Archive of Our Own

The second time I wake up Elsie’s tossing and turning beside me, shaking off the morning laziness. I often sleep late, but almost never as late as today, which is good, especially after morning sex. Sleeping until noon is one of those pleasures that you appreciate more when growing up and running out of time in your day. Although I've always liked it. There are few people like Adam (probably more than I care to imagine, but equally few) who are able to regulate their circadian cycle with sunlight. They are truly an inspiration, but I am far from being one of them, especially when I spend too many night hours devoted to work. Disciplined people and their quirks, I guess... 

Elsie’s body’s pressed against mine, close to my chest. My hands rest on her stomach, with no barrier between us. We’re completely naked. Messy, with clear postcoital signs. We're sheltered under my comforter, insulated from the cold and the inevitable draughts of air of any Boston house in winter, no matter how much the gas bill ticket exceeds the three digits barrier. We should probably change the sheets when we get up. I don't think that once we leave this little cave will be a cozy place to return to tonight if we don’t.

My girl seems lost in her thoughts, trying to form something coherent. Although her murmurs aren't particularly clear, and given that I'm still surprised by how creative Elsie's mind can be when it comes to vampires, paranormal stories and strange words, I'm not surprised when I clearly hear the word 'peerection'. I don't think I've heard it since my early high school days and no one had ever used it seriously. It was too ridiculous.

“A what?”

“Nothing.” 

Too fast, sweetheart. I heard you.

My voice’s hoarse because I have just woken up. I clear my throat so that I can speak like a human being and, although I’m dying to laugh, I manage to contain myself and ask with complete sincerity and seriousness, “Did you just—”

“No. Nope. I—”

Again, too fast. 

Ashamed, she hides her face in her pillow, leaving me with a beautiful view of her shoulder blades adorned by a cascade of brown locks. I want to kiss that white, soft, appetising back. I've never been so attracted to a fucking back. What's wrong with me? Is this what they mean when they talk about romantic idealisation? There’s not a part of her body that I would consider ugly.

I slip the hand that's hugging her under her middle and position her as she was before this outburst of embarrassment. I allow myself to lower my hand a couple of inches until I place it in the vague limbo between her pubis and her lower abdomen, right where the hem of her underwear would be. I start gently, wanting to take things a step further but not wanting to pressure her. I brush my erection (permanent at this point) against her ass and pray that she’s not uncomfortable.

“Okay?” 

“Please.” 

It's not her words that give me the boost of confidence to take this a step further, but the way she places her foot on my shine to give me better access. In gratitude, I place a soft, wet kiss on the curve of her shoulder, trying to convey all the love I feel for her in that simple touch. 

“You did say that we might have to work on the sex.”

She tenses. Oh, no. This isn't going as I thought it would. Again, Jack, you have to be patient, honest, and direct with her. Don't assume she understands things the same way you or your previous partners would. 

I notice all her insecurities starting to swirl around in her mind in an instant. I hate that she still feels so insecure with me and everything else. However, I also understand that it can’t be fixed in such a short time. I have to be patient. If I feel frustrated because I feel sorry for her, she must feel much worse. Insecurities are never pleasant. 

“I’m sorry, I—”

Stop apologising.

“Elsie. Work on how little I last.” I bite the spot I’ve just kissed, trying to transmit the playfulness of my mind on the tone of my voice.

My cock’s rubbing against her entrance, but none of us has focused on it. That's exactly what I would be focused on if the person next to me was anyone other than Elsie Hannaway. With her, however, I like to take it slow. I like to pamper her and I need to make sure that with every move I'm one step closer to erase those insecurities. Again, is this what people mean when they talk about making love? I've really been missing out on something wonderful for years, then.

Although, on second thought, I'm glad I discovered it so late. There's no one I want to take relationships more seriously with than Elsie. Things happen when they're meant to happen, my mates are absolutely right about that too. Although they also advised me not to force things, and I may have been a little too insistent. 

The urgency in my body begins to intensify, and when I rub my cock against her a couple more times, I can't help but let out a few small grunts of desperation. Elsie's pussy must still contain traces of fluids from previous orgasms, and it feels wet enough to completely justify my decision to enter without warning. Her body confirms this when, with a single thrust, I enter her completely. All the way in. In response to the unexpected invasion, her walls press against me and I feel small spasms that bring me closer to the edge.

