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Your footsteps sound out softly on the faded stone beneath your shoes. Normally, this hall would be full of other students, their voices bouncing off the walls as they make their way unhurriedly towards their next class.
Today, however, the halls were quiet. They typically were, at least, they were when you arrived. You like the silence, the old building seemingly waking up at an early hour, the stones sighing softly as they prepare for another day.
But maybe you're projecting.
You've always preferred to arrive early. While other students grumble about an 8:00 AM class, you were freshly showered and walking through campus at seven sharp. There was something comforting about being one of the only students awake.
The door to your first class opens silently, and you walk towards your seat. You didn't sit in the front row, but rather, the second row. The syllabus for your photography class mentioned a project starting this week. Specifically, a partnered project. You weren't too concerned, seeing as you'd already been practicing in your free time with a camera. You'd mastered (as much as a junior in college can master) the settings for different apertures and shutter speeds. You could see the different ISO's and their output in your mind. It all came down to simple math, really. And you'd always loved math.
Besides, there were plenty of competent students sitting around you. Any one of them could be a useful partner. Other students seemed to flock towards you in class. You weren't unaware of the whispers that followed you. You'd spent three years building up a reputation as a smart, hard-working student. You refused to let another student bring down your grades, so you were rather happy about the other students with the same determination to succeed surrounding you.
The only aggravating thing about this assignment was that the professor hadn't explained what the assignment would entail yet. You hated not having all the information. How were you supposed to prepare in advance without all the key parts of an assignment?
You're fiddling with your camera, having carefully extracted it from the padded bag you store it in, when your professor walks in.
"Early again, I see," she says, alerting you to her presence.
Looking up, you see a small smile at the corner of her lips, signaling her amusement.
"You know me, professor," you quip, holding up your camera. "I'm getting in the right headspace to succeed."
Professor Harkness chuckles, setting her bag down. "I do admire your determination," she says, turning towards you and raising an eyebrow. "I think this assignment will be quite difficult for you. It's based on emotion, not logic."
You frown, confused at what she means.
Leaning against her desk and crossing her arms, your professor explains. "Logic is useful, you know this. The logistics of a camera are important, and you know them very well. But right now, all you can do is use the camera."
She begins to roll up the sleeves of her loose dress shirt, her dark hair falling in front of her face slightly as she resumes speaking. "Art is not logical, however. Art is meant to bring feeling to the surface. Anyone can learn the science of math if they try hard enough, but not everyone has the same ability to invoke emotion using art. Knowing how to capture the composition of a photograph, and to edit it until looking at the photograph invokes the same feeling that you get when you're, say, standing in your grandmother's kitchen at three in the morning, now that takes skill."
Professor Harkness finishes rolling up her sleeves, brushing her hair out of her face as she smiles at you. "I look forward to watching you develop that skill. I have no doubt that you will. But it may take a while. This is going to be new for you."
You simply nod, feeling that familiar fire fill you. The one that keeps you going, that doesn't allow you to fall behind or fail. You will succeed. You have to.
The classroom is filled with a comforting silence as your professor sets up her laptop, connecting it to the projector at the back of the classroom. You spend your time thinking about compositions, emotions, and how different colors affect your mood.
The first few students trickle in, the clock above the door letting you know there are ten minutes until class starts. The seats around you begin to fill up, and you lose yourself in the conversations around you.
There is no bell to signify the start of class, but your professor slowly makes her way to the front of the room, plucking a shawl from her bag and wrapping it around her shoulders. It is a bit drafty in this classroom, after all.
She leans against her desk, and the murmurs of the students cease.
"Ah, just in time," your professor says, smiling as you hear the door slam closed.
The heavy thunk of combat boots sounds out, and you internally roll your eyes. Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see Wanda Maximoff careflessly plop her bag next to a seat near the wall, sliding in and offering a quick, apologetic smile to the professor. She isn't late, but she's the last student in.
She always is. It aggravates you, for some reason. Doesn't she care about school? The thought of her grades makes you shudder. There was no way she was passing her classes easily. She never seemed to pay attention; the inside of her backpack was filled with loose papers, and she never seemed to have a pencil.
