer, Spencer," you said, shaking your head in a mock reprimand. He tilted his head to the side, unsure of where you were going with this, his fingers impatiently brushing your waist on both sides. "You lied to me."
Your hands grabbed his face, positioning just under his jaw and lifting it upward so you could find his lips right against yours. 
“I lied to you?”
"“That's right. You said you don't read romances. But tell me, how does someone who doesn't do that know such practices?”
“Practices?” he repeated again, surprised."
His gaze was focused solely on your lips to which he tried to get closer, but you hadn't allowed him to yet. 
"This whole unbuttoning of the dress. And then, the neck”
With your index finger, you traced along the skin on his neck
“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. He removed one hand from your waist and took your hand, the one you had been playing with.
“Did I like it?” you scoffed with a genuine laugh.“I’m like half naked now. Answer that for yourself”
Undressing was the element you hated the most. You became impatient and couldn't understand why your clothes couldn't just disappear from you, instead of threatening to burn your already overheated skin. Spencer didn't help, so slow in his movements. You had a feeling he was doing it on purpose. He probably enjoyed watching you struggle to untangle yourself from the dress. He waited a minute before helping you, effortlessly pulling it over your head.
Maybe slow wasn't the most accurate description.The way he touched his body wasn’t slow. It was like rationing a treat, breaking it into small pieces and savoring them one by one. Meanwhile, it gazed straight into your mouth, shouting, eat me!
It required incredible self-control and composure, but it resulted in something more than just pleasure. When he found himself right between your legs, his lips touching gently every single inch of your thigh and refusing to go further despite your pleas, you compared him to the previous guys you slept with. With them, on the other hand, you had to tell them to slow down, to do everything more carefully, and not to focus solely on their own needs.
“Does it feel right?” He asked, briefly lifting his gaze, his hands gripping your thighs.
Your back arched, probably enough of an answer, but you confirmed it with a soft moan.
"I'd rather you said it out loud. Does it feel right?"
"That's edging on sadism, do you realize that?" you whimpered, trying to release the tension by pulling at his hair.
He stopped again.
"Please, do it again."
It wasn't something he had to beg for.
The rest went similarly. You liked how his confidence and courage grew, but you also went wild when, at certain moments, the same gentle and sometimes awkward Spencer returned. It was a perfectly balanced mix.
"Can you talk to me more?" he asked over time, once he was already inside you. "I want to know how you feel about all of this." After those words, your forehead twitched slightly as you felt the onset of pain. "Does it hurt?"
"No," you whispered, accompanied by a faintly tired exhale.”A little. But it's normal I just didn't have sex for a while”
"No, it shouldn't hurt you. Do you want to stop?"
"Just... give me a moment."
He slowed down, almost stopping. You took a breath,pressing your forehead to his. You stayed like that for a moment, neither of you in a hurry. After all, where to? Outside, the night still reigned, long and patient, winter’s grip holding steady. You liked having his face so close to yours, joining them together and not speaking. For the first time, you could truly say that you enjoyed the silence.
You had always considered silence overwhelming, incapable of calming the chaos that arose in your mind. You preferred moments of wildness, loud sounds, and fast pace, but it was in that silence, which fell then, that you found a peace filled with intimacy.
You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck.
"It's okay, I'm ready."
After everything, you simply lay facing each other, tangled in one another. Actually, you didn’t like that expression "after everything." After everything—after what exactly? Sex wasn’t just about the physical act; it also included the long moment before and the even more significant one after. It was precisely that moment after which revealed the true you both. How much you cared for each other and how much you meant to each other beyond the bed. That was often missing in one-night stands; the perspective of quickly disappearing from each other's lives and being forgotten somehow intensified selfishness in people.
Lying there, you played with the hair on his forehead.
"You know, they say this is the moment when people are the most honest with each other."
"Do you want to squeeze a few secrets out of me?" he asked.
"Just one," you said mysteriously, turning onto your back. Before that, you noticed his eyebrows furrow.
He propped himself up on his elbow to look at you again.
"Which one?"
You pretended to hesitate before answering. You tried with all your might to keep the smile from appearing on your face, betraying you.
"I'm afraid that even now, you won't be honest with me."