I pinch her nipples with my free hand until contractions become regular, and I lower my fingers towards her belly. I focus on the feeling of my cock going in and out of her and I squeeze the skin of her abdomen when she slides towards the headboard due to the force of my thrusts.

“Okay, okay, I—” I should stop, I don't want her to hit her head because I can't control myself. I laugh against her hair and melt when she puts her hand on my cheek to keep me right where I am. “Maybe you should be in charge. Before I fuck you into the mattress again.”

Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm not going anywhere. If it were up to me, we'd be glued together forever.

Blushing, she replies. “What do I—”

I know she's nervous, but I don't know what she likes. But helping her to find it out would be a pleasure. Seeing her have an orgasm is what turns me on the most in the world, especially when I'm inside her. Sweet contractions that are hard to forget once you've experienced them.

“Just—move.” Another kiss, just in case she needs a little more reassurance in the face of embarrassment. “Do what feels good. Let me see you—yes. Yeah.”

She's rubbing her ass against my abdomen again. I notice how she evolves from shyness until she reaches a continuous, uniform rhythm, far beyond what I could achieve even if I tried. Elsie moves out of curiosity, trying different movements until, in one of them she contracts deliciously and I know she’s found the spot. We gasp in unison, she because of the pleasure and I because each of her contractions brings me closer to that intense orgasm I am already getting used to.

“There?” I whisper in her ear, adjusting her hips to make the sensation more intense for both of us. “That’s how I make you come?”

“You already made me come.”

I resist the urge to slap the inside of her thighs and decide to give her a break because the comment doesn't seem playful, but the result of pure honesty. I growl softly.

“I want to feel it. When my cock is inside you.”

I roll us over until she’s on her stomach with her knees bent and her pussy raised and open for me, at the perfect height for my thrusts to hit that delicious spot. I lean over her and press my chest against her back, intertwining our hands to give her a sense of security and to convey that I'm ready to stop if she needs me to. Although, if it were up to me, we would never stop. 

I whisper dirty and sweet things in her ear, I tell her how sexy she’s and that she has nothing to fear from us. Whatever we have is the best thing that has ever happened to me. 

• • •

After another short nap, I press a kiss against my girl's forehead and leave her curled up on my side of the bed, hugging my pillow like it was me, to sleep for a few more minutes. I plan to shower quickly on my own before forcing her to do the same. I also have to change the sheets and make her stay another night with me so that the new ones will retain her sweet scent the day after tomorrow. Either that or manage to discover what perfume she uses for buying twenty bottles I can use as an air freshener.

I pick up my clothes and toss them into the laundry basket before grabbing a sporty cotton bottoms and a T-shirt for today. Smart but casual. I leave them on the sink and step under the water. Warm but not too hot, just enough so I don't have to deal with a new unexpected erection between my legs again. I’ve had enough sex for today. Unless Elsie asks me to, I don’t want to initiate any more. Making love to her it's becoming an addiction.

I enjoy the feeling of water running down my back for a while before feeling her arms wrapped around my waist. Elsie rests her cheek against my back and squeezes me. I turn and hug her back with one arm while turning up the water temperature with the other because girls usually like showers with boiling water. I step back so the water also reaches her. She rests her chin on my chest. 

“It hasn't been that bad, has it?” 

I smile. 

“Almost perfect.”

"What do you mean 'almost'?" Her tone is hurtful, but his face makes it clear that she’s joking and that she has better acting skills than I thought. Years of practice, I guess. It had to bring her something good, after all. "Just tell me how perfect it was. Don't be like those teachers who didn't raise your grade as a form of motivation."

She pinches my sides and I decide to play along.

"There's always room for improvement, sweetheart. If I give you a ten right away, you'll get cocky with me."

The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Sweetheart. Sweetheart. I notice the moment when her brain processes it and takes it in. Far from the fear and rejection that my own insecurities expected, a knowing smile forms on her lips, telling me that I'm on the right track.

I think this is what people mean when they say they’re happy.

Before I can process what this means and what a significant step forward it is, she surprises me. There’s nothing as exciting and new as seeing her on the tiles, planting wet kisses on my hips and looking up at me with feigned innocence. It has me throwing my head back, overwhelmed by the anticipation. Another first she’s taken and another erection I get.

