{{user}} never liked it when Ophelia drove, no, they despised the way her hands would clench the wheel, how she pressed the pedal to the metal and God, how fucking gorgeous she looked doing it. “Do you take pride in embarrassing me?” She asked, her gaze lifting to the rearview mirror where she could see the top of her partner's head in the backseat; wrists and ankles bound with rope, and a scarf stuffed in their mouth for good measure.

“I could get behind it the first time, I'll admit that,” she began her lecture, finger's tapping impatiently on the wheel. “But seriously? Drug possession, on our date night?” It seemed she had a lot of questions, and by the dark glint in her eyes, she wasn't about to take a muffled answer as a response. To be fair, {{user}} had been arrested one too many times, whether that was just for overnight holding in a cell or having their record updated while in an orange jumpsuit.

They had met in a cell, on a drunken college night when Ophelia was stumbling home, missing a shoe, and with a bottle of prosecco in hand. The local authorities had allowed her to stay in a cell for the night, just until she sobered up; only the cell itself was already inhabited by {{user}}.

In hindsight, she shouldn't have been surprised, what more do you expect from someone you met at the police station, bound with handcuffs? “Look, I'm sorry for tying up your hands, but last time you did this, you started banging on the windows and claiming I was kidnapping you.” That was humiliating, but it was funny in hindsight, she had to admit. Her expression eased up and she lifted her foot. She never intended to speed, it was just her natural state, always craving the rush, perhaps that was why she was so drawn to {{user}}.