#pitying the backseat | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cthulhus-curse · 4 months ago

Text

Cherry Waves

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 10,079

Warnings: Milf!Stripper!Wanda Maximoff, Teacher!Reader, Smut, Fluff | 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: In which you meet the woman of your dreams in the most unexpected of places before a romance between the two of you blossoms.

The sight of yellow vehicles alongside bouts of snow and bleak, barely tended-to outer walls were triggers of disgust. They were constant reminders of a previous life filled with animosity, a time where the priority was survival, not living. Once as a child there was not much to cling to, ostracized and forgotten by peers who pitied faced experiences. Upon growing up, her life didn’t change for the better, but mostly the worst.

“Drop-off is right here, mom.”

At the sound of the small voice, Wanda shook her head. Her hands loosed over her steering wheel she didn’t know she held onto with mighty fury. “Thank you, honey. I almost missed it.”

“Are you okay?” One of the twins, the eldest by only minutes – Tommy – frowned at her words. “You look really tired today. When you dropped us off at dad’s earlier yesterday I thought you’d be sleeping a lot more. You gotta take care of yourself too, mom.”

“I know, sweetheart, thank you,” Wanda beamed at his words, bags hiding beneath messy makeup from the previous night underneath her eyes. Eyeing her twins from the rearview mirror, she couldn’t help but bask in the loving, short moments the three of them had. “Now it’s time to go to class, boys. I don’t want you to be late again.”

At his mother’s words, Billy grimaced. “Oh about that…”

“Yes?” Wanda didn’t miss the hesitation, raising her eyebrows and crossing her arms upon her chest, small ounces of glitter hiding under her hoodie. “What’s wrong? Come on, you have about thirty seconds to spit it out.”

“Ourhomeroomteacherwantstotalktoyouaboutourtardiness,” Billy rambled. He didn’t wish to stay back, instead hastily opening the door of the backseat of the car before throwing himself out. “Bye, ma. Have a good day, love you!”

Albeit surprising, Wanda couldn’t help the way the ends of her mouth rose at the action. She turned to Tommy who broke out into a fit of laughter, following his brother’s steps as he slid out of the car with a patience much like his father’s.

“He said that our homeroom teacher wanted to have a meeting with you. We’ve been late a bunch of times. I tried explaining myself, but not even the principal was having it,” Tommy shrugged. “Now I get why you don’t like Mrs. Potts.”

The reason was much deeper than that. During her adolescence it was Pepper who made it her focus to continuously pick on Wanda through high school, even up until graduation day. Although the elementary school principal found it to be water under the bridge, each time she was forced to see the woman, Wanda found herself holding onto a constant reminder of her torture.

“I’ll take care of it, sweetie. You just go in and have a good day at school,” Wanda forced an exhausted smirk. “I’ll call later today and set up a meeting. And please make sure your brother eats his lunch, all of it. You don’t have to eat his veggies just to cover for him. Now go, honey, or else you’ll be late once again.”

Unlike his brother, Tommy took the time leaning in and wrapping his arms around his mother, even if in an awkward position. “I love you, mom. See ya later.”

“Bye, Tommy. Remember your dad’s picking you up today, it’s your weekend with him. I love you too, I’ll miss you!”

With the absence of her children for a handful of days, Wanda sighed. Weekends were by far the busiest times, especially as the holiday season loomed over. All she could do was slap her forehead against the steering wheel before dismally driving away, hoping to whatever universal power that she could get through the month in one piece.

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“Red, I need you to focus up tonight. You’ll be front and center while the new girl shadows you. Just show her how it’s done before going out and- Scarlet, are you listening to me?”

Distractions overtook Wanda as she shook her head, turning away from the lengthy mirror and towards her coworker. “Sorry, Ags. I was just…thinking.”

Agatha was the eldest at the club, only a few years older than Wanda and reeking with wiseness. She was something of the leader of the pack, forever ensuring the safety of the other girls, training new ones, and nurturing them all when required. It had been her who drew Wanda into the life of a dancer, promising to care for her and give her an easy way to get by while still present in her children’s life.

The divorce between her and Jarvis had been amicable, and yet living by herself caused her difficulty. As a former paralegal, a career she excelled at, Wanda chose to put her children first rather than her occupation. She was young when the twins were born with nowhere to go with her family having disowned her shortly after her high school graduation when they found her making out with her former friend. Back then Audrey had blamed her for it all, and given her rebellious phase being in full-force, her parents sided with the girl before dumping off their only daughter as though she was trash.

From then on it was Jarvis, her best friend since middle school, who had her back. Only their romance was short-lived, a mistake on Wanda's part who believed she could change much like her parents hoped, as their friendship thrived through adulthood instead. After all, they were much better as co-parents than a married couple.

“Get your head in the game, sweets. I need my best girl tonight. You and I both know that on Saturdays you’re all the boys want to see…and girls,” Agatha gave her a knowing look. “If you get enough tips tonight, maybe you won’t have to come in tomorrow.”

“I have to work anyway,” Wanda shook her head, finishing her makeup before staring at herself through the mirror. “I haven’t bought the boys’ Chanukah gifts. I know there’s over a month to spare, but I’m barely breaking even with what I used to make years ago. Nobody wants to see me, Ags, let’s face it. I’m…old.”

“Honey, you're barely halfway through your thirties. If you’re old then I’m a fucking dinosaur,” Agatha laughed. She stood behind Wanda, hands placed over her nude shoulders that squeezed lovingly. “Plus, you got the best tits in the club. You should be proud of the fact that men pay hundreds just for you to flash them.”

“I suppose that’s nice…I think?”

Agatha wasn’t one to easily take Wanda’s insecurities lightly. “It’s the best compliment I can give you right now. I’m running on a mix of Redbull and coffee that Carol made. So I’ll either stay awake for an entire day or die trying. Now come on, this girl Kate is waiting for the master to teach her a few tricks. Time to shine, Red.”

Meeting Kate, or Lucky as she named herself, was a forever reminder of the youth that escaped Wanda. Although she was barely clothed, only stockings covering her legs alongside knee-high heeled boots and a thin see-through bikini, seeing the younger woman in much less clothes made her become fueled by humiliation.

She showed her the ins and outs of the club, reminding the girl that her safety would forever come first. There was no doubt she’d do well – Kate was young and pleasing to the eye, everyone would fall to their knees for her as they had once done for Wanda. Now with a body carrying carved stretch marks, a painful scar across her abdomen that was a permanent reminder of the birth-gone-wrong of Billy, and rolls upon her tummy, the redhead wasn’t quite sure how to make ends meet. The day job she garnered much to Jarvis’ dismay, who offered to help pay her bills, somewhat allowed her to just get by. As if working dancing at the club wasn’t bad enough, during the days she threw on a uniform to spend lengthy shifts as a bagger at a local grocery store.

As they walked around backstage, Kate noticed a shining golden chain across Wanda’s neck.

“That’s a beautiful necklace,” she pointed out.

Wanda didn’t need to look down as her hand involuntarily went to the Star of David that hung from her neck. “It was a graduation gift from my brother – the last thing he ever gave me, actually.”

“Oh? Well, where is he now?” Kate wondered with furrowed brows.

Since the day she was kicked from her home, her parents barred Pietro from getting in contact with his twin sister. Each day she only longed to see him again, even if for a smidge of a second. Throwing a sad smile towards the new dancer, Wanda shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

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The start of a new job carried numerous amounts of stress and anxieties, of hidden fears that you wished to push far down until their disappearance. You weren’t used to going out and putting in effort for anything, always living a sheltered life where anything you wanted was simply bestowed upon the palms of your hands.

Your dream of being a teacher confused your parents. They simply couldn’t understand why rather than taking over your father’s business, or perhaps becoming part of it, you’d choose to go out of your way and put more effort into a career when you already had one set in stone. Although they disapproved at first, it was relieving how they eventually came to be proud of you for molding your own path.

Of course no one ever told you of the stress teachers were put through on the daily, much less of the rather adventurous manners in which some decompressed after what had been a harsh semester.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. You’ve never even been to one of these before. Trust me when I say you’ll have the time of your life.”

While you had only worked at Westview Elementary for a few months, you could easily feel yourself trusting Maria. She was a mathematics teacher with her room right across from yours, a quiet educator who during breaks made sure to bring out the life of the teacher’s lounge. It was the first person you had gotten close to at the school, that alongside the gym teacher Carol Danvers and her young assistant, Peter.

“Are you sure?” You eyed Maria incredulously as she pushed you through the doors of the club, smiling at her coworkers who followed along. “Have you ever been to a strip club?”

“Well, not this one, but I heard only good things about it. Their star dancer is something else,” Maria responded with excitement, “I, uh, have a bit of a thing for redheads.”

Although you didn’t know it then, it was a sentiment you too shared.

Entering the club was a rather out-of-body experience you had never lived through. Seeing the flashing lights amidst the darkness made you hiss from the sudden pain upon your eyes, but as they darted towards the main stage, they ended up widening.

Upon the first sight of a mane of red, you couldn’t quite easily shake away the feeling of longing and desire. It was your first time seeing her and yet you knew it was her you wanted. And nothing would dare stop you from getting what you wished.

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While your coworkers spent most of the night throwing loose bills on stage, Maria quite enthralled by a certain redhead which caught her eye, you remained rigid upon your seat. The once dancer that took your attention moved around the stage through her set, her outfit adorned by bills, some much larger than others, peeking through her waist of breasts that you felt guilty staring at for too long.

Even with the self-proclaimed Black Widow dancing by her, Maria’s eyes averted to your ragged state, frowning as you didn’t tear away from your focus. Smacking your shoulder playfully, she yelled at you through the music that drowned her out. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah I was just…thinking I guess,” you shouted back, and yet never did you turn to Maria.

She took notice of this as she followed your line of sight. When she came to find what you were taken by, the woman smirked. “That’s why we came here. Apparently she’s very popular and, well, I thought you might like her. I would offer to get you a private dance but, you know, teacher’s salary…”

“It’s okay,” you fondly responded. Before your arrival you had taken the liberty to gather some funds for the outing. You never thought you’d use them all in one night, but you’d spend whatever you needed to get her to so much as look at you. “I think I got this, thanks. Just enjoy your night. Maybe I can get you a private dance with her.”

As the night went on, it was you who blessed Maria with a privacy dance from the Widow herself. You had enough money to spare, and seeing your newly found friend carrying a goofy smile as she was dragged backstage was far too enjoyable to constitute as a waste of your earnings. While growing up, your family had forever been well-off. With all that they gave you, you could easily retire without even needing to work.

There was hesitation on your part, but after a smidge of apprehension from a flushed Peter and a thumbs-up, he was who gave you the confidence to request a dance from the club’s most notable dancer. And as you sat in the dark, dimly-lit room with only echoes of the music booming through, all you could do was pray for it to be all you longed for.

Never had you been one to follow your instincts in such a way. The way the woman had drawn you when you first saw her was like no other. There was no feeling you could easily shake away, you way you’d voluntarily tear your eyes from her frame as you sought out her services. Surely you’d had flings here and there, but the passion you felt upon merely seeing her was unknown, a mystery to your soul.

As you rummaged through your own thoughts, you didn’t see the curtains of the small room be shifted as a huffing figure appeared. At least not until hands were placed upon your shoulders making you jump. “You’re far too tense, darling.” The voice drifted closer as a weight was pressed against your body. “Let me help you with that. All you have to do is sit back and enjoy the little show I got for you. I promise you’ll like it.”

Even as the slow, sultry music began, you shut it out as a means to bestow your attention upon her. Your mouth lay agape, heavy breaths being ragged out as you got a better look at the woman. Her red hair shone upon the fluorescent lights, dark lips ghosting upon your forehead as she straddled your lap. Her chest was practically bare let alone for her see-through skimpy outfit that you attempted not to stare at too hard. With hands merely hovering over her hips, you were left in awe.

“I, uhm…” you didn’t find the right words, instead stammering out incoherent babbles as your face turned beet red. “I’ve never done this before, sorry. I’m not really sure what to do right now.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I can tell.” Her giggle made your racing heart catch its breath. “Just relax for me. I’ll take care of you. You’re in good hands, my dear.”

Sways hypnotized you without much effort. Melting against the faux leather couch, your arms were limp at each side of your frame. Flickering orbs were entranced by each slow movement. Scarlet, you had learned, carried herself with the utmost grace. She was a vision you mentally recorded, steady mannerisms recorded to be forever plastered upon the walls of your brain. Her alabaster skin was one that drew you in to so much as graze upon it, but the no touching rule was one you took to heart.

The tune was made for her dance. The woman, only slightly older than you, alternated between swaying on top of you before she mounted your lap, her nearly bare breasts brushing upon your face. With each passing second your arousal only grew. Being in close proximity to the goddess Aphrodite envied was intoxicating. You had paid dearly for the private session, but the tips you’d give her would be grandiose in comparison.

“You’re perfect,” you found yourself breathing out. Within the dusk of the room you still noticed stretch marks across her barely-clothed breasts, arms, and thighs, ones that you gawked out while drool was held back. “Just look at you. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.”

Wanda had never been one to have such compliments thrown her way, especially not after having her children. “Careful, sweetheart, or else you may become a favorite client of mine.”

“Yeah? I’d like that. You have no idea how good you’re making me feel,” you groaned when Scarlet grinded upon your lap. She didn’t hesitate to grab hold of your hands before guiding them to her breasts, breaking her own personal rule only to allow you to squeeze the soft mounds. “I’m so glad I came here.”

There was a peculiar mark upon her abdomen that made you frown. A certain familiarity made you tilt your head as you absentmindedly felt your heart squirm for her. You didn’t make note of it, not daring to put her in any discomfort. Instead you did as she told you – leaning back, Scarlet was the one to take the reins for the rest of the session.

Much to your dismay, the dance ended as soon as it began.

“That was…wow,” you were at a loss for words. As you sat up on the comfortable couch, you thanked whatever higher power allowed the small room to hide your need-stricken features. “Thank you? I’m not really sure what to say.”

“Your gratitude is appreciated,” the woman laughed, carefully stepping away from your lap with a hesitation you didn’t notice. “Most people just slap my ass and ask me if I offer other services. Which in case you were interested, I don’t.”

Hiding your dismay was difficult, and yet you took your time to fully compose yourself before reaching out. “I’m sorry you have to go through that. I can’t imagine you getting to meet the loveliest people in a place like this.” Making small talk with the dancer would be losing her money, so rather than keep her busy, you handed her the remainder of the cash you brought with you. “I’m not really sure how much to tip, but I hope that’s enough. It’s all I have left.”

