#I might never be able to write something like this again

[kingkat12]

euphoria (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: spanking, fingering, hair-pulling, clit-play, pussy-slaps, dom/sub, name-calling, praise, fluff (believe it or not), angst, aftercare, Roman is an ass (surprise lol)

summary: what happens when a certain someone comes home early from his work-trip in a really untimely matter? but maybe the main question isn't what-- maybe it is why?

word count: 10,848

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a/n: oh how I loved writing this chapter... the smut scene got so long because I spent a whole day only writing, AHH how I love summer break!!!!! enjoy lovelies<3333

I've never been good at emotional stuff-- containing it, working through it, understanding it. But anger? Anger, I was good at.

Peter laughed at something one of his colleagues said, effortless as ever, as I stood at his side, nodding along to a conversation I only caught half of; something about pre-litigation strategy, and a new partner hire who might be a walking HR violation. I hated thinking about HR. Why did we have to talk about HR? Fucking HR. Just thinking about the HR lady made my heart push up into my throat, clogging my airway, making me worry I'd start wheezing like a child that had swallowed a chew toy. 

I was also a walking HR violation, yet Peter had no idea. None, whatsoever. Would he want to be here with me at this nice banquet if he knew I was? Definitely not. Certainly so. 

Nodding along to the conversation between the legal team for Godfrey Industries, swirling my drink, trying not to look so guilty, I wondered where Mr. Godfrey was tonight; probably some rooftop in Switzerland once again, surrounded by models whose cheekbones could slice glass, surrounded by women he probably wanted to fuck. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't want to fuck me. He didn't even want me to touch him. How could I disgust him so?

If only he were here to see me now; I was dressed to kill and standing beside Peter, the hottest paralegal in the office who only had eyes for me, who wanted me. I should have been glowing from the attention. I should have been containing my giggles, blushing, wrapping my arms around his, clinging to him like a giddy date probably did in normal instances, but instead, I felt like the wilting, dying orchid in the corner of Mr. Godfrey's office. 

"Hey,"

Peter's voice cut through the legal chatter, low and careful, meant only for me; my eyes darted up to his, wide. His hand ghosted the small of my back again, grounding me in a way I didn't deserve. "You good? You've barely touched your drink."

I blinked, caught. "Oh," I mumbled, swirling the contents of my champagne flute. "I-- yeah, I'm good."

Peter gave me a look; lawyer instincts, surely. "Uh-huh,"

I smiled, a little sheepish, and took a sip to prove a point. "Happy now?"

"Hmm... I'll settle for now, in favour of peace in the court," He stepped a little closer, shielding us from the others with the easy slope of his body, his voice warm enough to melt the ice climbing up my spine. "You know," he murmured, leading me away. "I was half-convinced you'd bail on me tonight. Figured I'd get some text last minute saying 'sorry, food poisoning, maybe next year'."

That garnered a real giggle; "You really have that little faith in me, Peter?"

"Come on, kid, how would I know?" Peter grinned, shrugging as he looked back, checking that our desertion went unnoticed. God, it was annoying how kind his face was; open, honest, and safe. With him walking so close, I could smell his muted cologne, the cloud of dreamy musk, and I couldn't believe I wasn't able to feel the same way about him as I felt about my asshole boss. Peter was fucking perfect.

I sighed, looking up at the sunshine walking next to me; "Well, surprise, I showed up. And I'm glad I came, Peter,"

It wasn't a lie. I was glad. I loved hanging out with Peter. He always looked at me like I was whole, like I hadn't been chewed up by a man who could unmake me with one glance. I loved being near Peter, because standing next to him and his kind eyes never failed to give me the illusion of being someone different-- someone good.

"That's good to hear, because you look...." Peter paused, scratching the back of his neck like he didn't want to overstep. "You look amazing. Just-- yeah. You look great."

My chest ached; I wished that compliment would land the way it was meant to. I wished I could believe him instead of wondering if Mr. Godfrey would even notice me in this dress, or if he'd just raise a bored eyebrow and return to his drink and long line of supermodels. I felt so unworthy of Peter's eyes, his words, his kindness; maybe Mr. Godfrey should link him up with one of those Swiss models too? He deserved that much. 

I smiled anyway, feeling my cheeks redden as my pulse quickened. "Thank you," I breathed. "You look really good, too."

"Ah, is that right?" Peter cocked his head to the side, his smirk curling. "Guess I'll have to wear actual suits more often, huh?"

"You say that like you don't wear one to work every day,"

"Yeah, but I don't usually do the whole pocket square thing." He gestured down at himself; "This was for you, obviously."

"Noted," I smiled, even though it hurt-- God, I was really leading him on, wasn't I? 

Before Peter could snark back, already laughing, someone called out behind us.

"Rumancek!"

Peter winced, half-laughed, and turned. I could see his face melt with annoyance the second he saw who it was, letting out a small groan, accompanied by a roll of his eyes. "Sorry," he tried, already backing away as he sent me that apologetic look I knew too well. "That's Kyle. If I don't go hear him brag about his latest settlement, the bastard will explode. Two minutes, max?"

"No worries," I murmured, nodding along. "I'll be here, or passed out drunk over the ledge of the balcony. Either or."

Peter's brown eyes shimmered, charmed; "Not on my watch, young lady,"

Within seconds, he melted into the crowd, swallowed by suits and the warm, polite, rich laughter echoing through the banquet hall. I watched him go, the ghost of his cologne still clinging to my wrist like a secret, but as I turned, wondering where the waiter with the nice snacks was, I felt something in the air shift.

It was subtle, like a ripple under the surface of still water. The hair on the nape of my neck stood up; my instincts were ablaze. What was this?

I turned on my high heels, ears perking up, scouring the hall, until--

The sea of people opened up.

Standing near the entrance, talking to one of the board members, dressed in that signature black-on-black, was the man who wasn't supposed to be back until 23:47 tomorrow. That was the time of his flight. It was on the damn schedule. I had scheduled that damn flight. 

Roman Godfrey.

He was scanning the room with his usual disinterest, lips slightly parted, eyes sharp and heavy-lidded like he was always thinking something awful, yet he somehow managed to keep a charming smile as he talked to the key members of the company. He was good at this. This was his forte. 

Mr. Godfrey looked like sin. Mr. Godfrey was sin. Hair slicked back just enough to show off the cut of his cheekbones, the soft, spoiled curl at the ends betraying how young he still was— young enough to be reckless, young enough to get away with it. He was drunk on this, wasn't he? The power he wielded when he entered a room. Forbes nose, Forbes nose, Forbes nose. Unfair.

But then, before I could do anything to stop it, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes found mine with carved precision-- had he been looking for me?

My breath caught.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. No expression. No smile. I felt my skin burn beneath my dress, all the way down to my bones; my chest raised, heaved, as I refused to back down from the staring contest, refused, refused. 

Mr. Godfrey was back. Death had come for me.

And with a growing, sly smirk, he raised his hand, motioning for me to approach with the same two fingers he had once rubbed my clit with. 

That was when something cracked inside of me; I let out a choked laugh of disbelief, feeling the anger boil inside of me. Hello? Who did he think I was, his servant? A waiter? Why did he think he could call on me like that, like he didn't have the energy to walk over to me himself? I flailed my free hand, lips parting, grimacing back at him to show what I thought of him, silently telling him off. 

Irked, I watched as Mr. Godfrey gave in to a slight twitch of his head, his green gaze narrowing. The next twitch was deliberate, more of a come here motion, and that in turn set off a twitch in my eye, along with a shake of my head. 

War. This was war. Anger, I was good at.

But... Mr. Godfrey was better.

Because he didn't need to raise his voice. He didn't need to snap his fingers.

He just looked at me, like he knew every inch of my body under this dress, every secret curled up in the pit of my stomach, every thought I'd had about him since the second he left for Geneva. Some of those secrets, I had given him for free though, through that fucking drunk email. Mr. Godfrey's expression was darkly amused, but underneath it, I saw it; the irritation, the nerve I had struck by disobeying my dominant. 