But somehow, she was still here. With the same heavy eyeliner and silver jewelry clinking softly. You genuinely wondered how long it took her to put on her rings, necklaces, bracelets, and chains wrapped around her belt.
Professor Harkness begins speaking, and you push all thoughts of Wanda Maximoff from your mind.
Your notebook is filled with your neat handwriting as your professor explains the assignment, reassuring the class that she will post the rubric online once class is over. You feel relief at that. You like it when your success can be calculated based on a rubric.
Everything goes downhill once Professor Harkness clicks into the next slide of her presentation.
Your photography class is small. Small enough, in fact, that every student's name fits on one slide.
"I've already assigned partners for this project," Professor Harkness begins, raising her eyebrows as murmurs break out across the room. You remain still, your eyes searching the board for your name.
There. Right next to…
Fuck.
Professor Harkness continues speaking, but you feel your face flushing in anger. How could she do this? She knew how important school was to you. And yet, she chose to pair you with Wanda Maximoff, of all people.
"As you can tell," your professor says, holding a hand up to quiet the murmurs. "Above each pair of names is a different emotion. I want each pair to come up with a series of ten photographs that convey that emotion. Don't worry," she smiles when the murmurs grow louder. "As long as you have solid reasoning for why each photograph conveys that emotion to you, you'll receive full points."
Professor Harkness looks around the room, her eyes catching yours for three seconds before she moves on to the next person. You're sure she can see the panicked look you're trying to conceal.
"Don't worry about the grade you'll receive on this project; it isn't meant to be challenging academically. Rather, I want you each to explore your assigned emotion with your partner and work together to capture it. This is about exploring art on a deeper level." Professor Harkness has grown more expressive at this point in her lecture, her eyes shining and her shawl falling off one shoulder as she gestures. "I'm excited to see what you all come up with. This project will cover the next few weeks of class, and the final critique and photos will be due on the 30th."
She goes on to explain her expectations, but you tune out her instructions even as you write them down, your mind elsewhere. You have to print out your final ten photos, and you won't be doing anything else in class besides working on this project.
God, you are so fucked.
"Alright," Professor Harkness claps her hands, her smile wide. "The rest of today is yours, and remember, have fun!"
You can't help but scoff. Softly, of course.
Adamantly, you stare at your notebook, your eyes reading the instructions you've written. You're not really paying attention, though; your ears are more aware of the combat boots that are drawing near.
Wanda Maximoff slumps down in the recently vacated seat beside you, her bag on the floor of the aisle. You choose not to comment on how rude it is to block the aisle, instead, turning your gaze to the board. Damn, why does Wanda smell like vanilla? It's so strong, you can barely focus. You've never really noticed before, but you've also never attempted to actually interact with the girl.
"It looks like our emotion is vulnerability," Wanda says, finally breaking the silence.
You glance at her, taking in her posture as she leans back in her chair. Her eyes are locked on the board, and you wonder why her ears are slightly pink at the tips.
"Is that even an emotion?" You murmur, before silently berating yourself for questioning the professor.
Wanda lets out a chuckle, and you look at her, surprised.
"I mean," she says, gesturing to the board, "Half of these so-called emotions are loosely defined as one, for example…"
Wanda squints at the board, and you blink at the way her nose crinkles. "Tension, is that really an emotion? Or, how about grief? That seems more like a culmination of emotions, doesn't it?"
You're surprised by the way she speaks. She sounds intelligent, like she knows what she's talking about. You hadn't expected that from her, but you'd also only heard her speak up in class about five times in the past three years.
"I- yeah," you say, quite lamely.
"We'll have to come up with a plan," Wanda says, her short fingernails tapping on the table. "You know, write a list of different things we think convey that emotion and then figure out how best to photograph them."
"That actually sounds like a really good plan," you admit, turning toward Wanda. She confuses you, but you refuse to let it get in the way of your grade for this project.
Wanda nods. "Thanks. You seem like the type of person to plan everything right away, so do you wanna come over tonight so we can fully figure this project out?"
You turn fully at that, looking at her dead on. She's looking back at you, her eyebrows raised slightly.