Looking down at the flurry of hundreds, Wanda’s eyes widened. Normally she had nothing but animosity towards her clientele, especially those who refused to treat her as anything other than a piece of meat, but she could there was kindness in you – something most individuals in the club desperately lacked. “Are you sure? This is a lot for just one dance. With this you could probably get the other services I was talking about with a girl down the street.”

“I’m not really interested in that,” you shrugged. “Just keep it, really. I hope you have a good night, Ms. Scarlet. Oh and happy holidays!”

You left before she could respond. Nearly running through the curtains and into the main area, you were glad your face was practically unrecognizable in the club. There was a deep need within you to go back into the lounge and make a move, to do anything to ensure you could see the woman again.

But as you saw Maria waving you down, you decided against it. At some point you wished your paths would cross again no matter what, even if it meant you returning to the club for a smidge of attention from the woman who caught your eye.

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“So you’re not coming to visit me?”

With your phone pressed against your ear, you huffed. It was almost the norm with your parents. Although loving, they were not ones to follow typical familial traditions, especially not those that surrounded the holiday season. Another year, another disappointment.

“Your father and I are really sorry, Y/N. He has to attend a convention in France and I’ll be-”

“It’s alright, ma,” you shrugged as though she could see you. Waltzing through the packed aisles of the grocery store, you refused to let anyone take notice of your true feelings. Instead you threw a box of cereal onto the cart, shaking your head before paying attention to your mother once again. “I’ll send out you and dad’s presents next week. I’ll prepare myself for another pair of fluffy socks from him, huh?”

“You know him so well.”

The two of you amicably chatted as you made your way across the store dumping essentials onto the basket – at times adding self-indulgent treats you’d surely down while watching whatever showed up first on your television or grading finger paintings with full marks for them all. At times your parents disappeared from your life, not even showing up when you moved into the town of Westview, even missing your college graduation and hoping to make up for it by sending you a postcard from Matla with a check you didn’t require.

Once you were done with your weekly shopping, you made your way towards the registers. Your eyes were downcast, the exhaustion from the days at the school catching up to you. Although you adored your students, at times they could be far too energetic for your liking.

“Hey ma I-” before you finished your sentence, your eyes widened. Staring at the register you made a beeline towards, you quickly pulled back. Rather than take another position in any of the slowly growing lines you hid behind a shelf, only the top of your head and your eyes peeking through to get a better sight at the woman who stood scanning various items. “I gotta go now, ma. Something came up. Tell dad I said ‘hi’.”

Opting to not wait for a response, your mouth was left agape as you hung up. There stood the one woman who had plagued your thoughts through the past week. The unmistakable scarlet mane was one you couldn’t easily forget, much less the tender features that lacked the smoky, dark makeup she wore on the previous Saturday night.

Gulping down a knot of surprise, you ran to the self-checkout line. You refused to allow her – Scarlet herself – to see you. As embarrassment coated your cheeks, you left the store in a rush, perhaps forgetting items on the way all for the sake of avoiding the sudden object of your affections.

Although you felt a sudden wave of humiliation wash through you, a part of you longed to see her again.

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On the day of the meeting with her sons’ teacher, Wanda opted to double her coffee intake in the morning alongside lexapro. The mere thought of being sent back to the one place she despised, her years from elementary through high school spent in constant torment, brought her back anxious thoughts she couldn’t easily shake awake. That alongside her lengthy shift at the club on the previous night would make it impossible to get through the meeting without backup.

She made her way through the disgustingly colorful hallways she knew so well, passing the lockers she was once shoved into even at her then-young age. Rolling her eyes, Wanda only wished to get it all over with, to leave before her shift at the grocery store began — she was already far too late as it were.

Of course she didn’t count on the familiarity of the face she saw through the small window of the classroom. Frowning, Wanda knocked lightly, all before stepping inside without daring to wait for an answer.

“I’m sorry I’m late, I had a long shift and I-”

“You?” As soon as Wanda heard the accusatory voice, her eyebrows furrowed as she stared up at you with confusion. Only a stammer later the words were salvaged. “You…you must be Tommy and Billy’s mom, welcome!”

When Wanda gazed at you, you gazed back.

Ever since the small incident at the grocery store, you found it nearly impossible to go through another day without the image of her, of Scarlet, grinding herself on top of you. Guilty washed upon your being as you came to realize its perversion. And when you thought you were finally safe, there came another version of her. You refused to believe a parent of two of your students could be the Scarlet, so rather than assume it was her third life, you imagined her to be some sort of twin much like her sons.

The two of you chatted amicably, your smile forced over your features as you refused to let her see any sign of awkwardness within you. She was…different from the woman, someone who you refused to compare to her. Her face lacked an ounce of makeup, hair pristinely put into a messy bun while she donned a classy, yet casual outfit that screamed that of a mother. Even then, you deemed her to be the most beautiful woman on the planet.

“And what is it that you do, Mrs. Maximoff?” You questioned, gulping down a knot of fear.

“It’s actually just Ms. Maximoff – I’m divorced,” she corrected. “And, uhm, I work overnight sometimes.”

“Oh that must be exhausting.” Of course it was, you had seen it firsthand. Mentally slapping yourself, you longed for the floor to swallow you whole.

You felt bad for putting her in a situation where she mercilessly fidgeted with the rings on her fingers, staring down at the floor “Yes, very. I also dance…at my job.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’m not a good dancer myself. I got two left feet,” you joked, shaking your head with amusement as you took in Wanda’s solemn expression. You couldn’t pinpoint where her reservations came from, her body tense as she stared down with cheeks tinting, their hue mirroring that of a tomato. It’s when you frowned, gave her another once over, and as your confusion grew you-

Oh.

“I know it’s not the most usual thing, but it helps me get by. It’s not easy being a single mom, especially when my ex lives very, very far away. The boys don’t know, obviously. I just…don’t really think it’s a conversation I could ever have with them. I’m not exactly ashamed of what I do, but I get it’s hard for people to take in.”

As she sat before you, you were left speechless.

Garnering your verbiage back had its difficulties. You jumbled through your words, the infectious anxiety making your head spin as your fear-stricken smirk flashed to her. It really was impossible to have any sense of normalcy when the dancer who had given yoh a private show sat before you.

“You look familiar,” Wanda frowned as she pointed out, and just about then you could feel and hear your fear racing. “Have we met before? Did you also go to this school?”

“Uhm no, I’ve lived in the city my whole life,” you choked out. “Maybe if we dim the lights a bit you might…”

“Oh my god.”

You never meant for her embarrassment to creep up as she looked blankly at you, and for a moment you swore there were small tears forming over her eyes. Wanda knew, she knew. Her life was easily broken up into three — her daily occupation, being a mother, and her shifts in the night that only her ex-husband knew about. Otherwise she made sure to upkep privacy for whoever long she could, never allowing her lives to spill onto one another, at least not until she met you.

“I, uh…” Wanda was at a loss for words. She knew she could trust you, she felt it as soon as she waltzed through the door as she easily spewed on her secret life. What she never expected was for you to know already, to have been with her in a rather intimate manner that she, surprisingly, didn’t regret. “I have to-”

“Please don’t go,” you begged, and Wanda stayed. “Fuck, I know this is going to sound weird, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. It was just a dance, I get it, but I felt…something.”

Wanda snickered trying to lighten the mood. “A lot of my clients feel that something, honey, but that’s not part of my job description.”

“No, no! Not that. I mean I felt a connection, which, yes, I realize might be dumb. I just haven’t been able to get you out of my head. Not in a weird, pervy way, but in a I-want-to-take-you-out-for-dinner way. And then I saw you at the grocery store and maybe I’m just romanticizing everything but-”

“You know about my other job?” For a moment Wanda imagined herself to have a stalker, but gazing into your eyes realized you’d be the first joyous threat she’d have.

“Point is-” you didn’t let her speak again out of personal embarrassment. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I can only assume discretion is really important in your line of work, and although that thing happened, we can just forget about it. Really, Ms. Maximoff. I’m not here to make your life harder than it has to be. And we already discussed the matter with your sons so, uh, I guess you’re free to go.”

Impulsiveness had always been Wanda’s undoing, but seeing you hold her up on a pedestal and being kind to a total stranger made her heart swell. “You’re sweet, darling. Does this mean I can still get taken out for dinner?”

And as soon as she spoke the words you thanked whatever early Christmas miracle ensued to give you such a wonderful present.

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As the holidays loomed over with December coming through in full-force, you found yourself to be lucky by Wanda’s side. It was strange, even awkward at first as you accustomed yourself to being around someone slightly older, much wiser and the mother of your students at that. You had become enchanted by her body, and yet it was her mind that made you fall each second, even if far too early in what you couldn’t even deem a relationship.

The first date you had went well. Even if you stammered through some sentences, something Wanda found endearing, her radiant smile never left her features. She had to find time from her busy schedule to go out with you, and even then it was a short-lived event before you drove her to the club before grabbing a snack at a nearby cafe. You wanted her to be safe, but even with a lack of words, only squeezing the woman’s hand tenderly, she knew what you meant. Watching her leave made your heart light itself on fire, yet you knew it wouldn’t be the last you’d see of her.

The second one was much longer, with Wanda inviting you to grab lunch with her after her shift at the grocery store. The twins were with their father that weekend. Between the laundry and cleaning around the house, she found time for herself for the first time in years. There was an unspoken air of guilt. Wanda hadn’t been one to settle for romantic relationships even after her divorce. The most she had were meaningless one-night stands that ended with her humiliation only increasing. Sitting across you from that restaurant table made her feel a sense of warmth she hadn’t experienced in years – if ever.

By the third date Wanda knew you’d make a permanent mark in her heart whether you chose to stay in her life or not.

“I don’t want you to pay tonight, really,” she said, shaking her head as she grabbed onto your arm. It had been weeks since you began going on dates, getting to know each other through numerous conversations had when she picked the twins up and texts when you weren’t together. While worried constantly over her financial situation, Wanda suddenly didn’t hesitate when it came to either you or the twins. “I got it. You’ve already paid for the last two dates and I-”

“I don’t mind,” you chuckled. The two of you made your way across a nearby town. It was a small one, not too far from Westview where the streets were decorated with numerous shining lights and decorations for the holiday. You dragged Wanda to a local movie theater you found, promising that whatever she wished to watch, you’d humor. “Have I told you about my parents?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, they’re basically rich snobs to put it lightly. I’ve been well-off my entire life, and I am not one that loves all that expensive luxurious shit. So it makes me really happy to pay. And if it makes you smile, then it’s worth it,” you held her close, still finding it strange to embrace her in such a manner. It was rushed, you knew, and yet you couldn’t care. “Please let me pay. It also makes me feel good to know I can spoil you rotten, pretty girl.”

Wanda held the door open for you when you arrived at the theater, shaking her head with amusement stricken upon her features. “Pretty girl?”

You didn’t miss the way Wanda’s eyes lit up when she was presented with the concession stand, remaining far back with wide orbs that longed for bouts of sweet and popcorn – it had been long since she last felt such child-like joys. “Yeah. You’re a pretty girl, Wanda. Hasn’t anyone told you?”

The answer was clear upon the phantom hiding beneath her face. Rather than delve into such darkness, Wanda squeezed your hand. Fingers interlaced themselves with your own as though it was second nature. “So, tell me more about your family. Then I’ll tell you all about mine.”

From the moment the two of you bought the tickets to the laughter you held at the concession stand as Wanda waddled off happily holding her snacks, you told her all about your life. There was not much to tell, not enough moments of adversity that you knew others experienced. For a third date you knew not to throw in details that would make her run for the hills, but also give her a clear view of who the real Y/N was beneath the shroud of an elementary school educator.

She received all the details about your upbringing – the pressure your parents forever put on you before it eventually dissuaded, the understanding nature of your peers when you came out to them, something that you noted made her flinch for a half-second. The one thing that truly caught her attention was the mention of a dog, a family pet who still resided in your parent’s place in the city.

“I had a dog once – Sparky was his name,” Wanda mumbled as the two of you sat in the dimly lit room with nothing but a few people scattered around. “I, uh, haven’t seen him since I was…”

Even as Wanda trailed off, her words dying and falling limp upon her lips, you had a smidge of an idea of what she meant. There was not much she told you, but from the slight information she threw your way each time you saw her, you knew there was no bridge built up between her and her family that wasn’t her children.

When the advertisements rolled by signifying the beginning of the film, your focus was on her. Wanda’s eyes flickered over the flashing lights of the movie, green orbs amazingly rising as you gawked with adoration. Squeezing Wanda’s hand, you softly ran your fingers over its back. Within the noisy dark room you could still hear your heartbeat alongside hers; it quickly became your favorite melody.

For the first time that night you shared a kiss with Wanda; and for the first time that night you realized love was something you finally earned, not given to you.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

On the last day of school you felt that for once in the last few months you could finally catch your breath. Snow trickled down the sky, freezing itself over the town that lay in a cold blanket of white. You shuddered each time you went outside, even if numerous layers covered your body – even a scarf Maria had been kind enough to knit you as an early holiday present.

Time was spent aimlessly lounging over your couch, the central heating of your apartment turned up to the max as you defrosted beneath numerous big fluffy blankets. Between the snowfall and paralyzing low weather, you could barely find the courage to leave the safety of your own place. Bingeing whatever movies or shows came on, you came to enjoy the quiet, lonely time with yourself. At least during moments where you, much to your dismay, had to separate yourself from Wanda.

During the nights she slept at the club you barely slept. Getting to know the woman meant slowly growing fond of her, your worry skyrocketing at the mere idea of her alone at such a place. There were guards, and Wanda promised you that the girls all looked out for one another, but you were well-aware of the dangers some of the clientele brought. Helplessly you tossed and turned each night until she sent you the one ‘got home safe’ text that allowed you to fall into a deep slumber with the knowledge you’d hear of her on the following day.

Christmas had never been a big deal within your family. The clear rifts between you all torn by your parent’s absence were far too large to cover with a simple commercialized holiday. While their refusal to visit your newfound home stung the depths of your soul, you knew to brush it off and pretend for it to be fine. You had done it as a child, it would not be difficult to carry out in adulthood.

Rather than throw your focus into a holiday you’d inevitably spend alone, you averted it to the newfound object of your affection. With each passing day since the beginning of Chanukkah Wanda not only feasted with her children, but received a gift from you.