"I'm starting to get worried."
"I'll tell you, but you have to promise to tell the truth. Give me your pinky."
"What?"
"A pinky promise, you fool."
“O-okay” 
Clearly surprised, he did what you asked.
"Now tell me the truth. You got any romance books at your place you're too embarrassed to admit to?"
He rolled his eyes.
"I'll find them," you teased. "I’ll get up right now and find them."
You pretended to get up, but he pulled you closer, preventing you from moving.
"You're not going anywhere."
*
You fell asleep.  
Asleep. At night.  
Completely normal for any other person, but for you...? The shock made your heart beat faster, painfully colliding with your chest. The blanket slid off your shoulders as you sat up.  
Spencer sighed in his sleep, the kind of breath that often heralds waking, but not this time. He was still deep in slumber, lying on his stomach, his face turned toward you. Falling asleep next to each other after sex had always seemed a bit... cliché to you. Pulled straight from the movies. It looked pleasant on screen and spared the viewer the awkward scene of putting on clothes that had been scattered across the floor in a frenzy of passion just moments earlier. In reality, who had time for that?  
For you, someone who had been struggling with sleep issues for years, it was usually just lying in bed next to a guy sleeping soundly, feeling bored. A sign it was time to get up and leave.  
You’d planned to spend the night at Spencer’s place from the start. Well, maybe not specifically in the same bed, but as his... guest. Because of Richard, of course. So when he fell asleep mid-conversation, you didn’t have many options on where to go. Besides, you didn’t want to leave. It was nice lying next to him; his face looked so innocent in sleep. You had thought about quietly grabbing a book or reaching for one of the ones in the bedroom, but that would probably wake him up. So you rested your head back on the pillow and watched him. At some point, without realizing it, your eyelids grew heavy.  
It was a very early hour, or so the clock on the nightstand claimed. It felt unreal to you. Usually, at this time, you were sitting in an empty room, waiting for some lonely soul desperate for a conversation to walk in. 
For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, but... it would hurt if it didn’t work out. You’d lose a friend and confidant. A man who had come to you at his lowest point and decided to trust you, making you feel special. Someone who understood you, made you laugh, and had even given you a Venus flytrap. On top of that, he had an excellent taste in books, an incredible intellect, and, to be completely fair, was very good in bed.
Well, running away wasn’t an option anymore. You knew that when Spencer woke up, you’d have two choices: pretend nothing happened again, or have a conversation. You were both adults, so it was only reasonable to expect you’d choose the latter
You knew you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. It was an anomaly, one that wouldn’t repeat itself. Still, you wanted to let him sleep peacefully, feeling guilty for disrupting his night by barging into his apartment. Before finding a comfortable position by his side, ready to lie there for an hour or two, you glanced one last time at the clock—and something caught your attention.
“Spencer,” you said softly, not wanting to wake him too abruptly. It didn’t work, so you gently shook his bare shoulder. “Spencer, your phone.”
It must have been silent, but you could clearly see an incoming call displayed on the screen.
At the word phone, he reacted as if it were a blaring alarm. He bolted upright, still half-asleep, and pressed the device to his ear.
“Hotch?” he asked, his voice rough and groggy, sounding almost like a cough. He listened to the person on the other end, rubbing his face with one hand to wake himself up, then sighing heavily as he ran that same hand through his hair.
"I’ll be there in an hour," he said, his tone laced with clear reluctance but also an undeniable sense of duty. When the call ended, he turned to you over his shoulder. The expression on his face softened.
"Hey," he said gently.
"A new case?" you guessed, trying not to let it show how much you didn’t want him to leave. After all, it was what it was—his work was far more needed by the world than by you in bed.
"We’ve been working on it for a while, and there’s been some kind of breakthrough... I’m really sorry. I feel bad, leaving like this," 
"Spencer, I understand. It must be something important. Go, and don’t worry about me. I’ll get myself together and head back home soon..."
"And what about your roommate’s ex?" he interrupted, giving a slight shake of his head. "You don’t know if he’s gone yet. You shouldn’t be going back alone."
"It’s Richard. He’s a very impatient motherfucker. He’s probably already gone," you replied.
"You don’t know that."