"Yeah," you say, your brows furrowing. "That's, I mean. How did you know that's how I like to do projects?"
"Well," Wanda smirks, "It's hard not to notice, especially since you only seem to care about your grades. Do you, like, do anything for fun?"
You try not to be offended by the question. "Of course I do."
Wanda tilts her head, her eyes searching yours. You've never noticed how vibrantly green they are. "Like what?"
Honestly, you hadn't expected to be put on the spot like that.
"I like to, uh, walk."
"Like, outside?"
You scowl. "Yeah, outside. Hiking and stuff. It's effective when you need to clear your mind."
"Do you need to clear your mind a lot?"
The question makes you pause. "Yeah, I suppose so."
Wanda just hums, and you can see her nodding from the corner of your eye. Her fingernails are painted black, and you can't help the way your gaze travels down her outfit. How does she manage to put on so many silver chains around her belt?
Professor Harkness announces the end of class, and you jolt. Wanda seems unaffected, her movements slow and languid as she scoops up her backpack, the zipper slightly undone. She flicks a piece of paper onto the table, and you look at her in confusion.
"My number," she says, tossing her backpack over one shoulder and gathering her hair out from under the strap. "Text me, and I'll send my address for tonight."
Oh. Right.
Wanda doesn't wait for a response, her boots sounding out solidly on the floor as she disappears out the door. Honestly, the whole class period has felt surreal. You catch Professor Harkness looking at you, and you try not to read too much into the knowing smile she wears.
Grabbing the paper, you shove it unceremoniously into your pocket. You'll text Wanda once your classes are done for the day.
—
Hey, is this Wanda?
-3:52 pm
yeah it is lol, is this my partner for the photography project
-4:13 pm
Yes. Send your address, please.
-4:16 pm
do u always use proper punctuation while texting
-4:37 pm
Yes. Send your address. I'll see you at 7:00.
-4:39 pm
—
Wanda's apartment complex isn't what you'd been expecting. It's in a nice part of town, and there's even an access code just to get through the front door. You text Wanda, telling her that you've arrived, and look around while you wait.
Luckily, you don't have to wait long. You're watching a woman with her small white dog as they walk, smirking at the way the dog pulls at his leash, when the lock disengages.
Turning, you just stare as Wanda opens the front door to her apartment building.
The silver jewelry is gone, save for her multiple earrings. She's wearing a thick hoodie and sweatpants, and you can see drops of dried paint on both of them. Her thick eyeliner is mostly wiped off, but you can still see some faint smudges around the eyes.
"Hey, come on in," she says, and you shake yourself from your thoughts.
You follow her up the stairs, feeling something akin to nervousness blooming in your stomach. Stepping into her apartment, you're surprised. You'd expected her living space to be a cluttered mess, but instead, you find a well-maintained apartment. There are plenty of decorations, posters lining the walls, while potted plants rest on shelves. It should seem cluttered, but it really doesn't.
Wanda gestures toward the bathroom, and you're only half listening as she gives you a brief tour of her apartment.
"And here is my bedroom," she says, her fingers resting on the handle of the only other door in the apartment besides the bathroom. "It's actually a good-sized place for a one-bedroom apartment."
"Yeah," you murmur. Her whole place smells faintly of vanilla. You don't mind. "You've decorated well."
"I'm not an art major for nothing," Wanda says, smirking before opening her bedroom door. "My desk is in here, and I have bean bags and stuff, so we'll be more comfortable in here anyway. Also," she turns toward you, taking in your short-sleeved shirt and baggy jeans. "My AC is broken, kinda. It's set at 66 degrees, so it's kinda chilly in here right now. The maintenance guys are supposed to come this Thursday."
You just nod, having noticed the chill when you entered. You're much more interested in her living space at the moment.
Wanda's bedroom looks like a Pinterest user's wet dream. It's perfect in every sense. Dark green walls with floating shelves, and plenty of posters scattered on the walls. The only lighting is a few lamps, the warm light illuminating the room. It's not too bright, but you can still see perfectly fine. In all honesty, the room is perfect.