“You should come over on Christmas,” Wanda offered you once through the phone. The twins were at their dad’s place, and during the time she was lucky enough to be free from her occupation, the two of you could, even if not physically, be together. “I want you to come over for Christmas.”

“Won’t you be at Vis’ place? I mean, I know you don’t celebrate but-”

You could hear Wanda’s smile even through the phone. “I’ll be home all by myself. I want to give the boys some time alone with their dad. He deserves time with them too.” There was a pause, and for a moment the skipped beat of her heart was deafening. “I know we’ve only met a bit ago but Y/N…I would be happy if you came.”

She knew of your parents, of the pain you hid which they elicited upon you each year. Wanda didn’t dare mention it unless you gave her the greenlight, and for that you were thankful. With her, everything felt lighter — it felt right.

When Christmas Eve came you didn’t notice the extra pep in your step. Your smile was not easily tarnished from your features, especially not with the snow piling up by the inches upon the ground. Carrying a mountain of gifts, you giddily drove down to Wanda’s place. There was a smidge of sadness within you knowing the twins would be present, but it had been her who urged you to wait. The last thing she wished was to be hurt again, and never would she put any ounce of love over that she shared for her sons.

Kicking at the snow on the ground, you traced the path you knew to be towards Wanda’s front door. The neatly wrapped presents, courtesy of your mother’s teaching, wobbled over your anxious, freezing hands.

“When I told you to come over I assumed you’d think to call me beforehand,” Wanda greeted you with a wide smirk, her head popping through the cracked door, a face full of makeup, while her body lay in the shadows. “Hmm but I have to say I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you admitted. Going in for a kiss, you were disappointed for it to be only a small peck, but intrigued by the mystery of it all. “Is this a bad time?”

“Uhm a bit. I just have to rush to get ready, honey. I thought I had more time for it,” the sultry voice Wanda solely reserved for the club was in full blast, and for once you could happily listen to it without the backdrop of music. “You can come in, but I need you to close your eyes. I’ll let you know once I’m done, alright?”

“Anything you say.”

You’d agree to whatever she wished if it meant leaving the porch where your coat, pants, and boots were battered by the snow that grew into a violent hail. Once your eyes were closed, you were dragged by Wanda’s strong arms who left you waiting at the door atop the doormat. You couldn’t help the amusement that came out while you attempted to clean your boots without watching, all while you could hear the distinct sound of high heels clacking against the hardwood floor as Wanda seemingly ran away.

Patience had never been your forte, much less when you were fully aware of the secrecy Wanda was far too bad at hiding. From what you knew was her bedroom came a soft tune, and the urge to take a small peek only skyrocketed. You opened your eyes slightly, familiarizing yourself with the house you frequented when the boys were away, but as soon as you heard the woman rushing back towards you, you shut them.

“Keep them closed, baby,” Wanda’s voice was hypotonic. Even if you humored the idea of disagreeing, she wouldn’t allow you to. “Let’s leave these here and you come with me. Promise you won’t peek?”

As she took the load of presents from your arms and placed them by where her chanukiah lay, you nodded. “I pinky promise, Wanda. Now tell me what’s up. You know I’m terrible with surprises.”

Surely that was true, but as soon as you were thrown into her bedroom, your heart raced. Wanda let you sit atop a chair in the middle of the room, the lights dimmed out as you could tell through your eyelids. Breathing in an unmistakable scent of lavender, your nostrils were in heaven. The beat you previously heard came back, only in full blast and keeping you grounded in place.

Hovering before your sitting body, hands atop your own that gripped the armrests, Wanda’s lips ghosted along your face. “You can open them now.”

Before you were struck by lightning you were able to take a peek at the state of near-nudity Wanda was in. You knew her ‘outfit’ to be similar to those she wore in the club, only in your favored color which you knew full-well she had only recently bought. Her heels made her much taller, full breasts in perfect view before she swooped in like a hawk and claimed what was hers.

Kissing Wanda was intoxicating on its own, but when she kissed you, your brain short-circuited and awaited hours until a proper reboot. She took charge, a confidence she usually lacked soaring through her body as she cupped your flushed face with her hands. Fingers brushed against your burning cheeks, bloodshot nails leaving tiny marks you’d proudly carry.

Lipstick was smeared over her face, and yet you kept kissing as though your life was dependent on it. Her tongue swirled in your mouth easily, but as you came to your senses, your own fought for dominance. Hips were gripped, a small moan drawn out from the depths of her throat that awakened the animalistic being inside of you

“I thought I should give you an early Christmas present. You’ve done so much for me in these past few weeks,” Wanda hummed as her tongue swirled over your wet lips. “Let me help you now. Sit back and relax, sweetie. Scarlet’s going to make you feel so good.”

Seeing Wanda dance for others or even having her dance for you at the club was nothing compared to her doing so in the privacy of her bedroom — only a few scented candles shedding enough light on her voluptuous body. She swayed on top of your body, her ass grazing your lap before she grinded herself upon it. Hands lit by flames were everywhere. You couldn’t think, much less formulate proper verbiage to describe your ever-growing arousal.

The no touching rule was one you respected, but all bets were off as Wanda placed your hands on her hips and nodded your way. It was exaggerated for your own entertainment, but each time you groped or knedded any area of her body, she let out a breathy groan. Her backside was fondled, pulling her towards you only to capture her lips with a more forceful manner. You had yet to see her in a full nude glory, and yet the knowing stench of arousal drove you mad. You wanted, no, needed to have Wanda.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you couldn’t help but mumble. “Look at yourself, Wanda. I’ve never seen anything so perfect.” Grabbing both of her breasts at once, you squeezed tenderly until her nipples hardened and poked through the fabric of her loose bikini top. “I need you so bad right now. I need to…I have you, to show you just how beautiful you are.”

Running your hand over her stomach, admiring the adorable rolls upon it, you made her blush for once. “Behave, honey. You wouldn’t want me to regret letting you touch, huh? Be a good pet for me and do as I say.”

You tried, you really did, but there was no chance of success as you watched and felt her dance over you. Aphrodite’s jealousy over Wanda was rampant. The woman gave it her all. She climbed on your lap, holding your shoulders for balance, with a smirk across her features and her breasts keeping your face hostage between them.

With each minute that passed your need for her grew. She gave you a treat at least, allowing you to be the one to untangle the knot of her top with guided hands before it inevitably fell to its demise. When you came to see the beauty beneath the fabric, you nearly saw the light then and there.

Wanda unknowingly drove you to the brink of insanity as her nude breasts brushed against your body. Her hands did quiet work to remove your own clothes until you were left in nothing but your shirt and underwear. Kneeling before you, she placed kisses over your inner thighs, face nuzzling upon your skin as you licked your lips.

“I’m ready,” she told you. There was no need for further explanation. Instead you drew a hand down and tenderly pet her, Wanda leaning in to the touch in peace. “I need you now, Y/N. Won’t you be a good pet and-”

She didn’t finish her sentence as you grabbed a fistful of red hair and tugged her away gently. Throwing her over the bed, you didn’t miss the amused laughter that came from her as you removed the last few articles of clothing from your body.

As you climbed atop Wanda, she stared at you incredulously. “And what do you think you’re doing, sweetheart? Hmm where is this confidence coming from? Not that I’m complaining…”

“I’m returning the favor,” you breathed out raggedly. “You lay back now and relax. Let me make you feel good, baby.”

When you took off the remainder of her skimpy outfit, your mouth went dry as though the Sahara Desert resided within it. Exhilaration shot through your being as you stared down at Wanda’s shaved sex that she attempted to hide between hugged milky full thighs adored by stretch marks.

Hands traveled all over her skin, your eyes closing as you trailed your way across the map you’d forever remember in your mind. With each lingering touch her hips, with a mind of their own, gyrated. You could barely slide your fingers past the valley between her breasts without her crying out in pleasure. You were quickly obsessed with the responsiveness of her body. Tugging, squeezing, and groping her breasts drew the deepest moans, you found.

With your mouth dropping kisses over her chest, ensuring that you focused primarily on her taut breasts and hardened rosy buds, your hands went to wander off. One kept her hips steady, digits finding her stretch marks that you traced with their tips, all while your dominant hand moved towards the puffy, flushed area that glistened beneath the hold of her thighs.

“Let me touch you, Wanda,” you urged her, your voice husky and deep as though you swallowed a shot of her essence. Kissing your way up to her jawline, you let your tongue explore its way until her lips were swirled against. With her plup, wet mouth ready to be devoured, you towered the woman with all your might. “And you know we can stop whenever you want to. Just say the words, alright? I want to make you feel good — feel comfortable. You tell me what you want me to do, and I promise I’ll do it.”

While it took a few seconds to build confidence, Wanda nodded in awe of your own. “I want you inside me. I want to feel you…I need to feel you. I’ve been thinking about this ever since we saw each other, since I gave you the dance. I wondered what it would be like for you to fuck me. It’s embarrassing, but I have to admit the thought has helped me through some lonely moments when it’s just me in this dark room alone.”

At the implication you giggled. “Way to rub my ego.”

“You’re welcome,” she pecked your lips, foreheads mixed together as your fingers began descending over her glistening cunt. “I hope I didn’t interrupt you. I was looking forward to having you inside me.” With newfound conviction, Wanda tilted her head. “Don’t you want to fuck me, baby? Or would you rather I tell you about the countless times I’ve touched myself at the thought of you?”

That was enough to get you to absentmindedly begin rubbing Wanda’s cunt. Her bulbous clit was tender to the touch, but more so when it came to the arousal it elicited from the woman. The foreplay was not enough, even if with each flick her back arched and her pussy rubbed against the palm of your hand. Looking down at her gaping hole that oozed her juices, you knew it was the only way to sate your hunger.

You got Wanda aroused enough that her juices dripped onto the sheets. Your mouth continuously left multiple love bites on her skin that you knew she’d wear proudly in the privacy of her home, but was required to hide at work. Her legs were parted far enough to shyly wrap themselves around your waist and pull you closer; with a lack of words Wanda begged for more.

“Relax,” you said. “Everything’s gonna be okay, baby. I'll take good care of you.”

Forever maintaining your promises, you did as Wanda wished. When you first slid a pair of fingers within the confines of her velvety walls, you let out a loud grunt that matched your lover’s. She was tight, her cunt adapting to the adoring feeling of you stretching it out for your own amusement. From her ragged state you knew she wouldn’t last long, but you’d be sure to make the best of it for the sake of leaving a good impression.

“Oh fuck you’re so tight,” you spit out. “Baby you’re so warm. Your pussy is practically swallowing my fingers whole. Such a hungry little thing…”

“Y/N,” Wanda whined, brain hazy with far too much lust stricken over it. “More.”

“I’ll give you what you want.” You planted a kiss on her blushing cheek. “I’ll give you more, my pretty girl.”

Once she felt ready enough to take you, Wanda rolled her hips. It was a sign to let you keep going, to begin sliding yourself in and out, watching in awe as your hand dripped with her essence that coated your soul. You thumbed at her clit, stimulating it gingerly until you saw Wanda visibly relax.

Being inside Wanda was unlike anything you had experienced before. It was soft and sweet, wet and warm, but more so night and day — the time you could spend absolutely worshiping her until exhaustion inevitably took over. Moving within her was difficult as all you yearned to do was remain deep in place as you fell to your slumber atop Wanda; the two of you forever connected as one.

With a steady pace you set, you’d surely bring her over the edge in moments. Your teeth sunk into her supple breasts with love, marking them as though they were yours to own. Her moans against your ear drove your ambition forth. They were the push you needed to curl your fingers deep in her cunt until their tips hit her sweetest spot — with the howl Wanda let out, you were sure her neighbors would show up at the door to complain in minutes.

“‘M close,” she sobbed, tears of desire pooling at her eyes as she lazily began grinding herself down on your hand. “I’m gonna cum, I-”

With a searing kiss you shut her loud noises of desire down. Her walls clamped down around you, squeezing you tight as the knot in her abdomen loosed. A lengthy, powerful orgasm shattered itself through Wanda, leaving her breathless and without a sane mind to properly register the gift you bestowed upon her.

You were breathless messes clinging to one another for dear life. Wanda came undone, her clammy cheeks brushing your own as in her state of haziness she repeated mutters of your name. Her lips planted sloppy kisses on your, thanking you for the love you gave her – a happiness she lacked since her adolescence.

“That was amazing,” you spoke in her honor. “Did that feel good, baby? Are you okay?”

“I wanna go again,” she slurred – and for Wanda’s sake you’d do whatever she wished. “Please?”

Her pleas are what drove you further. You nipped your way down her body, her tummy rolls worshiped as they came from a true goddess you adored. Wanda’s insecurities from her slowly aging body were rampant, but you would never dare see her with anything but desire. To her she lacked the beauty of a younger woman, but to you she was the only one you could ever have eyes for.

At the first taste of her pussy you became addicted. Your fingers remained knuckle-deep within her, her walls warming them as you began timidly lapping at the wetness before you. The sweet nectar was one you’d grow you obsess over. She was delicious, your tongue just needing to burn against her sex rapidly as you sought out more.

“Oh my god!” She squealed. “That’s it baby, just like that. Your tongue feels so good- so fucking good!”

The words of affirmation turned your movements into vigorous ones. The tip of your tongue swirled over her clit before you took it between your lips. Lightly suckling the bundle of nerves made her upcoming orgasm intensify, Wanda’s hands gripping the bed sheets as she pounded her fists over them with a need for release.

Simultaneously you pumped your fingers in and out of her gaping hole with your tongue running across her flushed slit. The rhythmic grinding against your face did wonders to increase her arousal. It shot up to the sky when you so much as pressed at bulbous clit before allowing your teeth to delicately brush at her cunt.

“Cum for me,” you let out the muffled command with a mouthful of pussy. “Be a good girl and do as I say. Come on, Wanda. I know my sweet girl can do it.” Rubbing your thumb over her swollen clit, you nodded her way. “I got you, princess. All you have to do is let go.”

In your hold Wanda came once again, only this time her exhaustion took over as soon as the orgasmic wave grabbed a hold of her. She tossed and turned, screaming until the euphoria settled into normalcy. Hands shivered as her skin was set aflame. For moments you resided in your given place until she relaxed, and once you knew your lover to be blissed out, you gingerly removed your fingers – much to your dismay leaving her cunt gaping and searching for the fulfillment you handed out.