"Honesty, I'm a perfectionist. Could this improve my grade? "

I nod, unable to form a coherent sentence. 

"Someone has done this to you before, right?" I murmur a quick yes. "Good. Tell me if I mess it up."

There's no way this can go wrong, I'm hot even when she hasn't touched me yet. I tell my girl how I like blow jobs and grab her hands to slow her down when I get too close. Fuck, she's perfect. And real.

I don't want to come quickly. I don't want to come at all. I want to take this little gift from heaven slowly and savour it in case it never happens again. 

Her mouth’s warm against my sensitive skin. One of her hands plays with my balls while the other caresses the part of my skin that her mouth can't cover. She's surprisingly good at this, considering her inexperience in every other area. I think about the obvious reason behind it, but for once I'm grateful to her ex-something for setting up this perfect moment for me.

“Stop. Fuck, Elsie, you’re so good…” I don't want her to stop, but I'm on the verge of an orgasm and I don't want to come in her mouth. Words come out mixed with grunts as I push my hips towards her mouth and hold her head still in front of me while I also grab the wall to steady myself, “Stop, plea—Ah. I’m cumming soon.”

I feel the smile on her lips as she goes harder. Her hands squeeze and her tongue plays with my tip. I grab her hair in a messy ponytail and pull it when I come. She savours me until I calm down and lift her up. She wraps her legs around my waist and hides her face in my neck. My cock is back where it belongs: inside her. Inside her wet pussy, which also happens to be on the verge of its own orgasm.

This must definitely be happiness. Seeing your girl happy and confident as she finishes you off and plays with your sanity, making you doubt whether this is real or just a wet dream.

She leaves soft kisses on my neck and jaw, delaying the moment of facing the playful consequences of disobeying me when I told her to stop. If she wants to play, we'll play. I'm more than willing. 

“Stop smiling like that,” I whisper in her ear while I lazily push inside her. “Or I’ll be on you all day.”

She laughs and shakes her head as if she thinks that's not a bad thing at all, but the most natural thing in the world.

When we get out of the shower, I glance at my wristwatch. 12:37. Well, that's still a reasonable time for breakfast on a weekend, by my standards. We dry ourselves off and get dressed. I put on the clothes I left on the sink, and she grabs the sweatshirt I lent her yesterday. We try to find some shoes that half-fit her, but they're all one hundred sizes too big, so we decide that socks are the best option. Elsie steals the smallest but they won’t stay on her legs.

“Food,” I tell her. I need real food, and she could do with some too, her blood sugar may need it. “I have these elaborate daydreams that I’m feeding you a five-course meal I hunted, field-dressed, and prepared all by myself.” 

I plant a kiss on her forehead.

“Why?”

What do you mean, why? “Don’t ask why, like it’s a rational impulse. So, what do you want?”

“What can you make?”

“Nothing.” Honesty. I smile when I hear her laugh, half surprised, half delighted. I lift her up onto my shoulder and carry her downstairs. “I’ll learn. It’s a new obsession for me.”

Her laughter echoes down the hallway. I love it.

I put together a small plate of grilled cheese, a few bowls of the pre-made soup I bought the other day for emergencies (I wasn't thinking of this kind of emergency, but thanks, past Jack), and some croutons from a bag that are meant to be an appetizer but will have to make it to a full plate. Elsie, meanwhile, watches me from behind the kitchen island, only looking away when her mobile phone vibrates with a message. Then she simply laughs and even though I wasn't the reason for her laughter, i smile.

After replying to the message she puts her phone aside and conversation flows naturally. It takes unexpected turns, leading us to discuss the pH of cheeses. I'm no expert in cheese chemistry, but I make quick and ephemeral hypotheses. Perfectly reasoned, if you ask me, and which also seem to pass the test of truthfulness because Elsie now believes me to be a true master. Another white lie. These do no harm. They can even be funny. Yay!

Once we've had dessert (two high-quality plain Greek yoghurts, simple but effective), her mobile starts vibrating again. This time the sound doesn't stop, and when I look over at his phone, I see her dismissing an alarm. 

“I’m going to need a few minutes upstairs,” she says as she gets off the stool. Does she have to go somewhere on a Sunday? “But I’ll be back.” Oh, okay.