You hover awkwardly at the door, watching as Wanda sinks into a beanbag, grabbing a notebook and pen. She stretches as she does so, her arm full extended to grab a spare pen, and you quickly avert your eyes as her midriff is exposed.
"Don't just stand there," Wanda says, her tone full of humour. "You're the one who likes to have a plan, aren't you?"
"It's the most effective way to start a project," you say, the words feeling like a mantra as you bravely close the door, walking towards the beanbag next to Wanda's. It's even chillier in her room, but you suppress your shiver as you sit. Your knee touches hers, and you quickly pull it back, curling into yourself.
Wanda doesn't seem to notice, scrawling the words "Photo Project" on the top of her page. She looks over at you, her green eyes locking with yours.
"So, let's brainstorm some things we could photograph?"
You agree, and your mind starts to work again.
After some time, three of Wanda's pages are full, her loopy handwriting filling each page. You both have offered up many ideas. Wanda is… different. She never made you feel like one of your ideas was silly or not intelligent enough to include in the list. She just nodded and wrote down whatever you said, speaking her thoughts out loud and writing her ideas down next to yours. It feels nice. You're used to having to prove yourself.
Additionally, somehow Wanda's thigh has ended up pressing against yours. You hadn't realized it until now, but you don't make any moves to pull away this time. It was refreshing to see someone as equally passionate about a project as you were. Many times, you'd been nervous that Wanda's pen would stab you as she gestured passionately while speaking about one of her ideas.
"Why don't you act like this in class?" You blurt out.
Wanda blinks, her green eyes locking on yours. "What?"
You flush, picking at the thick threads of her carpet nervously. "It's just, you don't talk much in class. I never knew you cared this much about school."
"The amount someone speaks in class doesn’t reflect how much they care about their education," Wanda says, shrugging. "Besides, I'd rather prove myself through my work, rather than trying to show off for my peers."
You can't help but feel offended slightly, your face flushing unexpectedly. Wanda must have sensed it, because her hand lands on your knee, and your anger fades at the gentle pressure of her fingers.
"I didn't mean anything by that," she says, smiling slightly. "That's just my own personal philosophy. I couldn't care less what other people do in class."
"Oh," is all you have to say to that.
Wanda closes her notebook, setting it aside. "I'll send you pictures of the pages before next class- oh. Are you cold?"
You falter, your mind still thinking about Wanda's words. You hadn't noticed your body shivering, but it was. Wanda's hands return to your body, rubbing the outside of your arms.
"I guess I am," you say, chuckling slightly. You don't really know what to do. Was it rude to leave?
It turns out you don't have to make a decision. Wanda stands up, pulling at your shirt until you stand as well, and leads you to her bed. She sweeps up a remote on the way, and you don't resist as she pushes you onto the bed.
"Make yourself comfortable," Wanda says, pointing the remote at her TV and clicking it on.
You just nod. Truthefully, you aren't used to being told what to do. Normally, you're the one instructing others on what to do, whether that be in group projects or at your job. It's… well, it's kind of nice to not be in charge for once.
"I know you like the show Yellowjackets," Wanda says offhandedly, clicking into the first season.
"Wait," you say, pushing yourself up against her headboard. The pillows against your back are very soft, but you barely notice. "How did you know that?"
Wanda rolls her eyes, pressing play before hopping up on the bed next to you. "It's called being observant. Also, you have a pin on your backpack."
You don't have a response to that.
The whole thing feels surreal. You've never imagined yourself ever even speaking to Wanda Maximoff, but now you're sitting on her bed watching your favorite show. You remember the photography assignment, but for once, you aren't stressed about completing it. Begrudgingly, you admit to yourself that Wanda is quite competent when it comes to this assignment.
The show continues to play, and you're grateful that Wanda isn't someone who talks while watching TV. The room, however, is somehow even chillier than when you first arrived.
Wanda doesn't say anything, but she must notice you shivering, because she pulls back her comforter and slips her legs under. She holds the blanket up slightly, and when you glance at her, those green eyes are still locked on the TV.
You slip your legs under the comforter.