“You did such a good job. I’m so proud of you, Wanda,” you told her as you kissed your way up her body. Reaching her face meant lovingly nuzzling your forehead against her own, your lips coated with her juices that she tasted when begging for a chaste embrace. “Thank you for letting me do this, for trusting me with your body. You’re fucking amazing.”

“You’re even better, honey,” she murmured. Wrapping her arms around you, Wanda pulled you down until your head fell on the pillow you’d soon share. “I have something to ask you, but can you promise beforehand that you won’t freak out? It’s okay if you say now, I just…”

Wanda trailed off, making you frown in confusion as you interlaced your nude body with her own. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to be your girlfriend,” the redhead blurted out before stopping herself. Soon after the words spewed from her mouth, she averted her eyes, the blush in her cheeks intensifying by embarrassment. “If that’s okay, I mean.” She sighed, shaking her head at what she deemed a bout of stupidity. “We’re from very different worlds, you know that, but we still have so much in common. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks and look at us now. Here we are spending Christmas Eve together, you got the boys and me some presents for Chanukah and you’re…you’re amazing. I don’t know how else to describe you. I can’t stop thinking about you, Y/N, and part of me really hopes the feeling is mutual.”

“It’s incredibly mutual,” you replied, shifting down to kiss her neck right above her pulse point. “I want you to be my girlfriend. I know it’s dumb, but god I want to show you off so bad. Of all the people in the world you chose me. You, Wanda Maximoff, chose me. Now that really rubs my ego.”

With raised eyebrows Wanda shot you an amused look. “Wouldn’t you want me to rub something else?”

The two of you shared a mirror bout of laughter, clinging to each other with adoration. “We can work on your dirty talk if you’d like, but right now I’d rather take a hot shower with you. It’s almost time to light up the next candle. If it’s okay, could I help you with it? I know I’m a goy, but I want to celebrate this with you. Maybe I can watch?”

At the usage of the traditional term, Wanda beamed. “It’s best if you watch, sweetheart, but if you want to help out, I still haven’t wrapped the presents for the last two days so…”

“I’m on it!” You sat up straight, turning to Wanda and reaching out for her hand. “Now come on. I swear I’ll turn into a goddamn icicle if I don’t have a hot shower now.”

The final days of the holiday season you spent glued to Wanda’s side, and even as the beginning stages of your relationship passed through, you remained devoted to her even more than when you first saw who would become the true love of your life.

#cthulhus’ fanfics #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #lesbian #marvel smut #scarlet witch x you #scarlet witch x reader #reader insert #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wlw smut

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notlongtolove · 5 months ago

Text

the garden is growing

"you live together, work together. doesn’t it all get a little boring?" there’s a weight to her observation, something invasive, like she’s pulling out weeds that you never asked her to tend, tilling through soil that’s been left unbothered for too long. the cups of tea, the folding of blankets. you could never call that boring.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff! maybe angst if you really really squint

content: after catching up with an old friend, bau!reader and bf!spencer have a contemplative talk about their relationship as they walk home. domestic... mentions of marriage... lurve in the air...

word count: 2.2k

note: a post finals treat to myself! leaned heavy into the garden imagery for this one lol, this was heavily inspired by the poem linked, i highly recommend it! o i also added some song recs below for this one :P (ps i did not mean to compare spencer's eyes to PEBBLES but it was either that or a random brown flower... sorry.)

a line: The perennial pushes its way through the cracks in the concrete—small, steady, and undeniably alive. It’s there. It’s growing.

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say Except that the garden is growing. - wendy cope

When you were younger, you had a garden. A field just a stone's throw from your front door. Not the kind in a backyard, fenced in and manageable. No, it was wild and uncontained, the grass alive beneath your feet. They used to say love was like a garden. You'd think about that sometimes—how you were supposed to tend to it, rake and comb and pull out the weeds before they strangled your beautiful flowers. And when it rained, you just had to let it. Let the downpour come and see what survived.

You’re standing under the awning, shaking droplets off your jacket. You mumble a thanks to the doorman as he holds the door open, offering a silent nod in return. The door opens to a polished, marble lobby, and suddenly you’re acutely aware of how out of place you look. You’d come straight from the office, having dwindled your stack of case files from a grand total of 26 to a modest 19. The grand mirror to your left does nothing to help. If anything, it’s magnifying the creased fabric of your trousers and the damp strands of hair stuck to your cheek. You shift uncomfortably, tugging at your sleeves and smoothing your hair out in a futile attempt at order. It was urgent she’d said. A matter of utmost importance. You’re not sure why you’re here, but you know with certainty that you’d rather not be.

She sees you before you see her. She calls out for you, the nickname wrapping around you like a sweater one size too small—warm but suffocating. It might as well be. You haven’t seen her in nearly a year—maybe a year and a half? You shrug, suddenly missing Spencer’s precision, his ability to pin things down to the day, the hour.

“Hi,” you manage, sliding into the seat opposite her. “I’m really sorry. Work was crazy—” you start, but your words dissolve the moment she thrusts her hand forward. A diamond—no, a boulder—catches the light, dazzling and deliberate. You nearly choke on the glass of water you’ve just picked up.

“Let me tell you about crazy,” she says, her grin sharpening.

Oh, the yacht! And don’t even get me started on the violins, can you believe it! The sea was just gorgeous—Did I mention it was on a yacht? Her words tumble out as you try to follow along, but you can’t quite keep up, only noting it definitely involved an abhorrent amount of Dom Perignon.

“I wish you could’ve been there to see it,” she says, her voice tinged with what you hope is nostalgia and not pity.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” you murmur, and you mean it—sort of. You used to be close, but since starting at the BAU, everything else kind of took a backseat. It had to. “I wish I could’ve too. Work’s been—”

“Crazy, right,” she cuts in, waving it off. "Big fancy BAU," She winks. “That job’s gonna be the death of you one day y’know, all those hours.” You force a laugh, but her words hit a little too literally, heavier than she knows. You don’t think she quite grasps the reality of your work.

“So,” she says, leaning in now, her chin propped delicately on her hand, her diamond ring catching the light. You can’t help but think it’s mocking you. “How’s things going with Spencer?”

“Oh, they’re going fine.”

“Fine?” She raises her brows. “Trouble in paradise?”

“No, not at all,” you insist, your voice instinctively rising in defence. “We’re—fine. You know, same old, same old. We just wrapped a big case actually. This guy—” You cut yourself off, realizing mid-sentence that the story of a guy meticulously collecting hair from women post-mortem doesn’t feel like the kind of story to share during dinner under a sparkling chandelier—Not that you’re doing much eating anyway. The menu was a labyrinth of fancy salads, obscure cheeses, and entrées described in French that you’re only half sure translate to lamb. You’d settled for pushing a few greens around your plate, making a mental note to stop by the bodega later.

Her laugh pulls you back to the table, “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“You know… Live together, work together, day in, day out. Doesn’t it all get a little...” She trails off, letting her expression finish the sentence.

“A little… what?”

“Boring?”

You blink. “Boring?”

The word tastes bitter. You don’t like it. The way the dog always chases the cat? Boring. The way the cat always seeks shelter in the same tree? Boring. But the way they both come running home every time you call? That’s never boring. Spencer in the quiet mornings—hair tousled, voice soft and sleepy as he murmurs a 'good morning.' The cups of tea, the folding of blankets. You could never call that boring.

She laughs lightly, the sound cutting through the restaurant’s hum. “Not in a bad way! I just mean... do you guys even go out? Like, for fun? You guys have been together for, what like, years now?” Three years and 4 months, you think to yourself. You’d never need Spencer’s eidetic memory to remember that.

“Well, yeah, sure we do…” you say finally. “Um, we went to a museum recently.” You don’t tell her it was to interview a suspect. Her smile tightens, like she’s not sure whether to believe you or feel sorry for you. You take a careful sip of water, resisting the urge to shift under her gaze. There’s a weight to her observation, something invasive, like she’s pulling out weeds that you never asked her to tend, tilling through soil that’s been left unbothered for too long. Outside, the rain keeps falling.

By the time you part with polite hugs and hollow smiles, the downpour has softened to a drizzle. Spencer is waiting by the curb, hair slightly damp. His eyes light up at the sight of you. Under the glow of the streetlight, they remind you of the pebbles you used to collect by the garden path. You’d carry them home, pocketful by pocketful, washing and scrubbing at them until they shone. Only your favourites made it to your shelf. Tiny, perfect trophies.

“Hi, honey.”

"Hiya." You lean into his chest, a tired smile tugging at your lips as you manage a strained, “I’m starving.”

“Hi starving. Care for a burrito?” he asks, tilting a takeout bag toward you with a small smile.

Your eyes meet his, and there’s something in his smile—soft, understanding, familiar—that makes your chest ache. “How’d you know?” you ask, practically tearing into the bag.

“Searched the menu after you left,” he says simply, falling into step beside you as you start walking. “Figured you wouldn't have liked much in there,” he shrugs, casual. You feel your cheeks warm. Two hours away from Spencer Reid is two hours too long.

The walk home is quiet at first, the two of you picking your way around puddles reflecting neon signs. The burrito’s long gone, leaving your hand free for Spencer to hold, fingers interlocked.

“She’s engaged,” you say eventually.

Spencer furrows his brows. “Already?”

“It’s only been like, what, eight? nine months?”

Spencer frowns, pauses then says, “256 days”, the precision drawing a faint smile from you.

“Crazy isn’t it?”

“I guess. Some people are like that,” he says, “Did you know statistically, couples who get engaged within the first year of dating are 20% more likely to divorce within the first five years?”

“With that prenup incoming she’d better hope they’re the exception then…” you murmur, not really listening.

There’s something in your chest, persistent and heavy. You can feel its roots stirring, working its way beneath the surface, threatening to loosen the earth that keeps you grounded.

A few more steps in silence. Then, quietly, “Do you think we’re boring?”

“Boring?” Spencer tilts his head slightly. “Do you think we’re boring?”

You hesitate, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t think we’re boring, but you know, we don’t do much.”

“We’re in the FBI, honey. I’d argue we do a lot.” He smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching playfully. You try to laugh, but it comes out forced, brittle—like a flower trying to push out a bloom that's not quite ready yet.

Spencer notices, as he always does. “Is there something you want to do?” It stirs in you again, something tender and uncertain. You don’t know if it will be a flower that blooms or a weed that chokes out everything else.

“No,” You say a little too quickly, “Nothing really, just... Other than work and home—”

“What’d she say?”

“Hm?”

“You love work, you live for it—I practically have to drag you out of the office most days,” he reasons, tone calm and steady. “And, if this is something that was bothering you… I’d have known. So it must’ve been something she said.” You stop walking, the words catching in your throat. It bothers you—how her vines have crept into your garden, straight through to the soil beneath. Flowers rarely thrive in foreign soil, you think.

“Not really,” you lie, biting your lip—a tell Spencer surely catches. “We just talked about the engagement. Well, she talked.”

He doesn’t press, though you can tell he doesn’t believe you. His gaze lingers, but he chooses to give you space. “How was it? The engagement.”

“Something about a yacht,” you reply with a shrug.

“I thought she was afraid of water.”

“Not when it’s on a million-dollar vessel, apparently.”

Spencer chuckles. You continue to walk. Your feet do their best to trace the familiar trail, trying to find the garden path that takes you home. Left. Right. Left. Right. But your thoughts snag, tripping on an unseen vine, and you stumble.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask.

“About what?”

“Like... if we ever get married and stuff.”

Now it’s Spencer’s turn to stop mid-step, rooted to the spot, his body going still. You freeze too, breath trapped in your chest, a flush spreading across your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you rush to say, the guilt sharp and immediate. “That was silly, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

You tug softly on his hand trying to pull him forward, but he doesn’t budge. His brows knit together as his gaze locks with yours.

“When.”

“When what?”

“You said if. I’m saying when. When we get married.”

“When we get married?” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “When. Not if. I don’t think really of it as a hypothetical possibility.”

Your chest tightens and you don’t know exactly what to say, but your fingers instinctively tighten around his. Spencer senses your silence and rushes to fill the space.

“Do you… not think that?” he asks, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“I do! Of course, I do.” Your voice falters. “I just… I didn’t know you thought about it that way too.”

Spencer hums, soft smile on his face. “I know I tend to look at things in terms of statistics, probabilities—But us? There’s no ‘ifs’. Not with you, honey. Never with you.”

And just like that, the earth beneath you shifts, breaking apart to reveal a bud. Not a flower but a fruit-bearing tree. You try and fight the urge to throw yourself into his arms and kiss him, but he’s already leaning in, his lips warm and familiar against yours. As you pull back, eyes locked, you think back to the pebbles you used to collect. Your tiny, perfect trophies—Spencer’s eyes are far better, you think.

“You smell like burrito,” he teases. You laugh, the sound light and easy. “You love burritos.”

He brushes a stray curl from your forehead. “I love you.”

Through the clearing, you see it. The vines have receded, the rain has come and gone. Your feet step off the garden path with certainty. It’s safe now. It’s here.

“So,” you say with renewed excitement, your steps light as you glance at him, “Beach wedding?”

Spencer wrinkles his nose. “Do you have any idea how much fecal bacteria there is in beach sand?”

“Blegh.”

“No, seriously. Beach sand has 10 to 100 times more fecal bacteria than seawater.”

“How about we don’t throw around the word ‘fecal’ when my burrito is still working its way through me,” you reply, grimacing. “What’s your genius idea then?”

He grins. “Barn wedding?”

“Spence, I love you, and I know you’ve always wanted to be a cowboy, but I’m not walking down the aisle with hay in my hair.”

He laughs, shaking his head as you walk side by side, hands swaying between you. Spencer spots a perennial growing out of concrete cracks by the lamppost 2 steps ahead of you.

“What about a garden wedding? In spring?”

“A garden wedding,” you say, a soft smile spreading across your face, “Yeah, I’d really like that, spring’s nice.”

"Okay,” he says, hand warm in yours, “in spring then."

There’s no towering oak tree, ancient and steadfast, to mark this moment, no circle of wildflowers dancing wildly around with their colours. But still the perennial pushes its way through the cracks in the concrete—small, steady, and undeniably alive. It’s there. It’s growing.

They used to say love was like a garden. When his drought comes, silent but devastating nonetheless, you quench it with your rain—soft, temperamental. And when your rain changes her tide, thrashing and wild, he shelters you beneath his leaves, vast and unyielding. Together you prune the dead parts, plant anew, and marvel at what thrives.