"So, what are you going to do?" you scoffed. "Take me there by the hand?"
Spencer was silent for a moment, looking at you as if the answer was obvious.
"Just stay here,"
His suggestion made you raise an eyebrow. Spencer shrugged.
“Well, what? It’s barely five in the morning. I don’t want to kick you out this early just because I got a call from work.”
"Kick me out?" you chuckled, causing him to look at you with a slightly puzzled expression. At the same time, he was heading toward the wardrobe, realizing he didn’t have much time and should start getting dressed. "If you call this kicking someone out, then I don’t even have a word for how other guys behave. By the way, could you hand me, I don’t know, a sweater or something?"
The apartment had a pleasant temperature, but you still had an overwhelming urge to wrap yourself in something warm and soft. The only piece of clothing you had with you was a short-sleeved dress. And a jacket, but that didn’t really count.
"In that case..." Spencer began, rummaging through the clothes in his wardrobe, his brow slightly furrowed as if he were seriously contemplating his choice. He didn’t seem amused by your earlier joke—in fact, he looked surprisingly focused.
His fingers finally stopped on one of the hangers. He pulled something out and turned toward you with a faint smile.
"I'm tremendously proud that I don't fall into the category of those other guys. You like purple, right?" he added, holding up a sweater in a deep plum shade.
"I meant just any piece of clothing. But yes, I do like purple," you said, stretching your hands out in front of you, encouraging him to toss you the sweater.
Instead of throwing it, he stepped closer to you. At first, you didn’t understand what he was doing, especially when he stopped right in front of you, still holding the sweater in his hands.
It dawned on you a moment later, and you burst into laughter, raising your arms up so he could slide it over your head. The sweater draped over your body, proving to be slightly oversized. The V-shaped neckline awkwardly settled on your shoulder, slipping down and leaving it exposed.
Spencer, almost mechanically and with focus, slid his hands under the fabric to free your hair that was tangled beneath it. After probably half the night in the club and the second half spent in bed, it probably resembled a huge mess of hay, but you weren’t particularly concerned about it. It only just occurred to you that he had to leave soon, and knowing his work and the constant impossibility of syncing your schedules, you might not see each other again until the next few days.
"I’d like to talk to you," Spencer suddenly said, almost as if he had to force the words out, quietly taking a breath. "About all of this. About us. We don’t really have time for it now, but as soon as I get back, I’ll make sure to meet you. No matter what time it is or how tired I am, okay?"
You wanted to comment on the last part of his words, the bit about being tired, assuring him that you weren’t asking for that from him, but something in his gaze stopped you. It was funny how his eyes were both sleepy and lively at the same time. His dark iris blended with his dilated pupil, the boundary between them fading, making them almost hypnotic.
"So, are you staying here?" he asked.
A delicate smile passed over your face.
"I see this means a lot to you. Aren’t you afraid I’ll start digging through your books?" "All of them are at your disposal," he reassured, also lifting the corners of his mouth slightly.
However, suddenly his expression darkened, as if some spell had been cast, taking away all his confidence. For a long moment, he stayed silent, and you tilted your head in confusion.
"Can... can I kiss you?" he finally asked.
"Do I need to remind you that we already slept together?"
"Well..."
Whatever he was about to say, you simply cupped his neck with your hand, pulling him closer. A sweet, shallow, slightly long —a typical farewell kiss.
He had already mostly dressed, with only the task of crouching down by the nightstand left, to open the safe inside. You knew he kept his gun and badge there. You tried not to look in his direction while he entered the code, just as common decency dictated looking away when someone unlocks their phone. But still, you noticed how his fingers trembled slightly.
When he left, you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. If you were anyone else, you would’ve hidden under the blanket, absorbing the scent of both of you, sinking into an incredibly peaceful sleep. However, you were aware that wouldn’t happen. You pulled a pillow under your head, lost in thought, haunted by some strange unease.
You spent a long time simply wandering around the apartment, unable to help the fact that you were one of those people who got bored quickly. Jude had just returned, you thought, as the clock struck eight. The main trait of her ex was unpredictability, but even he followed certain patterns and routines in life. He didn’t show up that early because he knew she was still asleep. He preferred to knock on the door at noon and bother her during her free time.