I suppose I can take certain liberties after her earlier confession, so I just ask, “What’s going on?”

“Just need to change my insulin pod.” Elsie rummages through her bag and pulls out the same yellow bag she took out when she fainted in the summer. Ah, I see. How did I not realise that before? “Don’t worry, you don’t have to be there. I know people get squeamish. I’ll do it in your bedroom—”

Oh. Oh. I really want to see it. A good researcher can never stop wondering and learning new things. Especially if those things are the basic needs of his (almost) girlfriend. Besides, it all adds up to the brownie points for that will make that 'almost' disappear.

“Show me how you do it.”

I pick up the remains of my meal and go to wash my hands because... I suppose that's standard protocol? Washing your hands is never a bad thing, right?

She laughs, incredulous. Which makes me incredulous. “Why?”

“Because I want to know.”

I thought it was obvious.

“Why would you—oh my God. You want to put high-fructose corn syrup in my insulin. Was this a long con to murder me?”

We had already gotten past this stage the day I asked her out, but who am I to judge her? I never understood women. Unless they're lesbians. And even then, I only understand them sometimes. Only when they’re similar to George.

I shake my head, but I can't help smiling. “I’m starting to be partial to the way you bypass all rational explanations for everything I say, and dash straight to me being an unhinged serial killer.”

“I think it’s our thing.”

In that case, I can tolerate it. Do more of it. 

I lean on the countertop. “Show me how it works.” 

“Why?”

Again, I thought it was obvious.

“Because I want to know these things.”

I hope I sounded credible. I have been very honest. Fortunately, she understands the double meaning of my words, the meaning behind that vague answer. And then she agrees. God, I'm in love with this woman.

“Do you have any disinfectant?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

• · ·

We find ourselves on our sofa again. This way I can very comfortably pretend that the outside world doesn’t exist. I really believe it doesn't. 

I caress the skin on her stomach because that has become my new vice and I need something to remind me that this moment is as real as life itself. To remind me that this isn’t one-sided. Another thing that brings me back to reality is that we are watching another Twilight film. I don't know which one we're on because they're all the same, but since she seems totally calm and relaxed, I let it go and sleep for a while. When I wake up again we're still in the exact same position and the same characters are on the screen. How long have I been asleep? One film, one and a half films? There's not even any light coming through the window anymore.

“This is atrocious.” 

“Shut up.”

I can't help laughing.

“Shut up—she could die!”

I laugh even harder when I realise she’s serious. Poor little thing.

“It’s about the hardships and sorrows of the universal human experience, Jonathan.”

Jonathan? Is that my new nickname? I've never really liked being called by my full name, but I could tolerate her using it on a regular basis. 

To let her know that I would like her to find another nickname (a more affectionate one, something like love, darling, sweetheart...) I bite her earlobe. Perhaps using a little more force than necessary, but the truth is that I am losing the ability to control myself around him. “Still better than 2001, Elsie.”

“Obviously. By the way, is Millicent okay?”

“Yup. Why do you ask?”

“It’s Sunday. Shouldn’t she be calling you with a vital emergency? Isn’t the newspaper boy tossing the Times into her rosebushes or something?”

I can't put into words how much I like that she likes Millicent. She's a difficult woman to understand and quite authoritarian, especially when you don't know her and don't know how to tease her. Deep down, Elsie and Millicent can be very good friends. I mean, Elsie likes Go. That's already a 7.5 for Millicent. An 8 if the person is good at it, but she doesn't turn anyone down because she's pretty mediocre herself.

“Pretty sure newspaper delivery hasn’t worked like that since the early 2000s. And she did her weekend routine yesterday. Sent a photo of an alligator coming out of a toilet in a Florida gas station. Claimed it was happening in her en suite.”

“She knows how to send pictures?”

“Impressive, right? I stopped by for lunch. Gave her the novel. Got scolded for not taking you.”

“Oh.” She blushes. 

“Can’t remember the last time she liked someone. Not that she’d admit to liking you.”

“She told me she liked your mom.”

Indeed, my suspicions that this was the direction of their conversation last week have just been confirmed. Thanks for your help, Millicent. Now I have to tread carefully. More so than before, I mean. Although Millicent doesn’t know Elsie has anything to do with Laurendeau.