The next time someone asks you how things are going, there’s no pursed smile or hesitant pause, distant in thought. You just smile and say it's going. It's going alright. It's going great. It’s going fine.

Because all that matters is that it's going.

Your garden is growing.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: nothing by bruno major love letter from the sea to the shore by delaney bailey

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x bau!reader

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95rkives · 29 days ago

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cw car sex

ᝰ.ᐟ jimin is determined to ruin you in the backseat of his car, but the seatbelt buckle might get to you first.

“Jimin, this is the worst place you’ve ever fucked me.”

You barely get the words out before his next thrust has your head knocking right against the stupid car door. Again. For what feels like the hundredth time.

Jimin doesn’t even slow down. If anything, the complaint just makes him grin, all smug and unbothered as he leans down, breath warm against your cheek. “Mm,” he hums, sliding a hand under your thigh to hitch it up higher around his waist. “I don’t know… I think it’s kind of fun.”

Fun.

Your back is at war with the middle seatbelt buckle, your legs are cramping, and your spine has fully accepted its fate as a sacrifice to the gods of uncomfortable car sex. Meanwhile, Jimin—perfectly comfortable Jimin—is having the absolute time of his life, his hips rolling deep, deliberate, like he has all the time in the world.

“Fun for who?” you huff, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re not the one getting assaulted by a cup holder right now.”

Jimin laughs, the sound all breathy and smug as he kisses along your jaw, nipping just to be annoying. “You’re so dramatic,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed amusement. But he must take some pity on you, because he sighs—real exaggerated like, as if he’s the one suffering—and shifts, one strong arm wrapping around your waist. With hardly any effort, he pulls you up, switching positions until you’re in a straddle across his lap, your knees sinking into the leather on either side of him. “There,” he says, smirking. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

He rocks up, deep and slow and just obnoxiously good, and whatever clever retort you had dies instantly.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and instead of some pretty, breathless moan, what comes out of your mouth is a very undignified—

“Oh, fuck you.”

Jimin laughs, looking way too proud of himself. His grip on your hips tightens as he rocks up again, slow and teasing, like he has all the time in the world. “You are, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw. “And you’re doing such a good job.”

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #park jimin #bts x reader #bts imagine #jimin imagine #bts smut #jimin drabble #jimin scenarios

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angelplummie · 3 months ago

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TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS! 4

ART X TASHI X PATRICK X F!READER

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

it is here yall, no smut but a surprising amount of straight sexual tension, i’ll make it gayer in the next one dw

you can’t believe you’re here. fuck. fuck. you changed too, back into tennis gear. fuck. the stars twinkle above like little spectators, a clear night in new york city. like fate was watching. they had reserved a court before even asking you, cocky as ever. you had all driven there together. you sat in the back, like mommy and daddy were taking you to a dance recital. this whole thing was ridiculous, and positively beneath you. and yet here you are, separated by a net from the man you’d thought in your naivety you would marry one day. you each stretched, rackets on the ground a ways away. every time you saw them in the corner of your eye you tensed, thinking about what was to come.

when you beat art, you wouldn’t fuck him. that’s something you were certain of, because it would make it so much more embarrassing for them. pimping yourself, your husband out is one thing, trying to and failing is much more humiliating. you thought about it, briefly on the car ride. what it would feel like after all these years. how good it would feel to make tashi squirm. and she would squirm. so help you god she would squirm. and art too. while he was inside you and clinging to you and more vulnerable than he’s ever been, you would tell him all about tashi and patrick’s little raundevouz, their little secret excursion. you would hear his heart break beneath you, feel his world crumble. you smiled to yourself in the backseat. art gave you up, tossed you out like a used tissue the second he could wriggle his way into the amazing tashi duncan’s life. and where was he now? coming second place, being cheated on, being whored out. and where was tashi? still seething over college, still hating you. you couldn’t judge her so violently, you were uncomfortably similar. except you can play, and she has art for a husband. it seems you can have love or tennis, and never both. tashi seems to have neither. in a roundabout way you pity her. in a more direct way you think she got what was fucking coming to her.

but no. you couldn’t fuck him, because that would hurt infinitely more. if tashi had come to town and avoided you, that would have angered you five times more than whatever this is. no. you weren’t sleeping with him. no way no how. nuh uh. dick is dick and you can get dick from anywhere. if the night before told you anything, historical dick will always do you wrong. so there. not sleeping with art. or tashi. or whatever.

tashi watches you stretch. your muscle fibres flex and protrude, a threat. if you beat art, she thinks you’re going to try to refuse the reward. or you at least plan to. you’re so fucking proud. everything is beneath you, everything, you can’t be pleased by anything. art is perfect, in every way, and yet you sneer and turn your nose up at her perfectly fine man. she wants to see it. she wants art to fuck you so bad it makes her angry. she wants him to be rough, and mean, she wants him to hold you down and make you cry. she watches the body that dominates the court, the face that haunts her dreams. she wants you to fucking submit. she wants your tennis body to become a cocksleeve and nothing more, and she wants art to do it. art would like it too. she knows he would. he doesn’t speak about you. he avoids you like the plague. something is left. maybe because of how you ended, in one clean silent chop the day of tashi’s accident, that he feels there’s something unfinished. she thinks he wants you. and he’s gonna get you and destroy any dignity that might remain. he’s gonna pound you like he owns you, because really he does, and tashi is gonna watch and she’s gonna laugh.

if you lose, she’ll watch her husband destroy you at tennis. and that will be just as freeing.

your gaze shifts from man on court to woman in stands, woman to man. they both have this serene look on their faces. not a care in the world. art should be worried. you’re going to thrash him. presuming this was still somewhat about tennis and he had any pride left at all, he was in for a rude awakening. second in that open. hm. you were gonna hang his sorry pathetic cuck ass out to dry and then you were gonna leave him wanting.

art’s certain he can win. tashi gave him comprehensive coaching in your style, your weaknesses and your strengths. truth is, you’re impressive, but art is a man. he could over power you, smash you into the dirt with sheer brute force. he’s certain he could beat you. but will he? tashi was unclear. this was of course entirely for her benefit, so which would she prefer? art had a feeling that your prize wasn’t only there to make you want to play. the prize didn’t seem to entice you at all, which bruised whatever remained of his ego. so should he win, or lose? what would please tashi more, seeing you beaten, or seeing you beneath something she owned? maybe they were the same.

you were both fully stretched and watered, and had began the stroll to pick up your rackets in synchronicity. his eyes raked over your face, and for the first time in all of this he considered what he wanted. he would’ve wanted to leave you alone. to respect you. but that couldn’t have happened. tashi needs closure. sleeping with you would be strange. you weren’t the same person he left in college, he wasn’t naive enough to forget that. before it all fell apart, when he was your tentative boyfriend, there were nights he locked away, too tender to be thought of by a married man. nights at his lake house, nights in your dorm, mornings when he would wake up covered in you and it was so still and calm that he had thought maybe it was still night, and you forgot to turn the light off. those nights, bolted into the safe for lost things in his mind, now drifted free. your soft skin and its smell, the weight of your body on top of his, your strawberry balm kisses. when you would dash away before sex to ‘freshen up’, and he’d smell his dorm’s cheap fruity hand soap when his nose pressed into your clit, when you opened your arm pit. you’d stopped drinking because he wouldn’t sleep with you drunk. you’d cry sometimes when he held you, when you were on top of him or when he was curved over your body so tightly everything touched. you’d cry. because no one had ever been this nice to you. and he would kiss them away, right from your under eye, licking them as they drooped of the edge of your chin. you never said i love you. never got that far. but he felt it from you. he knew you did. you had. he could tell in the way you listened to him. any tiny thing, any tiny little thing you logged away and remembered about him. if he told you once that he liked your hair half up half down, that was your hair for the next year. if he told you he liked your hands, rings and bracelets would scatter all across your dorm to be thrown on at his arrival. superficial things like that, but you listened so hard. you tried so hard. in those nights, you were like putty in his hands. he could’ve moulded you into anything. so receptive, so soft and wet and gentle. when he was inside you, when he was milked by your suckling, loving heat, he felt more at peace than he had in his whole life. it felt like you were the only two people left in the world, by God’s perfect design. you would take anything he gave to you, and because of that he was sweet and perfect to you. he was a dream man because you deserved a dream man. he truly adored you. but he wasn’t yours. and when those loving nights and sleepy mornings ended, it was tashi that returned to his mind. tashi. and she was so different from you. she was dangerous and painful and she made him itch. it was like getting high from a wasp sting, like he was addicted to the hurt. he didn’t want what was easy, what was simple and good and hearty. he wanted her. and it all worked out how it was supposed to, because tashi was his wife and she loved him and needed him and you were a tennis star. but, taking everything into account, it could never be how it was with you ever again. because you didn’t trust him anymore. he watched as you scooped up your racket, doing the same. you looked so concentrated. so angry. he wondered if you always felt angry. it probably helped you play better.

did he want to sleep with you again? that was the real question. well, if you would let him, he would. he wanted to. he never stopped adoring you, he realises now you hate him. you never did anything to make him stop. never pullled the plug, just walked away. the passivity of it made you slip away into the back of his mind, and for so long he didn’t realise you never left. he wanted to know how you changed. he wants to know how you’re different, and selfishly, he wants you to forgive him. if he was close enough to you you would know how sorry he was. if he could touch your skin one final time, and know whatever hurt he had caused you hadn’t stopped it being soft, then he could let go of you for real.

“you two ready?” tashi called from where she lounged in the seating area.

you flipped the racket round in your hold a few times, and nodded. art nodded too.

“alright.”

this was it. you were going to beat that man into the ground and you were going to laugh in tashi’s face and you were going to remain unfucked. partially unfucked. god, in this rush you had forgotten that just the night before patrick had smiled at you, and for a glorious hour you had lost your mind. it didn’t bear thinking about. you wondered what he was doing tonight. probably laid up with some sorry girl in that fucking motel room. what a simple life failures lead. you eat, you fuck, you shit, you die. when you’re actually worth something everything is struggle.

art was undecided. he held a little fluorescent ball in his hand, putting it into the neck of the racket. his eyes darted in the dark to his beautiful wife. he raised his eyebrowqa millimetre. tashi’s head flicked side to side, incrementally left to right, shaking no. throw the match. this wasn’t about tennis anymore. it had never been about tennis. he knew that now.

restless you leaned from knee to knee, crouched, flaunting your mobility, eyes never leaving tashi duncan. he looked back to you, and when he met your eye a shiver ran down his spine. he’s gonna touch you again tonight.

he paused a few more seconds. and then he served, a big sweeping motion, a thunk over his head. you were put into play.

what was it tashi had said? something really pretentious. you remembered hearing about it, something she had said to the threesome lackeys. it was passed down in bits like chinese whispers, but you’d heard the thesis of it. tennis was like fucking. like making love. like a beautiful dance where souls intertwine and total nirvana is reached and blah blah blah. at the time you’d thought that it was the biggest load of drivel you’d ever heard, and that if that was how she really felt then she’d never amount to shit, at least not in tennis.

but now, on this moonlit court, a dozen feet away from tennis star art donaldson, a dozen more away from star coach tashi duncan, you think maybe she was right all along. because you are fucking the shit out of art. he can’t seem to get a single fucking point. if this was a relationship, it’s fucking abusive. small grunts emanate from him, wimpy and down trodden sounds like a kicked dog. you get halfway through the match before realising what’s really going on.

the sound of the ball cracking from racket to racket is ear splitting, but the sound of your celebration every time you sink a point is louder to art. more distinctive and more memorable. you pump your fist at your side, and almost hiss, yes, and you walk around in a little circle, as if unable to contain your excitement. in all the match footage tashi had him watch, you never celebrated unless you won the match. he almost felt himself smile, but forced it away. he couldn’t let you know your joy was under his control, that he was allowing it.

but he wasn’t subtle. point after point after point, and art never withered. his spine was straight, not beaten wavy with defeat like it was supposed to be. once or twice the ball passed right by his racket, he didn’t even lift it. he got a few points, it wasn’t forty love. but he didn’t sweat. grunted before he even lost the point, before he even began to hit the ball. his arms were loose. they flung one way and another. was he even trying to hit the ball? you were grunting, you were sweating. you were fucking trying. you respected tashi and art enough, if not as people, then as competitors, to fucking try. all this bullshit about fucking, and you were still willing to try and win because despite everything, you still felt you had something to prove. didn’t they? what was this if not proving something? what more could it possibly be? art was smiling. beaten into the dirt and smiling. this was fucked. your turn to serve. you hold the ball in your hand, and seethe. you don’t move. your head tilts incrementally. you stare art down, half to determine the degree of fuckery, and half just to make him squirm. until his eyes flick to tashi. guidance please, master? his big loping puppy dog eyes scream.

fucking pathetic.

your racket clatters to the ground, ear splitting in the dark and quiet. tashi grinds her teeth, fingers drumming the seat, and almost calls out. almost barks at you to keep playing. but she doesn’t. because for some reason, you’re stalking towards the net. she can see the moonlight bounce off your closely shaven legs. the springing of your pony tail wafts towards her a paralysing chill, and she remains in her seat, silent.

your shoes grind as you stop on the astroturf, gripping the net with one hand, beckoning art with the other hand. he looks at you, up and down, eye brow quirked up. his lips pout involuntarily, and the bottomless well of tenderness you have for this silly, silly man pours fourth once again, doing nothing to stave off your anger.

“you tryna fuck me or something?”

art recoiled slightly. his eyes dashed to tashi.

“what do you mean?” his voice was thin. he wanted you to be quieter.

“play like you mean it or get off the court.”

you turn on your heel as soon as you spit the words, tearing at the dirt red asphalt. but then you stop. art never does anything you want him to. you know from experience. he needs an ulterior motive. you flick the sweat off your slick forehead with the slick back of your hand, and turn to art, savage smile pulling uncontrollably at your lips.

art remained where you left him by the net, stunned. what a violent, vulgar woman you had grown into. the creature he knew, that swallow, that doe, would never have spoken to him like that. jaded. vicious. you were changed. you were mangled. even that look on your heavenly face sent chills ricochetting up his spine, across his ribs. he visibly twitched as you returned to the netside.

“art, did tashi tell you about atlanta.”

you let the end of that word flick, like a feather in the wind. ta.

art blinked.