You started getting ready before you even made a decision. First, you made the bed, then undressed again to slip back into the dress. On top, you put Spencer’s sweater, for some unknown reason not wanting to part with it. Was this some sort of reversed sock strategy? Were you taking his clothes instead of leaving them behind?
An impulse shot through your body as you stood by the door. Not even knowing what you were doing, you simply returned to the bedroom, falling to your knees in front of the, as it turned out, unopened safe.
Spencer hadn’t emptied it completely. Inside was a dose of Dilaudid, the reason his hands had been trembling earlier.
An unexpected wave of guilt hit you with force. Recently, you hadn’t brought up the topic with him at all, assuming that if he needed to talk about it and was ready to, he would bring it up himself. But that’s not how people in addiction found themselves. They could deny it to the very end, doing anything to avoid seeking help.
You wiped your face with your hand. Should you even confront him about it when you saw him again? Well, the answer was probably yes, but the real question was how.
You came up with the idea of perhaps arranging a night in your room across from the library. That place had an oddly polite way of encouraging people to be honest, without making them feel like information was being extracted from them forcefully. You had been considering this on your way back. The heels were rubbing your feet, and after the night in the club, you had a few blisters. Before entering the building where you lived, you simply took them off, not wanting to risk your life on those steep stairs. Jude had sprained her wrist on them once, and thank God it was just her wrist.
Completely lost in your thoughts, in their aggressive waterfall, you didn’t even notice someone sitting right by the door to your apartment, leaning against it with their back. You jumped in surprise when Richard sprang to his feet.
Shit.
"Hey!" he exclaimed, clearly happy to see you. You cautiously stepped back a step, likely balancing on the edge of the stairs. You didn’t turn around, nervously glancing at the man. "Hey, do you remember me? You're Jude's roommate, right? You definitely remember me."
"I remember," you admitted uncertainty, holding yourself back from taking another step backward. Richard always had that dangerously unpredictable energy. One moment, he could circle around his girlfriend like an attention-hungry kitten, and the next, he’d be throwing plates in the kitchen. Although, theoretically, he had no reason to hurt you, you preferred to remain... cautious.
"That's great. Listen, could you let me in for just a second? I need to talk to her."
You didn’t know what to say, how to act. Of course, letting him in was out of the question; you wouldn’t do that to your friend. However, you knew that as soon as you opened the door, he’d take advantage of the opportunity and force his way inside. You could step back… the real question was whether he would let you.
"Come on..." he pleaded, trying to make a puppy-dog face, which looked downright comical on his stern face. "Please, she doesn’t want to see me. I just want to talk, to make things right. I’ve changed, really. I don’t know what she told you about me, but half of it probably wasn’t even true. Please."
Seeing that you still weren’t moving, his features suddenly hardened.
"Just open the door."
You didn’t respond.
"Where’s your key?"
He probably guessed it was in your jacket pocket, and suddenly reached for you.
"Move away, right now!" you hissed, pushing his hand away.
He grabbed your wrist so tightly that a strangled cry of pain escaped you.
You started struggling. You tried to push him away as he rummaged through your pockets one by one, still gripping your hand tightly, preventing you from escaping. A few times, you struck him with a clenched fist, shouting loudly, hoping to wake Jude or one of the neighbors.
Your attempts at defense were in vain. No one came. Richard finally found the key, and once he got what he wanted, he shoved you aside with a scoff.
You didn’t even have a chance to try to regain your balance.
It happened so quickly that you didn’t even manage to close your eyes, fooling yourself into thinking it might protect you from the pain to come. During the struggle with Richard, you dropped the shoes you were holding, your bare feet slipping off the edge of the step. Your body followed, limp, like a rag doll. In that moment, you wished you were one. Without bones, the sound of them cracking filling your ears.
Without limbs, vulnerable to breaks.
Without real eyes, still covered in the remnants of party makeup.
Beautiful, cold, and empty, as they started to fill with fog.
Forced to look in the direction your neck had twisted.
Dead. 
tagging: @lillaberry @nightfullofparadox @issy25 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @reidmarieprentiss @miriamnox @bloodredrubyrose
i'm so grateful for how many of you wanted to read it all <3
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