It's not until the third episode that you realize you've slid further under the covers. Wanda's thigh is pressed against yours. You're surprised to find that you don't mind. Her room is somehow even chillier, and now there are goosebumps on your exposed arms.
"You should really get that AC looked at," you say.
Wanda looks over at you, but you make no move to leave the bed. She smiles slightly, but you're too focused on the show to notice.
"Which character would you sleep with first?" she asks. "Like, if you were stranded in the wilderness with them, of course."
Your head whips toward her, your eyes wide.
Wanda looks over at you casually, tilting her head slightly at your silence. "Personally," she says, shrugging, "I would go for Jackie. She's got this whole innocent, good girl vibe going on that makes me want to fuck her into my mattress. You know?"
"Oh, that's um…" You look back at the TV, your cheeks burning slightly. "I'd probably want Natalie."
The last part is mumbled, but Wanda hears it anyway. You're refusing to meet her eye, but she doesn't care. Besides, if you're not looking at her, she doesn't have to hide the victorious expression that washes over her face.
"Natalie?"
"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat and resolutely not thinking about Wanda's combat boots. "She's, you know, edgy."
You can see Wanda nodding from the edge of your vision, and you relax slightly. "So you're into edgy girls, good to know."
Wanda flashes you one of her crooked smiles, and you can't help but notice how pretty her face gets when she's not scowling. Normally, she looks bored, her face either expressionless or unimpressed. You think this is the first time you've ever seen her smile.
The show continues, but now you're hyperaware of Wanda's every move, for some reason. The cold seeps into your arms, and eventually, you just bury yourself under the comforter. Wanda does the same, and you don't even question it when she grabs your waist and presses herself fully into you.
"To conserve body heat," she murmurs.
You just nod, distracted by the slightly smudged eyeliner around her eyes. You quickly look away, your focus returning to the screen. Natalie starts speaking, her dyed blonde hair flashing, and you determinedly do not look in Wanda's direction. You hear her chuckle, and you suddenly get the urge to hide your face.
Turning slightly, you hide from Wanda's knowing gaze. Your nose presses against something soft and warm, and you instantly realize that you're pressing your face into Wanda's chest.
Oh god.
Quickly, you jerk away. A firm hand on the back of your head keeps you still.
"Aww, your nose is so cold," Wanda murmurs. "I'm so sorry the AC is broken. Why don't you stay there to warm up? As your host, I insist."
Well. You can't really find any reason to refuse.
You turn your head slightly, still able to watch Yellowjackets even with your face fully pressed against Wanda's chest. You never imagined she'd be so… soft.
A strong thigh presses against your core. You feel heat rise quickly in your gut, and you're shocked at the sensation. It feels like fire licking at your core, and you feel yourself throb slightly.
"Oops," Wanda says. She doesn't move her thigh away.
You feel your face burning. Why did you like that sensation so much? Wanda's thigh alone has made you feel… well, you're not quite sure what you're feeling. All you know is that it feels good. And now that you've felt that sensation, you don't really want it to stop.
Through sheer will and the threat of embarrassment, you manage to keep your hips still. For some reason, you wanted to press yourself even harder against her thigh. Was that wrong? Everything seemed innocent so far; it's not like Wanda was touching you or anything. Besides, you were just classmates.
Classmates.
You'd come here for a partner's assignment, not to… to cuddle up next to Wanda Maximoff. You feel your mind returning, the weird fog that had taken over slowly starting to dissipate.
"I- I should probably-"
"Shhh," Wanda says, shifting her hips slightly. Her green eyes are glued to the screen, and you let out the smallest squeak as her thigh presses even more firmly into you. Biting your lip, you turn your face again, hiding your flushed cheeks in her chest.
You can smell her vanilla perfume now, the scent making your brain go slightly fuzzy again.
"Do you feel good?" Wanda asks, her voice low.
Pausing for a moment, you bite your lip. Do you? It certainly does feel good, but it's all so confusing and-
Wanda's thigh presses against you again, her knee slipping between your legs and giving her leverage. You barely suppress a whimper that claws from your throat at the sensation.
"When someone asks you a question," Wanda begins, her voice soft. Her fingers curl in your hair, gently pulling your face away until you're looking at her. "It's polite to answer."