Then, like it was inevitable, like he was bored with the charade, he lifted two fingers again. Slow. Deliberate. The same motion. Not playful this time, not even smug. Just... final.

Come.

My stomach twisted.

And surely enough, my heels carried me before my brain could stop them, slicing through the crowd like I had purpose, like I wasn't being called across the floor like some pet. My heart pounded with humiliation, heat, fury, but I obeyed. I fucking obeyed. 

I reached him just as his conversation tapered off, just as the board member excused himself with a pat on Mr. Godfrey's shoulder and a lingering glance my way. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't look at me, not right away-- he didn't have to. He simply took his glass from the table beside him, sipped slowly, and murmured, low enough only I could hear;

"Took you long enough," he said. "Enjoying your evening?"

I didn't answer-- I didn't want to. I stared past him like I hadn't heard him. Was that all he had to say to me? Was that it? Was he seriously leading with small talk?

Mr. Godfrey clicked his tongue, amused by my antics. "Ah," he said. "We're doing this."

"Doing what?" I snapped.

"You not looking at me, and me entertaining it," He cocked his head, waiting for me to glare at him. "That's not how this works, though. You know it."

"How what works, exactly?"

"You and I," Mr. Godfrey gave up on trying to get my attention; instead, he positioned himself next to me, looking out on the guests as he calmly sipped his champagne. 

I had to do everything in my power to not fold my arms over my chest and pierce his foot with my sharp heel. "Okay, then. Then maybe I don't think I like how you and I work anymore," 

A pause. The sound of the party humming behind us-- cutlery, laughter, some jazz quartet in the corner. He didn't rise to meet my anger; that was the worst part. "I see," he said. "So what is this? A tantrum?"

"No,"

"No?"

"I throw tantrums when I want you to manage them, but that was when I trusted that you wouldn't go too far," Going against him like this made my fingers tremble around my glass, and I had to force myself to continue; "You overstepped. You hurt me."

"Aw," Mr. Godfrey drawled, tilting his head, clearly mocking me. "And here I thought you liked a little pain."

Asshole. 

Finally, I turned to look at him, immediately met with his green eyes. Infuriatingly enough, he had that look about him that told me he was convinced this was a joke-- that this was part of our play, that this was part of our dance. "Not that kind," I muttered.

Mr. Godfrey's gaze flickered, searching my face for the truth, and finding-- what? More performance? A scene? He tilted his head slightly, mouth set in that careless, impenetrable line. "Mm," he hummed. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Oh, fuck you," This was clearly about the Swiss models-- did he not realize?

Seemingly not. Mr. Godfrey only smiled, evil yet charming. "Is that what this is?" he asked, quiet. "You missed me, so you're biting?"

"I didn't miss you,"

"Didn't you?"

"I didn't even know you'd be here,"

Of all things, that landed. A fractional pause fall, small, but enough to let me know he was finally paying attention. His lashes dropped slightly over his eyes, gaze narrowing. "No?" he murmured. "Did you not see the schedule change?"

"No,"

"You always check that," he mumbled. "Slacking off, then?"

"No," Fucker. "It's a Sunday. I don't work for you on the weekend."

"Then who dragged you out?"

Something told me that Mr. Godfrey was genuinely curious, maybe a bit shocked? I waited a beat, let the silence press in between us like a knife, as my eyes narrowed further; "I came with Peter,"

He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He didn't do anything.

For a moment, I almost wondered if Mr. Godfrey had heard me at all. But then, slowly, I watched the corners of his mouth curl-- not in a smile, not even in anger, but in something colder, something almost like disbelief. "My paralegal?" he chuckled, mocking as ever. "That's original!"

My eye twitched; I wanted to smack him. For the first time ever, I genuinely considered it. I bet he'd moan. Twisted fucker. "Better than spending a week in Switzerland with a harem," I hissed. "Or was it a business trip? Who knows."

Mr. Godfrey's expression didn't shift much, but something behind his eyes sparked. Not rage. Not offense. Amusement, maybe? Finally, he knew what this was about. His fingers curled tighter around the glass, slow and measured, like he was restraining a grin. His pupils didn't shrink-- they narrowed, sharp and calculating. "You've got a lot of nerve talking to me like that," he said, voice low, but not threatening. He sounded entertained, like he was watching a show, like this was the moment he had been waiting for all week.

"Says the man that gets off on being challenged," I huffed. "Don't act like this isn't exactly what you wanted. Why else would you call the paparazzi when you went to that party?" I dared to glare up at Mr. Godfrey, hoping he'd feel my wrath; "I'm not fucking stupid. I know how those things work."

A flash of something showed on his face, barely-there, lightning-quick, but I caught it-- oh, I caught it.

"I don't want to do this tonight," I said, standing my ground. "You said you'd be gone for a week. I want my whole week of peace."

Mr. Godfrey's laugh was short, almost a snort-- "Wow," he said under his breath. "I thought we were enjoying the same game here." He took a step forward, eyes scanning me with that slow, assessing look that always made my stomach twist. "What, the models upset you? I was giving you something to bite back over." Mr. Godfrey's smile curled, but it didn't reach his green eyes; "Come on, now. Don't tell me you've forgotten how this works," he added, lips curling, voice edged in that same boyish mischief he always used when he wanted to keep things unserious. "Play with me, won't you? Or are we rewriting the rules?"

... Seriously?

Was this all a game to him?

Before my brain could churn through the possibilities, Mr. Godfrey took one last step forward, which in turn had me backing into a nearby table; he leaned forward, brushing it off as him putting away his drink, smooth and planned. His lips hovered just above the shell of my ear; "You think I flew in early across the ocean just to leave you alone?"

No. 

No, no, no.

He wouldn't come here for me. He wouldn't. This was yet another cheap trick in the book, wasn't it? Typical heartbreaker, that's what he was. How had I not seen it before now? That would've worked on me a week ago, but not now, not after the whole ordeal with the Swiss models. He took it too far. Still, we hadn't agreed on exclusivity-- that word was probably not even in his vocabulary. Did I have a right to be upset? 

My breath caught, and a shiver travelled down my spine; Mr. Godfrey's breath was warm. I felt beyond warm too, and I was sure I'd start boiling at this rate if he didn't move. Surely, this whole ordeal hadn't lasted for more than a few seconds, but as I found myself unable to breathe, I stared up at him, wide-eyed, silently begging him to move. 

"I don't know why you came," I said, breathless. "But now I wish you hadn't."

Mr. Godfrey stilled.

For a moment, just one slim, suspended moment, Mr. Godfrey looked at me like he had never seen me before. Not the girl from the interview, not the secretary he tormented, not the girl who folded under his tone-- something in his gaze shifted, cracked at the edges. Maybe it was confusion, maybe it was restraint? Maybe it was the very first flicker of doubt that I wasn't playing anymore?

With that, slowly, he stepped back. Just a fraction, though-- just enough to let the air cool between us, just enough to let me pass.

And I didn't wait for him to change his mind.

My heels scraped hard against the floor as I moved, fury twisting in every step. I didn't look back; I wouldn't. Tonight was mine. Tonight, I had authority too. Just because he cut his trip short, shouldn't mean that I had to adhere to his antics? 

But then, the second I thought I had gotten away, a hand caught my wrist-- not harshly, not even tightly, but like it was automatic. Mr. Godfrey yanked me back like he had already decided I belonged to him, and this was just part of how the night would go.

Now, the smirk was wiped off his face-- now, he was pissed. 

"Fine," he hissed through gritted teeth, no longer caring if people were watching. I was his property in his mind, anyway, and he could do as he pleased, right? "You want to be like that? Be like that. But you're gonna go talk to Derek, the lead of catering, and tell him this party needs ice. And while you're at it, count how many glasses are left at each station. I don't want anyone bitching about shortages. Get it sorted, and do it now."

I would've gasped, had we not been surrounded by people-- I should've known that he would do this, I should've known he wouldn't let me get away so easily. This was my punishment, wasn't it? Staring up at my boss, blinded by his violent beauty, the green of his eyes, the caramel brown of his hair, the looming authority with which he held me, I couldn't believe this was happening; "I don't work for you tonight," I huffed, trying to get out of his grip, but to no avail. "Find the fucking party coordinator lady, this is not my!--"

"You work for me always," Mr. Godfrey hissed, tightening his hold. "And you will do as I say."