I try not to let the tension in my head show when I respond, the last thing I need is to break the peace of this moment. “I think so.”

My response seems to have been neutral enough it gave her a boost of confidence to continue her research. The price to pay to be with her, I guess. “She was a physicist, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Theoretical?”

“Unfortunately.” 

The topic shifts to a much more pleasant area, “Do you have memories of her?”

I shake my head. “She died too early.”

“Did she”—turns around to lie on top of me and look me in the eye—“look like you?”

“There aren’t many pictures. My family mostly scrubbed the house clean of them.”

Unfortunately.

Still cautiously, she asks again. “When did you take her last name?”

“That was Millicent’s decision, actually. She had me legally change it when I was ten. I think she felt uncharacteristically guilty.” I tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I do know that she was Swedish. Blond. Her eyes had the same weird . . .”

“Heterochromia?”

“Yeah. She was taller than my father. And kept some detailed diaries about her work. Millicent gave them to me when I started becoming obsessed with physics.”

“Did she have any publications?”

No, no, no. New mission: change the subject. “Just two. She got married halfway through her doctorate and didn’t go back to work after she had me. Her diagnosis came quickly after.” 

“Why didn’t she go back?”

Good question, perhaps your mentor has the answer. 

“There were . . . issues. With the lead researcher of her group.”

“Why?”

Because he isn’t a nice person and takes advantage of everyone who crosses his path, you included. It's that simple. Not even physicists at Harvard are so classist and sexist. 

I put it more beautifully, “They had some . . . disagreement over their joint research. He was intensely controlling.” One way of putting it. “She refused to abide. You can imagine the rest. Her diaries are . . . She wasn’t well when she found out that she wouldn’t be allowed back.”

It's so unfair that someone as stupid as Laurendeau should decide the fate of so many people. Of so many innocent people.

“That’s bullshit. How dare he cut her out of her own research group?”

I don't respond, I don't know how to. “Her work was on semiconductors.”

She raises her eyebrows. I know she’s thinking of Laurendeau. She may even have put two and two together because she’s always been a clever girl, after all. Now that she recognises my surname, she may remember some of my mother's papers. She has read several of them and quoted them in one of her publications not long ago, but she was always credited as a secondary researcher, never as the lead one of the working group and went unnoticed.

“Good stuff?”

“Very solid, yes.”

It really is, she took science very seriously. And time has proven her right, because her papers are still quite often cited today.

“I bet she was great. I mean, she was a theoretical physicist.”

I like to think you would have got on well with her.

“True. On the other hand, she did marry my dad.”

She didn’t make a lot of good decisions. In her diary entries she seemed truly in love with my dad, although he had so many red flags she ignored. And she didn't see Laurendeau's plans coming either.

“Good point. Maybe he used to be more . . . engaged with his surroundings?”

I doubt it. Incompetence is something you're born with, not something you learn or can change. My father hasn’t changed in the time I’ve been alive and neither will he do. He doesn't pay attention to Caroline, why would it have been any different with my mom? 

“Maybe. Maybe she needed a green card? Or the Smith money.”

It's always about the money. I don't judge her. I understand. There's nothing better than getting money out of my father, and if it at least served her (us) to get a minimum of stability, I'm grateful for that. I'd much rather have my grandmother, brother and old money than growing up in the system, however dysfunctional my family is. Everything toughens you up.

“She was a grad student. It’s a move I can respect.”

“For sure.”

“Do you miss her?”

I think about it, even though it's the same question I've been asking myself for three decades, the answer and the nuances always manage to be different. “I don’t think you can miss someone you’ve never met, but . . . It’s easy to look at how dysfunctional my family is and laugh it off now that I have my own life. But when I was in my teens, there were times when things got really bad at home. And I’d read her diaries and think that maybe if she’d been around, everything could have been . . .” I swallow hard before continuing, even though it's obvious. “But she wasn’t.”

She hides her face in my throat and plants a soft kiss on my Adam's apple. I take that as the end of the conversation. Thank God. I bring a hand to her head to keep it right where it is, right where it should be. 

I remember that we were watching a film, although I can't recall the number. The scene unfolding is as ridiculous as the unexpectedly expected plot twist of 2001. Just as bad. Worse, because I really don't understand this, no matter how hard I've tried to pay attention. 