“atlanta? we were just there.”

you grasped the net and leaned forward. all was hush, even new york waited for you to continue. no car alarms, no distant drunken hollering. it was just you and art and festering contempt. and tashi, off the side, craning to hear a word and hearing her heart beat instead.

“you wanna know who else was there?”

you bit your lip, gleeful. art took a step closer to grip the net, to lean over.

“who? what are you talking about?”

“patrick.”

slowly, like a fall through quicksand, art realised. art screwed up his face, looked at his shoes, and then slowly, and right before your eyes, he found out who his wife really was. face fallen, eyes wide and focused on you, you only nodding. now that it was in front of him it seemed to obvious.

“what does that mean?”

but he knew what it meant.

“it means, i saw him yesterday. he said he saw you. well, not you. your other half. she didn’t tell you? he said it was a quite vigorous discussion.”

“stop it.”

that sickly satisfied smirk slipped off your face like leftovers into trash, leaving only the fire that never left.

“make me.”

neither of you looked away, rarely blinked, both fumed. art thought he could best you, thought you wouldn’t notice, thought you would just accept his bullshit and roll over. but art didn’t know his wife like you did. and now he would play you like he hated you, and you could beat him at his best. also, he most likely wouldn’t want to have sex regardless of the outcome, so it was win-win in truth.

arts thoughts were not so controlled, nor as proud or positive. the limpness of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, it all spurred on a horrible sinking feeling, as if along with his world he too was crumbling. he had thought nothing when she left for a walk after the finale. nothing whatsoever. but it was then she had stolen away, like a criminal. a secret dirty rendezvous. forbidden, tantalising, stomach churning. art got second place that day. was that why? was she punishing him? why had you done this to him? patrick. patrick. of all people. patrick. each flash of his smiling face in the void of arts mind was like a gunshot, a flash breaking through the void. how could one person be this cruel? and why did it have to be you? why were you changed? why couldn’t you be the same, why couldn’t you love him still? he needed someone that loved him and you were right in front of him, dead. dead to love. dead to connection. you were a creature, but you were no doe. you were a wounded sulking beast. you would beat down or maul anything wilfully ignorant enough to cross your path. but he needed you to love him. if not tashi, you. despite tashi, you.

watching his crumble had a strange effect on you. he swayed, and looked all around like he was blind. you felt bad. the animal softness you kept for him in your soul churned inside you. you felt guilty. but he should know. he deserved to know. maybe not in that way. but in a way.

“is that true? swear to me you’re not lying.”

the night was cooling off, and the ice-lake blue of art’s eyes, the press of his lips, the sag of his shoulder made you shiver. only now did you realise how close his face was to you as he leant over the net. incrementally moving back, you swallowed.

“i swear.”

“ok. ok.”

he looked down, rocked, didn’t pull away.

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”

his cheeks filled with air, and you could hear him try to cough out the lump in his throat.

“hey, art. art.”

he wouldn’t look up.

“i never wanted to know that. i would’ve never known.”

you didn’t think about this, about how ugly this all was. that was an ugly, horrible, jaded thing to do. jaded. patrick was right.

“i’m sorry.”

hands on hips, he turned around, moving away from you, racket clutched in a white fist. he just walked. and walked. it looked like he was about to leave the court when he turned around.

“you serve.”

and you and him played. actually played for the first time all day. he was running for the god damn ball, he was slamming it so hard your wrist ached to receive it. his face was aged, he looked more wrinkled and wisened and sinister, and he played like that too, like he has a clue what was going on and what tennis was. on one hand, this pleased you. a real fucking game. someone of the tashi clan is finally speaking to you in a language you can understand, a field you can dominate. art, try as he might, still, still, still, using all his anger, wasn’t beating you. this pleased you immensely.

but on the other hand, art was so angry. so fucking furious, and he was directing it at you. of course he was, you’re right there, you’re the bitch that told him his wife cheated, you get the surface of it. but he was so fucking angry. the grunts he made, the force behind his strides, the festering resentment he looked at you with, that was all bullshit. art is so bullshit.

in times gone by, tashi was the big bad in your mind, a monolith for your hatred. but this hissy fit is alerting you to another fact. art left you for her. he married her. that was his choice. but now, it blows up in his face, and he has the gall to be angry at you? to glare at you, grunt at you, spit on the moon-shaded clay and snarl at you? he comes into your life for the second time, blows it up, while you have a competition, and now he’s pissed at you for biting back? with the truth no less.

art is angry at you, but the truth is, you’re angrier. and so you wipe the floor with him.

above, tashi surveys, quietly mystified. this is the best you’ve played, ever. your form is exquisite, and strong, violent but controlled. you’re not fucking around. not that you ever are, but she notes that as your tally climbs and climbs, you never get comfortable, you never let up. it’s the same measured looks, the same desire as you lick the sweat off your lips and eye-fuck her husband. whatever you spoke about got art playing good too. maybe you should come to all his tournaments. tashi is itching to know what was said, but moreover she’s itching for the match to end, for a forfeit to be exchanged. whatever that may be.

it doesn’t take long before her prayers are answered, and the verdict is art has lost. he miss your last mighty shot by a landslide, on the other side of the court when it crashes down and bounces away out of bounds, into the nothing. you have won. you won. art lets out a guttural throaty cry and throws his racket to the ground while little sweat droplets leap from him like glitter.

he laps the court angrily, and you just hold out your arms, let the cool air hug your skin. no victory cry, because your body is singing with exhaustion, hard earned exhaustion, as your chest fills with air you feel vilified, you feel your truth has been exacted. you beat tashi. tashi’s husband. you beat art. you beat tashi’s man servant into the ground. you fucking win.

“fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck,” he holds the back of his head, elbows swinging as he moves about.

“fuck is right. i win.”

“shut up.”

like the crack of a whip you turn to look at him. he is still so fucking angry. at you. you, of all people.

“what was that? shut up? did a loser just tell me to shut up?”

“you know what you fucking did. you told me so i would lose concentration and throw the match.”

you were both approaching the net, seething, panting. he pointed at the floor as he spoke, with passion, like he even had a leg to stand on. maybe it was his righteous outrage that pissed you off, his self important hurting. why was he so angry at you? you didn’t fuck patrick. well, not in atlanta anyway.

“i told you so you would give enough of a shit to play me for real. that was the best you’ve played in year, art,”

you poke his chest, and aggression blooms within him from your point of contact like blood in water. you’re gonna make him crazy, he’s so angry. you’re still poking him.

”and guess what? i still. fucking. beat you.”

“you shut up or ill make you shut up.”

“oh, that really got the testosterone pumping didn’t it donaldson? do you think your balls are gonna drop soon, you spineless shit?”

“you vicious little bitch. you’re this much of a cunt just because tashi was better than you in college? how pathetic can a person be?”

“she is not fucking better than me. and you of all people should know that.”

your voice cracks. so it comes out fu-cking. but your point remains. a breath filled quiet settles and for a brief moment all either of you can do is stare at each other and realise how close you’ve gotten and ache and burn and crave. his hand rests on the net, a centimetre away from yours. if you wiggled your pinky at all you’d be touching.

you watch him breath, watch his eyes trace the sweat from your chin that drips to your chest, watch him hate the fact he noticed. you watch his anger congeal. set into warm mush instead of hot liquid. you felt a heaviness in your chest as you felt yourself giving in, giving over to your anger. giving over to the hurt that fueled it.

and you kissed each other. because there was nothing else in the world to do. like opposite poles, against both of your conscious wills, you crashed into each other and kissed like biting vipers. it hurt. your fingers dug into his thinly covered shoulders, his back, dull though they were. he gripped the back of your neck, the base of your skull, pushing you forward into him, keeping you where he could have you. his other hand fisted the back of your tank, like he was holding the scruff of a bad cat’s neck. trapped in his hold, you had no choice but to love him. you clawed and kissed and little noises escaped you, and all of a sudden he was 19 again and he had you. All thoughts of tashi and patrick and coming second place were vanquished, and all he could feel was the softness of your nose pressed into his cheek, the pliable flesh of your tongue and the freedom with which you enjoyed things, how much noise and honesty you were willing to give. nothing had felt so raw, so real for a long time.

your lips mushed and deformed around the other, your tongues licked like fire, you held each other until you felt you couldn’t be closer. and then tashi existed again. and you pulled away.

“congrats. our room or yours?”

306 notes · View notes

joelscurls · 1 year ago

Text

stalemate

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

words: 7.2k

summary: Frankie Morales is your best friend — until a drunken hookup tears you apart.

warnings: 18+ minors dni; friends -> enemies -> lovers, TF characters without the TF plot, no Tom (in this house we hate Tom), alcohol consumption, smoking, angst, jealousy, pining, Frankie & reader being idiots in love, explicit smut, size kink, brief mentions of drunk sex, bad / regretful sex (between reader & OC), oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, multiple orgasms, use of pet names (bebita, querida, baby, etc.), grilled cheese as a love language, happy ending, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: thank you so much to @javisashtray & @pedgito for beta-reading this for me <3 this is for all my frankie lovers out there (aka bitches with good taste). dividers are by cafekitsune. follow @joelscurlsupdates for fic notifications! enjoy :)

Frankie Morales makes the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had. Perfectly golden bread; gooey, melty cheese — just the thought of it makes you drool. He says he has a secret ingredient. Won’t let you in the kitchen while he cooks for you, lest you find out.

Sometimes, upon entering his apartment, you can already smell melted butter. He’ll have started on one without even asking if you want it. He knows you always do.

Sit, he’ll shout from the other room. I’ll be right there. Feel free to put something on — but please, not 13 Going on 30. You’ll thank him and question his distaste for Mark Ruffalo in the same breath: you’re the best, but it’s not my fault Matty is the dream man.

He’ll bring you the wafting plate along with a Corona, and insist that you eat before it goes cold while he makes one for himself. Ever the gentleman, ever the friend — at least he was.

Because the two of you haven’t spoken in a month; not since the drunken hookup that you’re both pretending didn’t happen.

You’d laughed the entire cab ride home from the bar. That last round of tequila shots had left you feeling good, all warm and giggly, and Frankie mirrored you in the backseat with his drunken grin. Eyes glassy, lips pulled wide, he’d smacked you lightly on the shoulder as you recalled Santiago’s pitiful loss in that third game of pool. “When he pocketed the eight-ball…” he trailed off into another fit of laughter.

“And then—“ you attempted, voice caught in your throat as another giggle barreled out. “—the cue hitting his drink!” Your entire body folded over, hands braced on Frankie’s thighs as the two of you struggled to regain composure. Through labored breaths, you squealed. “He’s never going to live that down!”

After a few particularly stressful months at work, you lived for these nights out with your friends. You’d met Frankie through your best friend Mal, who was dating his friend Benny, and your circles had eventually meshed into one. Sometimes it felt like it had always been that way, like you’d known the guys your entire life.

Especially Frankie.

Your friendship was a special one — punctuated by frequent trips to the movies to watch the latest horrible slasher film; by nights spent yapping on the phone about nothing in particular. He’d become a constant in your life. Never, in your right mind, would you even dream of doing anything to jeopardize that—

“You look really hot tonight, by the way.”

He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have. But then it was you who leaned in closer, you who rested your hand on his hip and plucked the Standard Heating Oil cap off his head, placing it atop your own.

It was you who kissed him first.

He deepened it though — that was all him — large, restless hands grasping at your sides, your back, your face; tongue pushing past the seam of your lips to press against yours. He’d groaned into your mouth when the cab stopped at the curb in front of your building. Cursed under his breath when you pulled away.

And then, your voice ragged and breathless, you’d asked, “do you want to come in for a bit?”

It was a mistake. A horrible, blissful mistake. Waking up with sticky thighs and Frankie’s thumbprint bruised into your hip, you’d found his side of the bed cold; your inbox empty. He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. Still hasn’t.

The aftermath is cursory glances. Half-assed greetings and pleasantries murmured across the bar. Which you don’t mind, really. You don’t want to speak to him. He’d probably just feed you some lie about losing track of time, not remembering what happened that night.

You wish you could forget it.

The visual is fuzzy; fleeting. But his voice — god, his voice — it still rings in your ears, drips at the nape of your neck like a leaking tap: fuck, baby, knew you’d take my cock; feel so good wrapped around me.

Your friends don’t know. They can’t; they wouldn’t let you live it down. Benny has made plenty of offhand comments already about you and Frankie being perfect for each other, having the same stubborn disposition. Mal does nothing to shut him up. Instead, she encourages him. Tells him he’s so right.

You’re pretty sure your eyeballs are going to fall out someday from glaring too hard.

Because you’re not perfect for each other — far from it, actually. Fuck, you can’t even communicate effectively. How could you ever be in a real relationship?

Not that you want that. Frankie is…well, Frankie. Sure, he’d felt undeniably incredible on top of you, inside of you — but he isn’t the type to settle down. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Frankie talk about dating.

Besides, he’s clearly not interested in being anyone’s anything right now. Not even your friend.

It hurts; cuts deeper than you care to admit. Just weeks ago, you’d spent an entire weekend at his place, marathoning the X Files and gorging on cold pizza. Now, he won’t even look your way for more than a few seconds.

Won’t make you a fucking grilled cheese.

It’s a Friday night, which means you’re meeting your friends at Sid’s. The glow of neon seeping through the windows of the old dive bar is warm and inviting as you step out of your rideshare and make your way toward the doors.

Frankie is sitting at the bar with Santiago when you enter. Hunched shoulders, narrowed eyes trained on his bottle of Corona, he appears detached from whatever Santi is saying to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you stroll up to them — not until his friend’s hand lands hard on his back, pulling his attention away from the beer. He offers a half-assed hello and an even more half-assed half-hug, and then he’s sliding back onto his barstool.

Ever-oblivious, Santiago doesn’t seem to notice the way Frankie curls in on himself; the way your back is up like an agitated cat’s.

Mal and Benny turn up minutes later, immediately ordering a round of shots for the group. You down the liquor eagerly, not bothering to lean on salt and lime to numb the sting. You want to feel it. You order another before joining Mal and the guys at a pool table in the back, letting the acid slide down your throat with no more than a wince as Santi racks the balls.

“Alright Fish, you’re up,” he says. “Me and you. Whoever loses buys the next round.”

You watch as Frankie quirks a brow at him. Takes a swig of his beer. “You sure you want to make that bet, Pope?”

Santi grins; nods confidently. “Hell yeah, I do.” The rest of you don’t bother to suppress your laughter. You catch a glimpse of Frankie, head thrown back, his broad, glistening neck exposed, and you have to fight to ignore the sudden panging in your chest.