It slipped out of me before I could think about the possible repercussions; "No!"

A beat.

Way too long.

"... No?!" Mr. Godfrey looked like he was about to explode. "What did you just say to me?"

Finally, I yanked my wrist hard enough for him to let me go; "No!"

The word echoed, sharp and crystalline, slicing through the low din of the party, but not loud enough to draw eyes; it was just enough to seal it between us.

No one else seemed to notice. The music swelled over it, masking the crack in the air, laughter clinked against champagne glasses, like I hadn't just signed my doom. We could've been arguing about napkins for all anyone knew, for all they cared. 

But he knew, and I knew, and that would be enough.

I didn't dare to see how he'd react-- I knew this would cost me. I knew I had just carved a line in the sand I couldn't step back over, but I turned anyway. My heels bit against the marble floor as I walked away, eyes forward, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I didn't breathe until I saw the silhouette of Peter's black suit; here, I was safe.

But Peter saw me before I even reached him.

His smile, that warm, crooked thing that usually lived somewhere between mischief and charm, had been replaced by what looked like a glare. His eyes flicked over me, reading the tightness in my shoulders, the way my lips were pressed together too hard, the raw, blinking shine still wet in my lashes, before he stared back at the perpetrator-- Mr. Godfrey.

When I approached him, on the brink of hyperventilating, Peter reached one arm out, pulling me closer by my waist, immediately sensing my distress. "What the hell was what?" he asked, not accusatory, but concerned. "I didn't think he'd be back until--"

"I know," I said, breathless. "He's an ass. He just... he--" My voice cracked down the middle, a quiet, trembling thing; "Can you drive me home?"

Peter's fingers curled slightly at my waist. He looked over my shoulder again, jaw ticking. "Home? Yeah. Of course. But-- are you sure? I can talk to him,"

"No!" Too fast, too sharp. Fuck. "Please don't. Just... don't."

He looked at me, visibly torn. "You're shaking,"

"It's fine," I lied. "I just-- I need to go. Please, Peter."

He... didn't budge.

"Peter," I touched his chest lightly, just above his lapel. "You're not going to get through to him. And even if you say something, he'll just make it worse for me tomorrow."

His eyes searched mine, reluctant and unreadable. "You shouldn't have to deal with this,"

"I know," I whispered. "But I do."

For a long moment, Peter just looked at me-- really looked. We stood in the middle of the party like we were underwater, everyone else blurred to nothing. I could see him deciding; hero or bystander. Rage or mercy.

Finally, after a beat that nearly broke me, he exhaled. "Okay," he said, soft. "Come on, kid."

Peter wrapped an arm more firmly around my waist this time, possessive without meaning to be (or maybe a little?), and started leading me toward the exit. I kept my chin low, my eyes lower, trying not to be seen or noticed.

Still, I knew that was impossible. I knew Mr. Godfrey was here somewhere, watching this, drinking it in-- he wasn't going to let me get away so easily, was he?

I dared to look up, and I immediately found him stood near the tall windows, half-turned from a cluster of investors, his body tense in that controlled, tight way I'd come to recognize when he was mad. One hand still clutched the champagne, but the other had curled into a fist at his side, knuckles stark white. He wasn't listening to the man talking beside him, not really-- his eyes were locked on Peter's arm around my waist.

And then they flicked up.

Met mine.

And that was what it took for me to press closer to Peter, away from Mr. Godfrey, away from this party. This wasn't the clean break that I had wanted-- this was a warning shot, and I had just fired it at the worst possible target.

This could cost me everything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The night air was cooler than I expected, brushing against my bare shoulders, but it cleared my head a little. My heels clicked on the pavement, slower now. Peter matched my pace easily, hands in his pockets, looking so much more at ease than I felt.

"You know," Peter said as we reached the front step of my apartment. "I half expected Roman to throw a drink at me."

I gave a weak laugh, stopping in front of the door. "I think he wanted to. Maybe next time,"

"Better bring a poncho," he said with a half-smile, his brown eyes never leaving mine. For a second, we just stood there; him with one step down, while that usual crooked mischief quieted in his expression, replaced with something far gentler. He was reading me, trying to decide if I was still breaking, or just beginning to bend back into shape.

Peter's hands were still in his pockets, but he leaned forward slightly, like his body was pulled toward mine without him meaning to. "You sure you're okay?"

My heart hurt; "You don't have to do this," I started, gentle and low. 

"What do you mean?" The question was so simple in his mind. "Make sure you're fine?"

"Yeah," I breathed-- my hand reached to linger at the door knob, shifting my weight from one heel to another. Suddenly, I couldn't meet his gaze. I couldn't face him. "Thank you for driving me home, and for the lovely evening, and for being so kind, but... I don't deserve this."

"Nonsense," was the immediate response. 

That made my eyes dart up to look at Peter, the porch light catching the silver at the tips of his dark lashes. His jaw was tense, but his smile was soft, almost reverent, like he saw something noble in me that I couldn't. "Nonsense," he echoed. "You deserve good things, kid. Don't let Roman convince you otherwise. I've seen countless girls like you come and go out of his office, one more broken than the other, but you can't let him break you. Not when you shine so bright."

My throat tightened, my lips parted-- suddenly, my head felt light. Was this how it was supposed to feel? "Peter--" I started, but there was nothing to follow it with except for the sudden ache behind my ribs like someone had struck me there. Peter looked at me like I hadn't already been burned, used, and destroyed, and that... that felt unreal.

"You're not just some secretary," Peter said, quieter now. "You're just hurting, and-- and he saw that and pushed, didn't he?"

I looked down, blinking too hard; this was hitting closer to home than I had expected. "You don't want to know," I breathed. "You wouldn't look at me the same."

With a sigh, Peter reached out, hesitant at first, and touched my arm; a warm and grounding touch. "I see you just as you are," he murmured. "And I like what I see."

There was a pause. That undid me more than I expected-- my heart stuttered in that small silence, and when our eyes met again, something passed between us, uncomplicated, for once. No power games. No traps. Just kindness, and maybe even longing?

Peter's eyes dropped briefly to my lips. Not in the lustful way I was used to-- just a flicker, a beat too long. His body shifted ever so slightly closer, shoulders angling in, and suddenly, it felt like there was a question floating between us, one I didn't quite have the courage to voice.

"You want me to stay?" he asked, low, like he wasn't sure himself.

I didn't answer. I didn't know. I didn't dare.

"I could--" he started, a breath closer. "Just for a minute. We could talk. Or not? Whatever you need."

Fuck. My pulse was going through the roof, I was sure my hands were clammy, my eyes had widened beyond retrieval, but then...

The door finally clicked open behind me, cool air brushing past my ankles. I should have said goodnight, should have stepped inside and closed the door and let it end sweet and clean-- but I didn't.

I lingered...

And Peter noticed.

The thing is, I wanted comfort. I wanted to feel like I wasn't spiralling alone, like someone saw the mess and didn't flinch, or didn't want to make me flinch because of it. Still, I also knew this wasn't neutral-- Peter wanted to be the one I turned to, the one I leaned on, the one I kissed.

His hand ran down my arm, slowly, his fingers brushing mine-- just a featherlight touch, waiting for permission.

I didn't move. Didn't pull away. I think, maybe, I wanted to see if I still had that effect on anyone, if someone could still want me without breaking me open; Peter wouldn't ever want to break me. He'd want me whole. Breathing. Happy. Unbothered, pampered, content, calm, neutered, and nice. I could be nice, right? I didn't have to run my filthy mouth all the time? I could stop getting off at inappropriate times and places? I could be normal. I could be the perfect, sweet girl. I could be. I really think I could be.

And then, Peter leaned in-- slow, respectful, letting me stop him. His breath was warm, his nose just brushing mine, and my heart thudded hard once in my chest, and--

I almost let him.

Almost.

Because suddenly, in the cold night air, in front of my open apartment door, it hit me that I couldn't.

