A/N- I wont even pretend I proof read this before I uploaded, its currently 2:30 am I'll edit it in the morning. I got carried away and wrote a little more than anticipated but here we are.
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Wanda's POV
"So, what now?" Y/n questions softly.
"Just give me a sec to calm down and we'll get some work done." I groan running my fingers through my hair. Never in my life have I been in a situation quite like this one. She hums in agreement.
"I don't think I have the ability to concentrate on studying after that." She admits and I can't blame her.
"I'm gonna run to the kitchen to do you want anything?" I ask her. "Drinks," I lift a brow as to ask what she wanted exactly "drinks with alcohol."
Now that sounds like a plan, anything to help chill us out. "Sure, anything in particular?"
"Wanda my mother and your wife just almost found about us, I'm not in a particularly picky mood," she snaps "sorry I'm just stressed... whatever's got the highest percentage will do." I close the door to the study behind me, taking in a deep breath before heading down the stairs to hell.
Have you ever been so mentally exhausted that you just start to give up, that you just stop caring about the repercussions? I'm very aware of the fact drinking right now isn't the wisest plan but right now I simply don't care.
I. Do. Not. Give. A. fuck.
I pull out a bottle of bourbon and two crystal cut glasses taking them straight upstairs. We both take a seat on the small sofa on the back wall of the study. I pass her a glass pouring the syrupy liquid into the glass and then finally doing the same for myself.
Her face scrunches as she tastes the hot vanilla-cinnamon liquid "it burns and sweet and strong all at the same time... that'll mess with your head." Her accent coming out a little as speaks, either way whether she liked it or not she continued to drink.
"Yeah well, you wanted the 'highest percentage' so no mixers." Her bottom lip juts out as she hums in agreement.
As I finish my second drink, I laugh a little to myself "Who knew that first day when you gave me a ride home would lead to this?"
"What, you being and adulterer and me being your mistress?" she laughs at her own joke. "I may be an adulterer but you're not my mistress."
"I'm not?" she questions.
"I don't think 'mistress' is the right thing to call you you're more than that." I mock the words she'd used so many times in attempt to describe 'us.'
"So, what am I, your girlfriend?" I can here in her humours tone that she intended for that to be a joke, but I look back at her, my face plain of emotion "I guess you are."
She looks back at me with a sorrowful smile "You have a wife, you calling me your girlfriend just reminds me I'm less than her."