“Elsie. I can’t watch this.”

“But it’s the best part. The emotional roller coaster of her transformation. The inappropriate Jacob plotline. Her face when she drinks blood.”

I really don't want to insult her favourite film (don't, don't, don't) but this is the worst thing I've ever seen. And believe me, I've seen a lot of mediocre and bad films.

“No way.”

“Fine. You may amuse yourself otherwise. But stay close, because you’re a space heater disguised as an organic life-form.”

Don't say it twice. 

“Perfect.” I turn around and begin to descend until I reach my favourite part of her body.

“What are you doing?”

What do you think, sweetheart?

“You told me to amuse myself.”

She leans on her elbows so she can look me in the eyes. I respond with the most innocent look I can muster, not moving a single millimetre away from her. “I meant take another nap, or do today’s Wordle—”

“Just watch your movie, Elsie.”

“But—”

Let's get down to business. 

“Oh,” She responds with her hands in my hair, while I hold her legs wide open with my hands on her thighs. She's not going anywhere. At least, not for another fifteen minutes. “Oh. Oh, Jack” 

Well, a few more orgasms never hurt, did they?

“It was cute,” I whisper in her ear after I finish, “how you thought that fucking you once would make me want to fuck you less.”

I'm going to fuck her every day for the rest of our lives. I mean it. If she lets me, I plan to.

We come together. She digs her nails into my back and I grab her hips so hard that she'll probably have a bruise there tomorrow. Shit, I hope I didn't hurt her.

“Second time we do this with Twilight in the background.”

We should watch these films more often. I'm starting to like them.

“I can’t believe we missed the part when Bella beats up Jacob.”

“Jesus, Elsie, what is this movie?”

• • •

“I have class at eight a.m. tomorrow.”

So? 

“Doesn’t matter.”

“At Boston University.”

So?

“Still doesn’t matter.”

“I need to get to my place, get dressed, pick up my stuff, take the bus—”

Ah. So?

“I’ll drive you.”

“Drive me where?”

Anywhere.

“Anywhere.”

I look at the steps of the recipe on my phone screen while I hear her voice behind me. 

“You’d have to wake up at, like, six. I cannot ask you to do that.”

Well, I don't mind getting up early for that. I totally understand Adam now.

I leave the knife on the counter while I wait for the water to heat up and go over to her. I make room between her legs opening them with my hands on her knees. 

“You don’t have to ask.” I leave mischievous kisses all over her face. On her nose, on her lips, every fucking where. “Because I’m offering.”

“What if I say no?”

I’d try to persuade you, but if you insist, I’ll take you home before midnight.

“Don’t do that. Okay?” 

I kiss her but she's lost in her thoughts. She doesn’t kiss me back.

“What?” I ask, have I done something wrong?

She shakes his head, responding to my unpronounced question. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking of . . . ?”

“You know, during my interview, I was picturing how it would be if I got the job. Working with you. And I had these painstakingly intricate fantasies.”

Oh. “Did I pack you sandwiches in a Twilight lunch box?”

She laughs again, perfect. “Oh, no.”

“Were you wearing that red dress from Miel, and I bent you—”

Hmm... We have many sexual fantasies to fulfil. My list just keeps growing and growing, and I still have yet to hear about hers.

“No.” She blushes again. I love it, my girl is so bloody adorably awkward when she’s not giving me a blow job. “It was mostly me harassing you into quitting in disgrace.”

Well, as long as she’s around, I don’t mind being stalked. This being in love thing is too strange. The Jack from just a few months ago would be pulling my hair out.

“I see. What were you going to do?”

It would be nice if you declared your love for me. In your imagination or right now, either one’s fine. I want you to be my girlfriend once and for all. Mine, mine, mine. Mine and only mine. Not my brother's or anyone else's. Mine. 

“Oh, you know. Jell-O your office supplies. Spread the rumor that you poop in the urinals. Frame you for white-collar crimes. Those kinds of things.” I understand. “I mean . . . I could still do it.”

“You could.”

Do it. Go for it. I just want excuses to fuck you.

“Some would say I should.”

“Some would.” I kiss the corner of her lips. “Maybe next year” 

I revel in the feeling of pride that comes from her panting when I pull away. I don't think she has even noticed. 

It has been a perfect day.