I couldn't be normal. I couldn't play nice. I didn't want to be unbothered-- I wanted to be set on fire. I wanted gasoline to be poured all over me, to feel my blood boil, to feel my body melt, because only then would I feel alive. My mouth needed to run. My skin needed to burn with the sting. 

I... couldn't go back. Not after having met Mr. Godfrey. 

I was ruined. I was filthy. I was me. Peter didn't want the real me-- he didn't know the real me. If he knew, he'd run for the hills. He'd know I was used up. He'd know I had been defiled by the one man he couldn't stand. 

So, with Peter's lips barely an inch away from mine, his warm breath ghosting over my upper lip, I dared to speak; "I should get some sleep,"

Immediately, Peter pulled back. "Yeah," he said, clearing his throat, suddenly all nerves. "Of course. Yeah, totally."

My heart hurt for him-- my heart hurt for us. 

I leaned forward, wrapped my arms around him, and pressed my cheek to his chest; this felt better. This felt right. I liked hugging Peter-- he froze only for a second before folding into the hug, his chin brushing the top of my head, holding me like I was something delicate but not breakable, like I was allowed to just be held. "I'm so sorry," I whispered, eyes welling up with tears. 

Peter held me tighter, arms wrapping all the way around like he could shelter me from the weight of my own words. "Don't be," he said into my hair. "You don't owe me anything."

I pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy, the porch light haloing his silhouette; his brows were drawn, like he wanted to understand but knew better than to press. "I wish I met you before," I breathed. "Before all of this. Before I turned into someone I don't recognize."

He cupped the side of my face, careful, his thumb brushing a tear I didn't know had fallen. "You don't always have to bleed to earn good things. Not everything has to be a battle. It will come to you in a few years, trust me," With a sigh, Peter leaned in again, just enough to press his forehead to mine, and his voice came soft and certain; "But when you do feel like you've done enough suffering to deserve something nice... I'm here."

Oh, how that gutted me-- that kind of gentleness always did.

I mustered the strength to nod, barely, and stepped back. To steady myself, my hand found the doorframe, and I felt like my brain was fighting the enormous shutdown I was holding back. Everything Peter had said made so much sense-- maybe he actually saw me more than I thought? I couldn't think about it. Not now, not here. 

"Goodnight, Peter," I whispered, a small smile accompanying my words. "Thank you for tonight. I had a great time."

"I'm glad," His smile was small, tired, but real. "Goodnight, kid."

I watched Peter retreat down the steps, hands back in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he had left with more weight than he came with-- fuck. 

I closed the door only once I couldn't see him anymore, and then I leaned my forehead against it. I didn't cry-- not really. I just... stood there. Hollowed out. Full of warmth I didn't know how to carry.

Peter was light...

But I had already been claimed by the dark. 

Not only claimed, actually-- consumed. Because the only thought that remained after I'd allowed myself a little breakdown, was damage control. Damage control. Damage control. 

Mr. Godfrey was going to make my life hell. He had seen me leave with Peter, I had openly defied him, and... 

I knew there was only one thing to do to maybe make tomorrow just a smidge easier.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I stared down at my desk, nudging the stapler for the fifth time to make sure it was aligned with the edge of the table. This was crazy. This was nuts. Why was I doing this, and why was I doing this at two in the morning?

After Peter, after everything, and after I had gotten out of my dress... 

I ran back to work.

Back to this desk, this office, these goddamn pens, as if putting them in order might put me back in order too.

So here I was, nudging my stapler, sorting my pens, and wiping my computer screen in the exact same outfit I had worn to work a few days ago. Sick fuck. Heart hammering like I was about to go out on stage and give a speech, I walked back and forth, back and forth, to make sure I hadn't missed anything. 

I couldn't sit still; I wanted there to be nothing Mr. Godfrey could take me for. I knew he was now going to wreak havoc in my life again, I knew he was going to try to make my life hell, and this was my way of trying to cushion the fall. 

After having gone up against him, it felt like my brain had melted and become mush. How could I do that? How did I manage to tell him no? In that moment, that had felt like the biggest rush, but now...

What the hell had I done?

Hyperventilating, I nudged the stapler a bit to the left, feeling my eyes well up with tears all over again. I had also messed everything up with Peter. I had realized that everything that had happened between me and Mr. Godfrey had caused irrevocable damage, because hello-- how the fuck had I allowed myself to be driven to the point where I was having a breakdown at the office at two in the morning?!

I swiped at my eyes quickly, angrily, then turned back toward my desk again... only to freeze at the sound of footsteps echoing down the marble hallway outside.

Slow.

Measured.

Unmistakable.

I knew that walk-- I knew the rhythm of his shoes like the back of my hand.

The click of his shoes drew closer, and I didn't move; I couldn't. I stood by my desk like a kid caught sneaking out, blinking through the leftover blur of tears, still wearing my black office heels, wearing my usual office attire like a fucking maniac.

My stomach flipped violently when I realized how close he was, but I didn't run. I straightened my spine like it would save me, like posture could hide panic. The steps then came with absurd slowness, like he knew the sound alone would be enough to skin me.

And then---

There he was.

I spun around to face him; Roman Godfrey stood behind me, framed in the low office light like some half-dressed specter of everything I had ever wanted and shouldn't have touched. His coat was open over his shirt, a few buttons undone. No tie. His hair was damp at the ends like he had just stepped out of the rain or a scalding shower, and his jaw was tight.

"What... the fuck," he hissed, vicious; "are you doing here?"

That was it. No greeting. No smile. No teasing quip. Just quiet, simmering fury.

I let out a shaky breath, realizing I was cornered; there was nowhere to go. My back hit the desk, and my hands went to grab at it like it would save me. "I could-- I could ask you the same thing,"

"You could, sure," he said, voice low and threatening, eyes dark like never before. "But this whole building? The one you've technically trespassed? It's mine."

I flinched. He didn't yell, but God, it was worse than yelling. That cold authority, that quiet confidence that he could have me arrested or worse, and I wouldn't even put up a fight; I was already breathless. "I didn't break in," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I have a key. You know I have a key."

"Oh, a key," he scoffed, tone mocking, gesturing at the spotless desk. "So this is just a normal night for you? Rearranging office supplies at two a.m. in your little secretary costume? Jesus."

I bit my lip to keep it from trembling-- I wasn't ready to cry again, not yet. But Mr. Godfrey just kept looking at me like he didn't recognize me, like I was a problem he couldn't categorize, and it was killing me. 

"You look unhinged," he finally said, taking me in from head to toe with something like disgust. "What is this? Did you lose your mind while I was gone?"

Something inside me snapped-- enough.

"Maybe your OCD rubbed off on me," I muttered. "Maybe now I'm just as fucked up as you are."

The moment the words left my mouth, the silence that followed was so thick it might as well have died. Mr. Godfrey went utterly still. His jaw clenched once, then again, like he was grinding down a scream between his molars.

And then--

He exploded.

"That's enough!" he barked. "You think you get to act like this because what? I left the country for a week?! I don't know who made you such a brat, or why you think you can act the way you've done tonight, because I've given you everything you've ever asked for!"

"That's-- You don't even let me touch you!" I cried, voice breaking. "You let me need you, and then you punish me for it! All I ever wanted from you was some-- some basic decency, you spoiled piece of shit!"

"Decency? Decency?" His laugh was dry, bitter; "You wanted this! You asked for it! You even got down on your fucking knees and begged for it! So don't turn around and act like a victim now, just because I didn't behave exactly how you fantasized!"

"I'm not!--"

"You've wanted exactly what I've been giving you, so I don't get why you suddenly want out!"

"I don't want out!" I yelled, angrily wiping away my tears. "I just didn't-- I didn't think you'd run off with a bunch of models!"

"Oh, fuck you!" Mr. Godfrey snapped-- his words boomed so loud, I was sure the walls of the office shook. His fists had balled, his jacket had been tossed to the floor, and his ears had gone red from all the screaming. "You're just assuming things, but you're the one who ran to Peter the second I left the country! You even went home with him!"