"Oh, um," you stammer. "Yeah, it feels good."
Wanda smiles again at you, the sight making your face flush even more. "Good, that's exactly what I want."
You must look confused, because she clarifies. "I want you to feel good."
"Oh," you say, turning your gaze back to the TV for a moment. Then, you glance at her. "Can it feel… You know, more… good?"
The words stumble clumsily out of your mouth, but Wanda just nods.
"Of course it can. Would you like that?"
"Yes," you practically breathe out, your voice quiet.
Wanda's hands return to your waist, pressing firmly on your hips. "Move these, then. It's okay, I want you to feel good. Just press yourself into my thigh."
You start to move your hips, subtly at first, but then you feel that heat rising again, and you move automatically. Your hips grind against Wanda's thigh, spreading to allow her thigh to press harder against you, and you hear a soft groan.
"Perfect, just like that. Doesn't that feel good? Isn't it so nice to let go, for once? To just let your mind go blank for a bit?"
It is. It really is. You just nod, your face pressed into Wanda's soft chest as you grind your hips against her. It feels amazing, and you just wanna… keep… going…
"Do you want it to feel really good?" Wanda whispers. "Do you want to cum for me?"
"I- Yeah," you whimper.
Wanda smirks. Then, she pulls her thigh away.
"Wait," you sputter. "Why?"
"Because," Wanda whispers, grabbing your jaw lightly, forcing you to look at her. "I like seeing you like this. So… unrestrained. It's refreshing."
"I'm not-"
"Shh," Wanda presses a finger against your mouth, your eyes fluttering closed as she presses her thigh firmly against you again. "Grind."
And so, you do. The comforter is thrown off at some point, and the effort it takes to keep moving your hips makes you work up a bit of a sweat. You don't mind, though, and neither does Wanda. You've switched positions, your back against Wanda's front as you watch the show. You don't really understand what's going on plot-wise anymore; your mind is much too focused on the heat that's been steadily growing between your thighs.
Wanda isn't helping, either. Her hands have slowly been creeping up to caress your chest, her lips softly sucking at the sensitive skin of your neck. It's maddening. And you fucking love it.
You've never really found time for sex. Or wanted it, even. You've always been much too busy to think about it, your mind occupied with your assignments and extracurriculars. But now, you can't believe you've never indulged in this before.
"Please," you whisper. "Please make it feel better."
Wanda smirks against your neck, and you feel her lips as she speaks. "Yeah? You want to cum?"
"Yes," you say, your ears burning at the vulgar language. "I do."
"Say it," Wanda orders, her teeth scraping up your neck and toward your jaw. "Say it, and I'll make you feel so good, baby. I promise."
You whimper at that, your core throbbing at her words.
"Please, Wanda," you plead. "Make me cum. I want to cum so badly, please-"
Your words are cut off as Wanda moves her hands to your hips. She grips them, forcing you to move faster. The muscles in her thigh clench, and she bends her knee, planting her foot in the mattress for leverage as you grind down on her.
"Cum for me, you deserve it. You've done such a good job," she coos. "I'm so proud of you. Cum for me, baby."
And you do. It's glorious, it's perfect, and it's the most amazing thing you've ever felt. It feels like it will never end. Wanda's soft words encourage you to ride it out as you shake and clamp your legs around her thigh, your mind going completely blank as pleasure washes over your every sense.
She doesn't stop there; her hands clamping down on your hips and not letting you stop. The TV continues to run in the background, the scenes blending together as you lose your mind to the pleasure over and over again.
This is how your study sessions go until it's time to present your final photographs. You always start productive, getting the work done even as your mind begs for you to let Wanda take control again, to lose yourself in that wonderful haze of pleasure.
Wanda teaches you about vulnerability, your photographs reflecting the feelings you two have felt as you worked on this project. A pair of intertwined pinkies, a curtain just barely opened to reveal the sunrise, and an open journal sitting on top of a lectern, to name a few.
Professor Harkness gives you both full points for the project, and that ever-knowing smirk is still present on her face when Wanda joins you in the second row for the rest of the semester.