When Santi inevitably loses, you order a vodka soda. You’re already feeling a bit tipsy after two shots in less than twenty minutes, so the drink goes down smooth; quick. There’s a rush to your head as you settle back at the bar and fiddle with the wrapper to your straw, letting the slightly soggy paper roll between two fingers.

You barely notice when Frankie slots in a few seats down, your attention drawn only when you hear his voice. It’s deep — sounds just like it did when he had his chest pressed to your back in the dim light of your bedroom — and his intonation nearly gives you whiplash.

When you snap your head up to look at him, you find he’s speaking to a woman. Her back is turned to you, long, dark hair tossed over her shoulder and her elbow resting casually on the bartop, but you imagine she must be beautiful by the way Frankie is visibly fawning over her. You’re staring, you hear her tease. Can’t help it, comes his reply.

Something like discomfort builds in your throat. Rises up up up. You take a long sip of your drink, letting vodka and sugar push it down.

You’ve never seen Frankie flirt with anyone, apart from you. It’s strangely unsettling, listening to him smooth-talk her. I’m a pilot, you know, he brags; could take you up in the sky someday if you wanted. Her giddy squeal comes seconds later; really? You’d do that for me?

You feel bad for her. She doesn’t know yet that all he’ll do is disappoint her.

He feeds her lines as you sip on your drink, citrus and grain burning only when he tells her: yeah, I came with friends; they’re all over there. Gestures toward Benny, Mal and Santi standing around the pool table in the back.

Scoffing, you stand from your seat at the bar and retreat to the patio. You don’t bother to check if Frankie is looking.

It’s cooler here, a sobering breeze carrying salt air with it as it wafts by. A few patrons have spilled outside, most smoking on faintly glowing cigarettes as they talk and laugh boisterously among themselves. You’d planned to sit alone, to plant yourself on a bench and enjoy your drink in solitude. But then a stranger is approaching you — a man, cigarette grasped between two of his fingers — and he’s asking you for a light.

He’s in his mid thirties, if you had to guess. Curly, dark hair sprouts every which way from his scalp; rounded, green eyes studying you as he awaits a response. He’s tall, though not as tall as Frankie. His shoulders aren’t nearly as broad and his chest isn’t quite as wide. His t-shirt hangs loose around his torso, swallowing his narrow frame — dissimilar to the way Frankie’s button-down clings to him.

Then again — why are you even comparing? Maybe the opposite of Frankie is exactly what you need.

You’ll have to seduce this stranger first, though. Not that it seems like it’ll be very difficult. His eyes are already raking over you, lips turned up at the corner as you take a casual sip of your drink.

“I don’t smoke,” you admit apologetically.

“Ah — that’s alright.”

He has an accent; midwestern, maybe? You don’t bother to ask. You don’t care, really. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is—

“You here all by yourself?”

“Yeah,” he laughs at your lack of subtlety. “Are you?”

“No,” you say. “My friends are inside.” Lowering your voice, you add, “but I was thinking about leaving soon.”

“Why’s that? Early morning tomorrow?”

You shake your head. Rub at your neck as if working out a knot, a contented hum pushing past your lips at the press of fingers into skin. Your stranger’s eyes trail rather conspicuously downward.

“Just over it,” you sigh exasperatedly. “I’d much rather be home…in bed…out of these clothes.”

You pull gently at the strap of your dress, as if you can’t bear the sensation of it against your shoulder any longer.

Your stranger’s gaze darkens, and the grip on his box of cigarettes grows tighter.

“You uh — want some company — once I find a light?”

Too fucking easy.

“Sure,” you giggle.

He slips away only for a minute or two, giving you just enough time to second-guess yourself. You know nothing about this man, not even his name; only that he smokes American Spirits and smells like tobacco. Should you really go home with him?

But then you think of Frankie inside — talking up a woman at the bar, pretending that you don’t exist — and that just about makes up your mind for you.

Your stranger reappears, now-lit cigarette dangling from his lips. The tip of it rages red and angry, and you think you know how that feels.

He smirks at you as he stuffs the pack into the front pocket of his jeans. An unceremonious silence hangs in the air as he sucks on the filter and puffs out a string of smoke. You wait patiently for him, quietly.

He snuffs the butt of his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. Takes your empty cup and discards that too.

Can’t wait to get you home, he whispers in your ear then. You feign arousal, peering up at him and batting your eyelashes. Me neither, you mewl. Let’s go.

You lead him back through the bar, finding Mal and letting her know that you’ll be going. She seems a little perplexed, quirking a brow at you as you grip tightly onto your stranger’s arm, but she tells you to have fun anyway. Text me, she mouths as you make your way to the exit.

You only get a few feet, though, before you’re intercepted.

Frankie is blocking the door, arms crossed, a panic-stricken look on his face that you can’t quite comprehend. “Hey,” he says, “can I talk to you real quick?”

Your stranger backs off. Lets go of your arm and starts out the door. “I’ll wait outside,” he says, slipping away with a wink before you can protest.

The bar is bustling with noise, people in every corner drinking and laughing and dancing. Strangely, though, you’ve never felt so alone. So vulnerable. And you hate that Frankie has this power over you, the innate ability to make you feel so fucking small. It’s infuriating, it’s—

“Are you sure you want to leave with him?”

“Excuse me?” you scoff.

Frankie stares you down, face red, eyes inky-black. “You don’t know this guy, do you? What if he’s a murderer or something? Or like — a pervert?”

He’s grasping at straws, you know it. It’s why you laugh; roll your eyes.

“What are you, my keeper?”

“No, it’s just — I’m just concerned for your safety, okay?”

You’re briefly stunned. After weeks of ignoring you, he cares about your wellbeing? How can he be so hypocritical?

“I’m fine,” you bite back. “Why don’t you go back to your girl at the bar? Worry about getting yourself some instead?”

He’s wounded, if only slightly. His lips part like he might retaliate, but he’s silent. Dejected. Satisfied, you brush past him. March out the door without so much as a parting glance.

Finding your stranger leaning against the bar’s brick exterior, you force a smile. He outstretches a hand and you take it, reluctantly. “Ready to go?” he asks.

You’re not so sure anymore, but you nod anyway. Squeeze your stranger’s bicep and preen under his lustful gaze when he tenses in your grip. “Yeah,” you purr. “I’m ready.”

Cold air bites at your toes the following morning. It wakes you from a deep slumber; bitterly pulls you into consciousness. Confused, you yank at the covers. But a mysterious weight holds them in place, and only then do you remember then that you’re not alone.

Eyes sliding open reluctantly, you scan the room. Your dress from the night before is draped over the chair in the corner, your stranger’s clothes piled up on the floor nearby. He snores next to you, an arm raising to hang above his head, and you shift. Slip out of bed and pull a t-shirt on before padding into the bathroom.

Early morning light spills across tile, bounces off the mirror above the sink. You squint, shuffling over to the window and yanking the blinds closed. Then you check for damage in your reflection. Your makeup from the night before has stained your cheeks and your eyes look as tired as you feel, but otherwise there appears to be no physical evidence of your rock bottom.

The sex wasn’t great — not even good, really. Your stranger had lasted all of three minutes, had fanned his hot breath across the shell of your ear as he came, and then collapsed on top of you. Rolled over and drifted to sleep. He’d started snoring before you could even process what had just happened.

Cold water splashed across your cheeks does nothing to cool the burn of regret that scorches your skin. You feel uncomfortable, almost as if your body is tainted, now, remnants of your stranger leaking from between your thighs as you steady yourself at the edge of the sink.

He must’ve heard the tap, or maybe the pounding in your chest, because he emerges seconds later. He yawns and stretches, feline-like, in the doorway. “Hey,” he mutters. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good,” you say, eyes twitching slightly as you will them to stay put above his waistline.

“You always up this early?”

You nod. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that you’d nearly jumped out of bed at the sight of him still there. He doesn’t need to know that for a split second, you’d almost hoped it was Frankie.

He asks if you want to get breakfast. You shake your head in faux-sympathy. “Sorry, can’t. I was hoping to get some cleaning done.”

“I could stick around and help,” he offers.

Jesus Christ. Just take the fucking hint.

“That’s so nice of you; I’m just more efficient by myself,” you lie again.

If Frankie were here, he’d grab the cleaning rags out of the closet just off the kitchen. He knows where they’re kept: second shelf, on the left. He’d wipe down the counters and the coffee table while you’d work on clearing dishes, disposing of pizza scraps. And he’d probably put on his dad-rock playlist — against your wishes — though you’d inevitably find yourself dancing to Foo Fighters and giggling when he’d sing along and mess up the words.

It begins to sink in then, as you shoo your stranger, now dressed, out the door, that your attempt to use sex as a way to get Frankie out of your head was useless. He’s still there, refusing quite adamantly to budge, all mussed curls and big eyes and deep voice. There’s no evidence that he’ll be leaving any time soon.

The revelation renders you nauseous. You spend the rest of the day with a hangover that you’re sure has not been induced by alcohol. And by the time night falls, darkness descending over your bedroom like a fog, you still feel sick.

A week later, you drag yourself to Benny and Mal’s for their monthly game night. You’d tried to get out of it, told Mal you haven’t been feeling great — which isn't a total lie — but she’d begged you until you broke.

Will is coming, and it’ll be the first time we’ve all gotten together in over a year, she’d whined through the receiver.

And then-

I know things were weird between you and Frankie last time at the bar, but you can’t let that stop us from seeing each other.

How do you know that, you’d asked, chewing on your bottom lip, the phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder.

He basically moped around the rest of the night after you left. Kept bitching about you leaving with that guy. He seemed really…agitated. You don’t have to tell me what happened, just please don’t bail.

So you’re here, steeling yourself as you climb the steps to the front door, hoping that if nothing else, you can make it through the night without strangling Frankie for his lack of discretion.

You enter the house with baited breath.

Your eyes immediately catch Frankie, tucked into the corner of the sectional, fingers wrapped tightly around his beer. He meets your gaze briefly before letting it slip to the floor by his feet, as if he’s trying to pretend he hasn’t seen you at all.

“Hi,” you try.

He looks back up at you, or rather past you. Taps his fingers along the bottle for a long moment. “Hey,” he says finally, to the wall behind your head.

“How have you been?” the words come out forced, almost foreign. You shift your weight awkwardly and he sighs.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“Right,” you mutter. More silence. “Me too, in case you were wondering.”

“Good,” he says, voice cold. “That’s good.”

You’re not sure whether you want to slap him or kiss him. Because as infuriating as he’s being right now, he looks gorgeous, denim shirt hugging his biceps, his shoulders; stray curls peaking out from under that stupid Standard Heating Oil hat. You yearn to rip it off his head, run your fingers through his hair, nip along the sharp line of his jaw; the broad expanse of his neck.

You long to feel something other than the prominent ache that’s permeated your body for weeks, now. And you fear that he’s the only one who’d be able to alleviate it.

Your mouth opens again just as Benny emerges from the kitchen. Whatever words you were about to utter are lost in the ether as he pulls you into a suffocating hug and thanks you for coming.

“Mal’s in the kitchen,” he says. Grabs a handful of Lays from a bowl on the coffee table and shovels them into his mouth. Still chewing, he adds, “we got those wine coolers you like; they’re in the fridge.”

With a hurried thanks, you slip away unscathed.

You find Mal crouched in front of the open fridge, rustling through a produce drawer stocked with beer cans.

“Hey,” you announce.

She seems almost surprised to see you when she cranes her neck toward your voice, despite your promise to show. Eyebrows raised, mouth slightly agape, it’s as if she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She pulls another drawer open. Fishes out a wine cooler and passes it to you with an outstretched arm.

You take it in one hand. Help her up with the other.

“You’re here,” she says, and it sounds like more of a question than a statement.

“Yeah. I said I would be.”

“I know, I know. It’s just — I wasn’t sure. The whole Frankie thing…”

“It’s nothing; I promise,” you lie. “Water under the bridge. We’re fine.”

She quirks a brow at you, disbelief coloring her features, but she lets it go. Closes the fridge with a thunk and adjusts her sweater at the hem. “Good,” she says. “I don’t want you two ruining game night.”

It’s half a joke, but you know deep down she means it. She takes this all very seriously. Back in college, she’d forced you and your suitemates to play Cards Against Humanity with her every weekend. None of you had the heart to tell her when it started to grow monotonous, and so the tradition carried on well past graduation, eventually evolving into a new tradition with new friends.

Games bring people together, she’d said once over a round of Monopoly that had stretched well into the night, resulting in delirious laughter and a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest.

You’d believed her at the time. Now, you’re not so sure that it’s foolproof.

The two of you rejoin the guys in the living room, Santiago and Will having shown up in your absence. You greet them as Benny pulls out a stack of game boxes. Settle on the couch, as far away from Frankie as you can manage.

It starts during the second round of Charades.

The first round had gone fine — good, even. Teamed up with Santi and Will, you’d avoided eye contact with Frankie for the whole of it. Focused only on guessing Santi’s horribly-mimed clues in between handfuls of trail mix and sips of watermelon-flavored bubbles.

It’d felt a bit like old times, all of you in one room again. Mal snuggling into Benny on the loveseat; Will catching his brother up on time spent touring the country, giving motivational speeches to recently discharged veterans. He’d asked you how you’ve been as Santi studied his next word, and you’d remembered then that everything was very much not how it once was.

And you hadn’t missed Frankie’s discomfort at the question; the way he set his beer bottle down on the table with a bit too much force, glass clanging against wood. Though if Will noticed too, he hadn’t said anything. Just moved into a story about some woman he met on the road that reminded him of you.

Santi’s turn had ended with a whopping zero points for your team, and now Frankie is standing at the front of the room, unfolding the scrap of paper in his hand and reading it to himself. In the lull, you find yourself staring at him, eyes near glazing over at the sight of the tiny paper pinched between long, thick fingers. Fingers you remember the reach of, the weight of.

He crumples the paper and stuffs it into his pocket, signaling that he’s ready to go. Mal flips over the sand timer on the table. And you almost don’t notice at first when he starts, mind occupied by equal parts lust and annoyance, that he’s fucking mouthing the phrase.

You watch, enraged, as Benny squints to read his lips. He raises his hand excitedly and jumps to his feet; yells out the answer with a sureness that Frankie affirms with a nod.

“That’s right. It’s the Empire State Building.”