I let out a sob, realizing there was no stopping my tears; "Nothing happened with Peter!" I cried. "Because you've made me sick! I'm sick! There's something wrong with me now, and-- and!--" My voice was hoarse, and I could barely finish my sentences. Saying it out loud just made it a thousand times worse, and I broke apart. "Please just do something!" I sobbed, shamelessly letting my tears fall. "Just-- please, I can't!-- I can't snap out of this, I need!-- I need you to-- snap me out of this!"

Stunned, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes widened, staring at the crying mess in front of him. I bet he hadn't expected a full breakdown like this, not at two in the morning, not when he had probably come here to fetch some file or God knows what. Mr. Godfrey's chest heaved from all the yelling as he stared at me, really looked at me, for the first time since I had started unraveling. The storm in his green eyes faltered, cracking just enough for something softer to seep through, something painfully close to concern.

He didn't say a word. He knew what I needed. 

Mr. Godfrey stepped forward. Reached out. Grabbed my wrist with a firm grip that barely hurt but left no room for argument, and started pulling me toward the door to his office.

"Wait--" I tried, but he cut me off with a sharp look.

No questions. No explanations. He knew what I needed.

When we reached his office, Mr. Godfrey pushed the door open without ceremony. The only light came from a dim desk lamp, casting long shadows over the room and over his face. Sniffling, I tried to wipe the tears and the snot, and somehow found myself... getting calmer. That was not how this usually worked? Usually, this would get my heart pounding even faster, but now? It felt like I was about to be relieved, like he was about to make it better. 

And he was the only one who could.

With a click of the door behind us, Mr. Godfrey looked down at me with an unreadable expression. I couldn't understand whether he was furious or getting over himself-- it was impossible to decode.

Then, his voice came quiet, almost calm; "I think ten would do,"

Ten? 

Oh.

"I don't know if that would be enough," I breathed. 

"Fifteen would only make you cry harder," he mumbled, clearly from experience. "That wouldn't help you."

"Twelve, then...?" 

"Twelve?"

Were we really having a civilized discussion about this...? About spanking?

"Three times four is twelve," I mumbled, sniffling. "You-- you like threes."

Mr. Godfrey stilled, his chest rising with soft, slow strokes. This was it-- we had made a deal, and he didn't have to say anything to know he was sold on it. Had I just done business with the most notorious businessman of the country? 

The way I was put over his lap was different this time; this felt like something sacred, like a routine we had practiced. Every other time had been consensual, but this... I had never wanted it more. I had never wanted him more.

As Mr. Godfrey's big hands reached for my skirt, I heard him sigh as he bunched it up around my waist. "Fucking hell," he mumbled, tracing the line of my underwear; the exact pair he had gifted me a while ago. "I knew these would suit you." 

There was nothing I could do to fight the shiver that ran up my back, and I let out a shaky breath. 

And he noticed the breath-- of course he did.

Mr. Godfrey's large palm flattened against the small of my back, warm, steady, possessive, while his other hand ghosted over the curve of my ass, fingers brushing the edge of the silk like it annoyed him. The heat of him seeped into my skin before the first strike even landed, but it didn't come right away.

No, he waited. Drew it out. Let the tension stretch until I could barely breathe.

And then--

Crack.

My body jolted, the pain ripping through me as I cried out, quiet and broken. "Fuck, ouch," I breathed. "One."

Mr. Godfrey hummed, dismissive; "You don't have to count," His fingers dragged over my sore skin, smoothing out the ache like it was his to mold. "Just try not to tense your legs. It's going to make it much worse."

That was odd-- why wouldn't he want me to have it worse? "But... it's supposed to hurt,"

"Yeah," he murmured. "But not to the point where you pass out."

Before I could say anything, his hand came down again, harder, firmer, to the point where my air left me with a shaky cry. God, it hurt, but I had missed this more than anything; the shock, the pain, the shame-- I loved it.

And then, when I thought it couldn't, it only got better.

"This is for your filthy mouth," Mr. Godfrey hissed, another smack falling before I could answer. "This is for your bratty little attitude tonight." Crack. "You really thought you could run your mouth without consequences? Not around me. Not ever."

My eyes burned as the heat bloomed beneath my skin, the sting deepening into something molten, something that settled in my core and made my thighs clench without permission.

Crack.

I gasped again, this one more strangled than the last.

"You even looked smug when you mouthed off," he hissed, bending low enough that I could feel his breath against the back of my neck. "Like you wanted this, you fucking brat. You did, huh?"

Another hit-- my body twitched in his grip. "Yes, sir," There was no use in lying, right?

I could almost hear Mr. Godfrey rolling his eyes. "That's what I thought," he muttered; his hand stroked the curve of my ass, then squeezed, like he was checking his work. "Bet you even missed this when I was gone. Bet this shit was on your mind when you sent me that drunk mail."

Crack.

Tears slipped from my eyes, not from the pain, but from the unbearable rightness of it all. He was punishing me like I belonged to him, like I mattered. Did I? 

Then, when I expected the next strike, it didn't come. Instead, Mr. Godfrey's hand moved further down, easing between my thighs, forcing them apart as I squirmed in his lap. Like this, I couldn't see anything, couldn't do anything, so when he dragged his thumb down my clothed, wet sex, I let out a shaky, quiet moan. What was happening?

"Do you get off on this, hm? Being put in your place?" 

I could only nod, looking back at him with glossy eyes. There was no hiding. There was no escaping. Where were we now? Six? Seven? I had lost count, even though I promised myself I wouldn't. 

Mr. Godfrey tsked, probably getting a kick out of the ruined sight of me. "This is not for you to get off," he huffed. "This is for you to snap out of whatever mess you've made in that tiny brain of yours. Why the fuck are you so wet, huh? Are you not ashamed? You should be." 

Then, with a flat hand, he smacked me between my legs-- Jesus Christ.

It was the oddest sensation. That force against my clit was both agony and pleasure unlike any other, and I let out a broken, loud cry of a moan that I instantly regretted, because suddenly? There came many more, small ones, firm, as my back arched up against Mr. Godfrey's hand, trying to meet the strikes for some reason I couldn't understand; this was the oddest, most pleasurable sensation, and I only knew that I wanted more. 

"Fuck, fuck-- fuck!--"

At that, Mr. Godfrey's hand moved and pressed into the curve of my lower back again, holding me in place like it was nothing. His strength felt effortless, like pinning down something wild; a reminder that he could hold me here forever if he wanted to. His voice stayed low, infuriatingly calm; "Look at you," he breathed, as if disgusted-- but there was nothing disgusted in the way he touched me. "What am I supposed to do with you, huh? Dirty girl."

My hips twitched, involuntarily seeking friction, something, anything, but he didn't give it. His thumb hovered again, threatening, teasing, denying, and then with the most feathery touch, traced a line down my underwear, stopping right before he reached my clit; for a second there, I even forgot to breathe. "Please," I whispered. 

"You act like a little monster," Mr. Godfrey continued, disregarding my pleas. "And then cry when you get treated like one."

"I'm not!--"

"You're not what?" he bit back. "Not needy? Not desperate?"

I clenched my jaw, tears clinging to my lashes, the shame glowing so hot in my chest I thought it might consume me. But still, I whispered, lying through my teeth; "I'm not crying,"

Mr. Godfrey chuckled-- a real one, low and cruel. "No," he murmured. "You're whimpering."

And then his hand slipped inside the waistband of my underwear; not hurried, not greedy, just steady. Intolerably slow. He dragged his fingers along my slickness, letting out the softest, sharpest breath when he felt how soaked I was. "Christ," he mumbled. "You're absolutely filthy."

Yes. 

Yes, I was. 

Mr. Godfrey held them there, two fingers barely pressing at my wet entrance, not moving. The tension knotted behind my ribs, unbearable. "Say it," he murmured.

I blinked, dazed; "Sir?"

"Say you missed me,"

My eyes widened just a bit, and my breath got stuck in my chest-- what? Why did he want to hear that? Why did he want me to say it? "I missed you," I confessed, shaky, not sure what to anticipate. 

"Are you lying?"

"N-- No, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey's digits moved, barely, with pressure at my hole that made my breath catch; would he put them in? Then, his fingers moved away, slow but deliberate, now dragging up to circle my clit once, twice-- before pulling away completely. "Stupid girl," he mumbled. "You shouldn't have."

My mouth parted in an airless gasp as he slid out of my underwear and came back with the flat of his hand, striking harder than before--

Crack.

"Eight," I gasped-- barely a whisper, barely a breath. The word slipped out before I could stop it, torn from the tight, trembling place in my chest. Everything burned. The ache had started as something low and dull, but now it bloomed sharp and alive, tracing every nerve along my spine and spilling down my thighs like fire.

Behind me, Mr. Godfrey let out a low breath-- half a sigh, half a laugh. The sound was cruel in its amusement, like he had expected this from me. "Still counting?" he murmured, voice velvet-smooth and full of mockery. "Didn't I tell you not to?"

I couldn't answer. My jaw was slack, my face already slick with tears, heat prickling under my skin-- I didn't know if I was shaking from the sting or from the shame that pulsed like a heartbeat in my chest. 

"I think you like the numbers too," Mr. Godfrey said next, almost to himself. His nails scraped a slow trail down the side of my thigh, making me jolt, making my stomach twist. "Makes it feel earned, doesn't it? Like you deserve it."

I whimpered, some fractured sound catching in my throat.

Another pause. Then;

Crack.

"Nine--"  The word burst from me on instinct, no thought behind it; just a raw, knee-jerk reaction.

He didn't let it go.

In one smooth, terrifying motion, Mr. Godfrey caught a fistful of my hair and pulled, yanking my head back just enough to make me gasp. My eyes flew open, vision swimming, breath catching. "I said," he hissed, low and cold in my ear; "Don't count."

"I'm sorry, sir," I whimpered, already unraveling. "I-- I keep losing track, I can't-- I need--"

His grip tightened again, sharp and absolute, every inch of him a warning; "Don't give a damn," he hissed.

Crack.

My whole body jolted, and a whisper of a ten left my lips. Shit. Shit.

This time, he didn't scold me. Maybe he hadn't heard me? But then, Mr. Godfrey pressed his hips forward, so I could feel the weight of him beneath me-- feel him growing beneath me. That was when it hit me that he was hard; thick, hard, and cruelly restrained. He wanted me to know. He wanted me to feel.

"Jesus," he muttered, now dragging the silk of my underwear down past my thighs; did he want to get a better look at the mark he was leaving? "Look at you... Wet like you're in heat. Ashamed yet?"

I was, but I wasn't. What the fuck was this feeling? I didn't even care that I was exposed anymore.

"It seems not," Mr. Godfrey hummed, dragging his fingers through the slickness between my legs, coating them, before trailing them down my thighs, humiliating me with every slow move. "Little brat's been dripping since strike three." 

I shivered; this was sticky. I was sticky. My legs were sticky. Was he? I whined, helpless, pathetic; "Please, sir, I feel-- ew, I feel--"

Crack.

My cry was loud this time, a real sob punching out of me-- finally, I had forgotten everything about the models. Peter. Mr. Godfrey's absence. The mess at the banquet. The lady from HR. The previous secretary. The emails. This was what I had been longing for-- this was the kind of numbness only Mr. Godfrey could give me, show me, teach me. This was why I needed him. That was why I needed this, us, whatever it was. 

As it all came crashing down on me, I felt the eternal knot in my chest unravel-- suddenly, I felt lighter than ever. Suddenly, I was ethereal. There was peace. Through my glistening tears hanging off my eyelids, I felt myself smile-- I slowly turned my head, looking up at Mr. Godfrey, showing him the release he had unleashed upon me. 

His green eyes, which were previously furious, had softened, but not noticeably. I could see it in the way his shoulders fell just the smallest movement, the way his face softened for just a beat too long, the way he let go of my hair-- he knew. He felt the euphoria too. 

This was the premise of everything.

This was why we needed each other. 

And then, to put me out of my misery, came the last crack of his palm against my skin-- I let my mouth fall open in a silent moan as I felt my body go limp with the relief. Euphoria, coursing through my veins. Euphoria, being pushed to this state. Euphoria. 

Mr. Godfrey exhaled behind me, pleased. "There she is,"

Then silence came, as a gift to us both. A heavy, glowing kind of silence that filled the room like warm light spilling across polished floors. No footsteps. No fumbling. No more commands.

Just him. Just me.

I heard him breathe again-- slower this time, calmer. Mr. Godfrey then reached for me with unexpected care, curling his arms around my torso, guiding me up and pulling me gently into his lap, settling me sideways so my legs draped across his. I didn't even think of the oddity of his softness-- my brain had melted into the best form of delirium as I let my head fall against his chest like it belonged there, right beneath his collarbone, where I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

I wasn't trembling anymore; I had found peace.

One of Mr. Godfrey's hands rubbed slow, careful circles up and down my back, his touch soothing now. The other cradled my thigh, his thumb absently brushing over my sticky skin-- no intention, no edge, just grounding presence.

"You did well," he murmured after a while, barely loud enough to hear. His voice wasn't sharp anymore; it was low, warm, and close. "Took everything I gave you, didn't you?"

I nodded faintly into Mr. Godfrey's broad chest, a wet exhale slipping from my lips. My hand came up to loosely clutch his shirt, something I would've never dared to before-- I didn't know if it was for balance or need. Maybe both? 

"Good girl," He pressed his lips to my temple-- not a kiss, really, just a press. His mouth was warm. "I've got you." Mr. Godfrey tilted his head down to rest against mine for a moment, our foreheads nearly touching. "I shouldn't have stayed away that long," he said. "Look what it did to you."

Look what it did to us.

... He didn't say that part, though. He didn't need to.

My body felt heavy in his lap, but not in a bad way; in a way that said I could stay here forever. "I needed this," I admitted, quiet as ever, soft and uncomplicated. "I needed you."

Mr. Godfrey's jaw moved like he was biting something back-- we didn't have to talk about the rest of it. Not yet. I didn't push. I got it. I finally understood. "Shh," he murmured again. "I know. I know." His hand kept tracing circles into my back; "Do you feel any better?"

"Yeah," If only he knew. "I just-- I'm just a little sticky, though." I tried pulling my thighs apart, but with every move, I felt the slick Mr. Godfrey had smeared all over them. If I really focused, I could still feel the arousal pulsing through me, the build-up that hadn't gone anywhere. Squirming, mildly uncomfortable, I let out a shaky breath against him, unsure whether to mention it or not. Maybe not. I could go one night without it. I could get off when I got home, right? 

It just... wouldn't be the same.

But that was when I realized Mr. Godfrey wasn't done with me, anyway.

He felt the shift in me instantly-- the restless little squirm, the way my thighs tried to edge apart just slightly, only to stick uncomfortably. The breath I let out was thin, almost whiny, as he reached down to help me spread my sticky thighs. "That's good," he murmured. "That's gonna help."

"Help?" I echoed, voice frail. "Sir, I don't-- I don't follow?--"

I didn't need to.

Mr. Godfrey's hand slowly went between my legs, his long, thick digits reaching the warmth of my slit, listening to the quiet whimper that left me. "Don't think," he murmured, slicking his fingers on my wetness, dragging and catching over my clit; "Let's just finish this up, hm?"

I was jelly in his arms, letting out a shaky moan as I sank into the feeling. I couldn't believe Mr. Godfrey was taking care of me, couldn't believe this was happening. Usually, he wouldn't touch me like this, wouldn't be so physical, but here we were.

"You really thought I was gonna let you walk out like this?" Mr. Godfrey said, brushing slow, lazy circles over my clit, each pass firmer than the last. "Can't let you leave the office in this state. How would that make me look, hm? I have a reputation to uphold."

I whimpered, my hips twitching against his palm.

"Mm... Thought so," he murmured. "You've been holding onto this for days, haven't you?"

My head fell back against his shoulder, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut; he had no idea. He had no fucking idea. If he ever left me for Switzerland again, I'd kill him with my bare hands-- it had been unbearable.