“That’s fucking cheating!” you shout, a bit angrier than the situation calls for, and the room grows quiet. Fury coursing through you, you add, “are you fucking serious, Frankie?”

You feel the eyes on you; the awkward sheen you’ve cast over the room. Mal shifts across from you, glaring when you turn to face her, and you laugh defensively.

“What, nobody else thinks that’s unfair?”

“Please,” Frankie sneers.

“No, she’s right,” Santi tries — ever the peacemaker. “We’ll just add a rule going forward; no mouthing the words.”

“Fuck that,” you hiss. “I want their point taken away.”

Frankie scoffs from the other side of the room. “Bullshit! We earned that before the rule was added.”

You’re fuming now, standing to get a bit closer to his height; though he still towers over you. Mal is right on your heels, placing a hand on your shoulder in an attempt to placate you. You brush her off. Take another stride toward Frankie.

“There shouldn’t need to be an official rule against it, Frankie. It’s common fucking sense — which clearly, you have none of.”

Visibly offended, he says nothing. Just tenses his jaw.

“Why did you come tonight?” you continue, voice more level now; direct.

You hear your name uttered behind you, tone pleading, warning. You ignore it.

“Seriously, why?”

He’s quiet for a long, drawn-out moment, eyes pointed at the floor again.

“What are you talking about?” he spits, finally.

You laugh, amused and irritated, and these things somehow feel one in the same. “I mean, clearly you don’t want to be in my presence or even acknowledge my existence — unless it’s to cockblock me — so why are you here?”

His brows furrow; lips twist. For a second, you think he might actually leave. He adjusts his cap, jangles the car key in his pocket — but Benny stops him before he can take a step.

“Just — cut it out, okay? Both of you.”

“He’s the one-“

“I don’t care,” Benny interjects. Scanning the room, you catch sight of Santi and Will and Mal, all visibly agitated, and you sigh.

Guilt washes over you, then. The twisting of Santi’s face, Mal’s doleful stare, the wordless look exchanged between Benny and Will. All confirm your fear that you’ve effectively ruined their night.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Frankie echoes your apology. Still, the others aren’t impressed.

“I don’t know what’s been going on lately with you two, but you need to figure this shit out,” Benny says. He sounds like a parent: stern and slightly disappointed. “Can you please just — go in the other room and talk through it?”

Though you haven’t much cared for Frankie’s opinion as of late, you still turn to him to gauge his reaction. He appears just as hesitant as you are, just as guilt-stricken. But something more lurks behind his eyes — something like fear, anxiety. Why, you aren’t sure.

You raise a brow at him, a wordless question. He answers with a sigh.

“Fine,” you both say at once.

“Thank goodness,” Mal chimes. Herding you two like cattle with a hand on each of your backs, she leads you out of the living room and into the adjoining hallway.

Her voice drones behind you as you make your way toward the third door on the right. Shall we continue the game?

The guest room is primly kept. It appears almost untouched at first glance, though you know that to be untrue. You’ve stayed here before, after blurry nights spent drinking shitty gin and singing karaoke. That must’ve been years ago now, though, after Mal and Benny first bought this house, and you begin to wonder if your tumultuous friendship with Frankie only made you neglect your friendship with her. And that only adds to the anger stirring inside of you — because what was it all worth, if it’s ended up like this?

Frankie closes the door behind him with a click, and the air in the room feels exponentially thicker.

“What the fuck was that?” you hiss.

He scoffs. “Me? You’re the one who freaked out and started an argument over nothing!”

“It wasn’t nothing. You were cheating.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes. Takes two steps toward you. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

“Oh,” you laugh, “so you are aware that you’ve been an asshole?”

He says your name, voice suddenly lower, softer. Your entire body tenses as you struggle to keep strong, to not think about how it sounded in your ear in the midst of pleasure.

“I wasn’t trying to be-”

You throw a hand up; silence him. “Well you have been,” you groan. “You’ve been a huge fucking asshole. You hurt me, Frankie. You were my best friend, and then you just… stopped returning my texts. You won’t even look at me when we’re in the same room together. Did you regret it that much?”

The room goes still. You watch as Frankie’s chest rises and falls arduously, his eyes settling on you. They’re dark, pupils blown wide, squeezing shut as he exhales long and hard.

“No.”

You quirk a brow at him, confused.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, averting his gaze. “And that’s the problem — I didn’t regret it at all.” His eyes lift slowly, finding you again, voice more sure when he adds, “I’ve wanted it for a long time”

You can barely comprehend what he’s saying, your heart climbing its way out of your ribcage and up your throat. You gulp, feeling the shape of it there as saliva slowly slides past.

He takes another two steps forward, mere inches from you now, and your breath hitches.

“Do you know how difficult it’s been to look at you without getting fucking hard?” he whispers. “How many times I’ve fucked my fist in the past month imagining it was you?”

Your mouth falls open, stunned. “That girl at the bar-”

He shakes his head. “I thought maybe if I fucked someone else, it would help.”

“And did it?”

“I didn’t — I didn’t go home with her,” he admits, a little bashfully. “I couldn’t do it.”

His hand lifts, then, cautious and shaky. It finds its way to your face, grazes your jaw so softly you’d think you imagined it if you couldn’t see.

“Why not?” you squeak.

He nods, as if he’s finally accepting something he’s known to be true, admitting it to himself before he does so out loud.

“Because she wasn’t you.”

It feels as if your entire world has spun on its axis.

Without thinking, you wrap your hand around Frankie’s neck and pull him toward you, crashing your lips into his with a groan. He’s quick to respond, desperately tangling his fingers in your hair and winding his tongue around yours, a broken moan slipping from his throat.

For a long moment, that’s all it is. It’s clashing teeth and restless hands; the draw of blood and the taste of it, earthy and metallic on your tongue. It’s the two of you, reconciling for lost time and unshared feelings and the overlooked need for each other through tangled bodies.

And when you finally pull apart, his lips are swollen and his eyes are glazed over, and you’re sure you don’t look much different.

“Frankie,” you whine as his mouth latches to your neck, warm and wet. He doesn’t retreat; just hums against you.

“Need you,” you say breathlessly. “Need you to touch me.”

His large hand skates down your front, under the waistband of your leggings. He presses two fingers against your clothed clit, and your knees buckle. You lean into him, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest as he begins rubbing small, deliberate circles into cotton.

Lips trailing up to your ear, he nibbles at the lobe. Presses his tongue just behind the shell of it and sighs. “Been wanting this since that night. Want to make you feel good. Want to do it right.”

You mewl in response, high-pitched and too loud, and you have to bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out again. He’s still working you toward the brink, pace relentless, beseeching you every time you buck into his hand.

There you go baby, that’s it; I got you.

You know he does, can feel the support of his unoccupied hand at the small of your back, holding you to his strong body. And god, how you’ve missed the feeling of it pressed to yours. You think that that alone could make you come.

You feel yourself slipping as your orgasm approaches, legs slumping underneath you more and more with every pass of his fingers. “Frankie,” you warn, teeth still anchored in his skin. “I’m going to-“

The words are muffled, but he gets it. Presses down harder and works his fingers faster. “Come on baby,” he growls in your ear, “come on.”

Your orgasm hits you so hard that you collapse, your body dead weight in Frankie’s grip as you writhe. He grasps onto you tightly, working you through it with his unyielding touch, swiping back and forth, back and forth as the final waves crest.

You’re panting when it ends, and still when Frankie helps you to the edge of the bed. Perched there, staring up at him with glassy eyes, you realize you’ve never felt so sated and so needy at the same time.

“Frankie?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Please fuck me.”

He should probably say no. After all, you’re in your friends’ guest room, people just a few hundred feet on the other side of the door. But then again, he’s already made you come.

You watch him consider it, eyes flickering to the door and back to you, dark and deep and pooling with want.

In the end, he can’t help himself.

“Can you be quiet, querida?”

You nod, though you’re sure that even if you said no, he wouldn’t care. He’d do just as he’s doing now: pressing your shoulder, encouraging you to lay down on the bed; helping you pull your sneakers off, then your leggings, then your shirt; stepping back to marvel at your half-naked form before him.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and your entire body heats from the inside out. You feel like you’re on fire, his stare keeping you alight as he undresses down to his boxers.

He climbs over you with a hand on either side of your head, pressed into the mattress. The lip of his hat bumps you, and you immediately rip it off of him, tossing it aside and tangling your fingers in dark curls.

You tug at them, dragging him down until his face is hovering just above yours, and he responds with a strangled moan. His body pressed to yours now, you can feel the weight of his hard cock against your clothed pussy. Your mouth finds his again in a languid kiss — slow and deep. You feed each other sighs and moans, taste each other’s longing. His hips roll into yours with every exhale, teasing you — reminding you, and you feel like you’re steadily going insane.

He pulls back, panting. Rests his forehead on yours.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, plucking at the strap of your bra. You nod furiously. Lift the upper half of your body so that he can undo the clasps.

Breasts suddenly exposed, you feel your nipples begin to harden. Frankie groans at the sight of them, so pert and needing. Wordlessly, he dips his head, buries his face in your chest. His tongue wraps around one of your nipples and you cry out, hand flying to your mouth in an instant.

“Oh fuck,” you moan into your palm.

“Feel good?” he asks, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he shifts his focus to the other nipple. You feel so sensitive everywhere, the heft of his tongue going straight to your clit, and you can barely answer him. A shaky yes tumbles from your mouth — the best you can do. He hums, so low the vibrations burrow under your skin and barrel through you, and you keen at the sensation.

“God, you sound so pretty,” he sighs as he rolls one of your stiff peaks between two fingers. His other hand drifts down your body, dips between the two of you and pulls your panties aside.

“Fuck,” he curses, fingertip brushing over your seam just barely. “You’re soaked, bebita. That all for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine. “All for you Frankie; fuck-“

He’s shifts down your body, hooks both arms under your legs and drags you toward him in one swift motion, leaving you no time to process before his tongue is on your pussy. “Have to taste you,” he babbles drunkenly, plunging into your leaking cunt and lapping at you.

“Oh, oh shit,” you moan as he drags his tongue up to your clit. “Please baby, please.”

“I know; I got you,” he soothes. Then he begins to lave your clit with the soft flat of his tongue, warm muscle encircling the throbbing nub. Wide eyes staring up at you, he observes intently. Responds to every sound, every tell with a switch in direction or an increase in pressure. He’s so attentive, so desperate to make you come on his mouth, and it sends you into a sort of delirium.

Your second orgasm hits you out of nowhere, slams through your body with so much intensity, you don’t even have the strength to warn Frankie before your release is gushing all over his face and, undoubtedly, the bed below.

He growls against your cunt. Comes up for air and kisses you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he tugs his boxers down and frees his aching cock. Notches at your entrance without detaching his lips from yours.

It’s a stretch — you recall it being so last time too — though the alcohol had done wonders to loosen your body. Now, you feel every devastating inch of him as he pushes in. He’s gentle. Tells you how good you’re doing as he feeds you more and more of his cock. There you go, that’s my girl, taking it so well for me. And for some reason, him calling you his nearly makes you come again.

He notices the way you preen in response. Thumbs across the slope of your jaw as he settles inside you. “You like that, baby? Like me calling you mine?”

“Yes, Frankie — fuck. Want it.”

You don’t specify whether you mean him or his cock. You’re not entirely sure. Not that it matters. You know he’ll give you both, give you anything. Can feel it in the way he gazes at you through heart-shaped eyes as he lets you adjust to him.

“So fucking beautiful, you know that?”

Your eyes roll back and saliva pools in your mouth. “God,” you breathe.

“I’m serious,” he says, finally beginning to move. The slow drag of his cock brushes your g-spot and you gasp. “Was so stupid before, fucking you drunk. Wanna remember every second, every noise you make, every inch of your perfect fucking body.”

“Jesus, Frankie.”

He pushes back in with one deep thrust. Sets a pace that, while not rough, definitely isn’t gentle. You begin to babble and writhe under him. Hook your legs around him so he can get even deeper.

He groans. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”

“It’s so fucking good,” you cry. “Feels like fucking heaven, Frankie.”

“Nah, that’s you.” He lets his head fall on your shoulder, drives into you faster. Pants into the crook of your neck. “Perfect fucking pussy.”

It ends all too quickly — with your fingernails dug into his back and his sweaty curls sticking to your forehead. Your cunt clenching around his cock, pulling his orgasm out of him just as yours begins to roll through you. You free fall from the cliff’s edge together, breathless moans spilling between your slotted mouths, his warmth flooding you and leaking from the place you’re still connected.

As the room around you slowly comes back into focus, you hear the sound of distant laughter. Benny’s boisterous chuckle and Mal’s much softer one. Clearly distracted, they’re likely blissfully unaware of what’s just happened. You giggle, covering your face as Frankie pulls out.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, prying your hands away.

“We’re gonna have to get them a new bedspread. We just defiled this one.”

He stands, then, pulling you upright with him. You squeal as blood rushes to your head and your vision goes staticky.

“Worth it,” he smirks. Gives you a chaste kiss. “Got my girl back.”

You dress and rejoin the group as inconspicuously as possible. Pray they don’t notice the way you’re wobbling on your feet, or the sheen of sweat that’s coated your skin.

“You sort everything out?” Santi smirks knowingly as you reassume your place on the couch, Frankie settling back into the corner.

“Yeah,” he mutters, refusing to make eye contact.

“It’s about time,” Benny shouts from the kitchen. Frankie’s head shoots up, pivots toward his voice.

“What do you mean?”

He emerges in the doorway with a shit-eating grin. Mal stifles a laugh from the loveseat.

“Just saying it’s about time,” he shrugs. “That’s all.”

Shit; apparently you hadn’t been as quiet as you thought.

The others chuckle as you and Frankie exchange a mortified look. The embarrassment is short lived though, Will clapping his hands together, asking what game you all want to play next.

An hour later, after a couple rounds of Codenames and another wine cooler, you head out the door with Frankie right beside you. It feels odd, not hiding anymore. But more so, it feels right.

He leans you against your SUV under silver moonlight. Kisses you with plush, soft lips against yours; restless hands roving up your sides. Pulls back with a suspiciously large grin.

You cock an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just glad I stopped being an idiot.”

“I don’t know about that,” you tease, and he smacks you gently on the arm.

“Come over?” he asks, his hand draped over your waist.

You think on it for only a second. Nod. “Yeah. As long as you make me a grilled cheese.”

“That can be arranged.”

end notes: thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider commenting and/or reblogging :)

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