"You're lucky I'm feeling generous," he added, rubbing me in steady, expert strokes that had me unraveling by the second. "You're lucky I maybe missed you, too. There were no cute secretaries running around in Switzerland, y'know? You made my day with that fucking email."

My breath hitched, and I let out another quiet whimper, trying to keep my eyes open even though they were glazing over. "I thought you--" I moaned softly as his circles turned firmer, nearly derailing my words entirely. "I thought you were angry."

Mr. Godfrey chuckled quietly, the sound rich and warm in his chest, vibrating softly where I rested against him. "Oh, I was furious," he said, almost affectionate in his mockery. "But only because I couldn't do anything about it. Sitting in a boring meeting, trying not to picture you going nuts here, getting off behind my desk... Do you know how fucking hard it is to negotiate with a tent in your slacks?" Then, unexpectedly, he slid his fingers lower, easing one inside me. "But I knew I'd make you pay for it eventually."

I gasped against him, burying my face in Mr. Godfrey's chest; I never expected him to be inside of me in any way at all. Suddenly, it was also dawning on me that he was letting me cling to him, letting me writhe against him-- what was happening? "Sir," I breathed. "I'm so-- so sorry."

Mr. Godfrey made a quiet, amused sound at the back of his throat, finger curling slowly inside me, deep and deliberate. "No, you're not," he murmured, teasing rather than accusing. "But that's alright, for now. I didn't ask you to be."

I whimpered softly, clutching tighter at his shirt as his thumb brushed over my swollen clit again. My hips pressed forward without permission, desperate to feel more of him, to chase that unbearable friction he was creating, and--

"Easy," Mr. Godfrey murmured, his voice softer, almost soothing. "Don't rush this. I've waited a week for this."

I shuddered at his words, my breathing ragged against his chest. "I just--"

"You just what?" he asked, tilting his head down to whisper directly into my ear, his voice velvety with quiet authority. "You just wanted to torment me from a continent away? Wanted me thinking about you every goddamn second of every meeting?"

My breath hitched on another moan as he slid a second finger inside, stretching me carefully, gently. "I just wanted you to-- to miss me too,"

Mr. Godfrey's lips brushed my temple again, his voice softer than before. "That's cute," he murmured. "That makes me a little less mad."

He tightened his grip around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest as his fingers moved inside me, working carefully, insistently, as if he had memorized every response my body had ever given him and he was using it against me. "Shh, there you go..." he cooed, warm breath tickling my ear as his fingers fucked deeper into me. "Be good for me, just like that... You did so well tonight. I'll let this slide, just this once."

I couldn't believe this was happening, I really couldn't. Exhausted, I clung to Mr. Godfrey, helpless, burying my face deeper into the warmth of his chest as the incoming release finally started to unravel me. It was different this time; gentle, quiet, almost sweet, and somehow infinitely more devastating. The sound of his thick fingers pushing into me over and over was obscene, but I didn't care-- with my heart beating like never before, I even dared to look down at the scene, my breath catching in my throat. His fingers were so wet, the circles he rubbed into my clit were more intense to watch, and just the sheer size of his hands compared to my body was enough to make me shudder.

Mr. Godfrey caught up; "Pretty, huh?" he purred. 

I nodded against him, eyes wide as I watched his soaked fingers working me open-- deliberate, practiced, and cruel. "Yes, sir," I whispered, too aroused to be embarrassed. "It's... it's so--"

"So what?" His voice was a low hum at the crown of my head, his breath warm, his fingers not stopping. "Say it."

I swallowed hard, my legs twitching. "So good," I whimpered.

"Damn right it is," he murmured, mouth brushing over my temple again. "You think I'd give this to just anyone?"

My stomach flipped, my walls fluttering around him involuntarily, and he caught it instantly.

"Oh, you like that," he purred. "You like knowing you're the only one who gets this, hm? The only one I'd let fall apart like this in my lap?"

Wait... what?

What about the models? Hadn't he fucked the models? My brain was melting, falling apart; had he not done anything with them? Were the photos only that, just a show? Our little game? I couldn't answer. There were no words left-- just the sound of Mr. Godfrey working me over. "That's it," he murmured again, voice all praise now, nearly reverent. "I've got you."

Mr. Godfrey's fingers quickened just a hair, curling with each thrust, and his thumb never lost pace, circling tight and fast until I was keening into his chest, eyes clenched, body on fire-- I never wanted this to end. 

"That's it," he whispered again, breath catching. "Such a good secretary, hm?"

That did it-- I was. 

I was.

I was.

My whole body shattered in his arms, trembling, weightless, wrung out. I clutched onto Mr. Godfrey, my boss, my dom, pressing my forehead to the hollow of his throat as I came, letting it wreck me in waves that didn't stop until I was soft and boneless in his lap, barely able to breathe. That was worth the wait of this week. That was worth the chaos. That was worth the longing, the tears, and the pain.

Mr. Godfrey held me-- still, he didn't say a word for a long, long time.

His fingers slowly eased out of me, and then what remained was just the sound of our breath, rising and falling, like we had climbed the same mountain and were only now realizing the air was thinner up here; stupid, stupid risk-takers.

Finally, I opened my eyes-- his were already on me, green and clear.

... Something had changed.

I knew it with how still he had gone, in the way his gaze lingered, like he was trying to see past my skin, like he realized something he wasn't ready to admit.

Mr. Godfrey exhaled slowly through his nose. "Fuck," he muttered, almost too quiet for me to hear. His arms hadn't loosened at all, but he suddenly looked like he was trying to get a grip on himself. "You really don't make this easy."

My chest tightened, unsure what he meant-- what that look meant. "I don't?" I whispered, voice still ruined.

Mr. Godfrey shook his head slightly, like he didn't trust himself to say more. Then, finally, gently, he pressed his lips to my hair.

Just once.

Just long enough to make my heart stop.

"I know who I'm calling into the office tomorrow," he mumbled;

"A fucking exorcist."

(a/n: oh Mr. Godfrey...... playing with fire, playing with secretaries, what's next?? EEK THIS WAS SO FUN, may they both now be confused as hell!! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE!!<333)

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lovely little taglist:

@grimoireskin @babyslilbee @jacks4lifer @turnmeintoaflower

@fish-eyes-png @muchwita @555-hya-kai @ohperiodtpoohhh

@lunaskye999 @tvdxstan @sn0wybowie-blog @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry

@succubustacy @scarledy @prismozo @kittydiarys

@melancuntly @likecherriesinthespring @voidpixies @kikibit

@immernixia @a-differentbrandof-beans

[theemporium]

cece I’m really craving some mirror sex with the f1 boys rn 😩😩

okay this started with the intention of being mirror smut but ended up being more banter-y than smut? i think i just missed writing my f1 boys ngl😭but thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

“Well, now I just feel like you chose that dress on purpose.” 

Your eyes shifted away from your reflection to find your boyfriend standing by the wardrobe, staring at the dress you had hung up for later that night. It was new, something you had spotted a few weeks ago when you were out and became instantly obsessed with. You had been itching for the excuse to wear it, and being Max’s date for an event Red Bull were hosting became the perfect excuse.

“I look good in red,” you stated simply, not bothering to hide the smirk on your face when Max raised his brows at your response. 

“Is this your way of telling me you’re choosing another team?” He teased as he wandered closer to you, keeping his eyes on yours through the mirror’s reflection. 

“The colour is in your team name,” you countered as you settled back against him once he stood behind you. “I think that shows my support enough.” 

“Hm, I don’t know,” Max murmured, hooking his chin over your shoulder. “I’m feeling a bit betrayed. I might not make it to dinner. The heartbreak might be the end of me.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Don’t you dare, I’ve been excited to wear that dress all week.” 

Something in Max’s gaze softened as he pressed a quick kiss to the side of your neck. “Yeah? You’re gonna look amazing in it, schat.” 

“No cheesy follow up?” 

“What?” His amusement was clearly written across his face. “You want me to point out that you would look even better with that dress on our bedroom floor? Don’t be silly, babe, it would wrinkle.” 

Max’s grin widened when you let out a loud, shameless laugh. 

“But if you never put that dress on,” Max continued, his fingers fiddling with the belt of your robe. “You would not find me complaining.” 

You watched the way he untied your robe, slipping his hands underneath with no hesitation. “No?” 

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay home?” Max murmured, his eyes finding yours in the mirror once again as his hands continued to wander. “I haven’t had food poisoning in a while. They would never know.” 

You rolled your eyes, though the act was fond. “Nice try but the team would kill you.” 

“At least I would be doing what I love before I go,” he countered, grinning shamelessly when you let out a gasp as he snapped the waistband of your underwear against your hip. “We don’t appreciate this mirror as much as we should.” 

“A tragedy,” you deadpanned.

“It really is,” Max nodded, ignoring the sarcasm dripping from your voice. “It’s unfair I get to see how pretty you look when I fuck you dumb. You should be able to see it too.” 

Your mouth went dry at the bluntness of his words. “Max—” 

“It’s one of my favourite sights,” Max continued, placing one, two, three kisses on your neck before lifting his head again. “It’s only fair that I share that with you.” 

“You’re a menace,” you told him.

“A menace who just wants to make his pretty girlfriend co—” 

“Get your ass in that suit, Verstappen.” 

The boy had the audacity to pout. “No fun.” 

“Next time,” you promised, pretending not to notice the way his eyes darkened. “When we haven’t promised to be somewhere in forty minutes.” 

“I’ll say no to every event from now on.” 

“You will not.”  “Ugh, no fun at all.”

.

[queersyourgender]

Ooh you write Dana so well. Could I request shy/nervous/embarrassed fem!reader confessing her love for Dana and not expecting her to feel the same?

Now or Never — Dana Evans x F!Reader

Notes: OOOOUGH DANA DESERVES THE PRETTIEST PRETTY PRINCESS GIRLFRIEND..... That woman is EVERYTHING to me. ongod if she's not in s2... anyways, here's women.

———

When you hear of Dana's hesitation to return to PTMC after the Pittfest shift, you realize very quickly that you've finally run out of time.

You've been in love with charge nurse Dana Evans for years, but you never dared to make a move when you didn't even know if she liked women. You didn't make a move after her divorce, because that made you feel like you were taking advantage somehow, and you elected to doom yourself to pining from beside her in silence.

Now, that deal was being threatened by the fact that Dana is actually, legitimately considering leaving, which means she won't be by your side anymore. She's slipping through your fingers, and it hits you like a freight train, that it's now or never.

It's raining that September Sunday night, but you don't particularly pay that much attention. You're at her front door, because apparently you're absolutely fucking insane, and you raise a fist to knock on the door a little too frantically.

You hear a faint coming! from behind the door and you shiver slightly in your completely sopping wet clothes, your hair sticking to your face as rainwater slid down your cheeks like tears. But you're not crying, thankfully. Not yet, anyway.

Dana opens the door just a crack, clearly not having expected visitors, only to freeze at the sight of you standing on the other side. She says your name in shock and quickly swings the door open all the way. “Hon, what the hell are you doing? You'll catch your fuckin’ death out here—!”

“Look, Dana,” you start breathlessly, barely feeling your mouth move from how cold it is out at this time of night. “I gotta say some stuff, and I need you to just stand there and listen without interrupting, because it's all going to come out in one big word-vomit projectile and I won't be able to say it again, okay?”

She blinks at you, her beautiful, beautiful fucking eyes ever so concerned, because she's always concerned about you, damn her. Damn her and her big fucking heart. “Sure, hon, but could you at least come in? You're soaked to your bones!”

“No,” you refuse, shivering as you stubbornly shake your head. “No, I won't come in, Dana, because after what I'm about to tell you, you're probably just going to kick me out anyway. So I just— I just need you to listen, okay? Just hear me out.”

Her expression turns into something along the lines of offended, like she couldn't believe you'd even suggest that she'd kick you out, but she eventually purses her lips into a thin line and crosses her arms over her chest, going quiet and giving you the go ahead to start talking, and fast.

With a shaky exhale that you can see ahead of yourself, you speak.

“I'm in love with you.”

Dana's eyes go wide at your words, her lips parting in disbelief, but you don't stop there. “I've been in love with you for— for years. I never wanted to say anything because I know you could never feel the same, but I heard you might be leaving and I just had to say something before you did because I knew I'd regret it forever if I never told you.”

She blinks at you, seemingly rendered completely speechless by your rant. Your face begins to regain some feeling in it as it flushes with mortification. “So yeah, I'm really in love with you. Bye!” is what you end your speech with, giving her a faux-nonchalant shrug and turning on your heel to leave.

A hand grabs at the back of your shirt and firmly, almost violently, tugs you backwards. You stumble, trying not to slip as you get yanked to kingdom come, and suddenly you're inside Dana's home, being spun around the entrance and slammed back up against the front door.

“Wha—?” You start to say, but the word never quite comes to fruition as Dana smashes her lips against yours. You gasp against her, shock and disbelief gripping you entirely, before you quickly get a hold of your bearings and wrap your arms around her shoulders, pulling her in.

Her arms wrap around you tightly, seemingly completely and entirely unbothered by the fact you're completely drenched from head to toe. You're both panting by the time she pulls away, your breaths hot on each other's faces as she looks deep into your eyes, her pupils blown wide.

“I love you too, if that wasn't obvious,” she whispers to you, smiling slightly when a bashful grin overtakes your face at the news. “Can't believe we could've been doin’ this for years. We've got lots of time to make up for.”

Warmth seeps into your chest as you giggle lightly and hide your face into the crook of her neck. Dana laughs, running her hands through your wet hair and pulling you further inside her home.

“Now go take those clothes off while I run you a bath, you're absolutely gonna get sick.”

“So forward…”

“Get.”

[parkjihoonswifey]

🐍 anon here!

I was reading a whc ff when I got the idea of “why not have Suho meet someone at the hospital after he wakes up from his coma” a strangers to friends to lovers kind of thought.

Just pure pure fluff cause god he needs everything good to happen to him after whc 1 💔.

(Love your works as always!!)

A/N: my love, my pretty, my 🐍 anon. I've been working so hard on a different blog ( @skzdominate check it out) that I ended up closing requests for this one and not fulfilling anything. when I logged back in and saw my baby requested I knew I had to write this immediately.

p.s Tumblr gave me a content label. thanks a lot guys 🙏🏾

Title: Room 207

Pairings: post coma! suho x sick! reader

Warnings: sickness?? idk

The first thing Suho feels is weightlessness. The second is pain.

Not sharp, but dull and constant — like his body’s been asleep for too long and only now remembers what it means to be alive. The lights are too bright, and the hum of machines too loud. There’s a comforting scent in the air. Clean linens. The faintest trace of flowers.

He’s in a hospital.

His eyes adjust slowly, and he becomes aware of the IV in his arm, the stiff ache behind his eyes, the tug in his chest with every breath. And then, a soft voice, somewhere to his right.

“Oh— You’re awake.”

His head turns sluggishly, and that’s when he sees you.

You're in the chair by the window, blanket over your legs, a nasal cannula tucked under your nose. A paperback book is resting in your lap. You’re not wearing hospital clothes, but your skin is pale, your eyes a little tired. Still, you smile — gentle and real.

“I was wondering when you’d open your eyes,” you say, voice light, like this is normal.

“…Do I know you?” Suho asks, raspier than intended.

You chuckle. “No. I’m in the room next door. They said you might wake up soon, and I figured someone should be here when you did.”

“…Why?”

You shrug. “I don’t like being alone when I wake up. Thought maybe you wouldn’t either.”

It takes a while for it all to register. But even through the haze in his mind, he knows you’re sincere. And for some reason, that truth — that kindness — is the first thing that makes his chest hurt in a different way.

“…Thanks.”

You tilt your head. “What’s your name?”

“Suho,” he says.

You smile again. “I’m Y/N.”

And just like that, something shifts. Quietly, but irrevocably.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Suho learns things in pieces.

He learns he’s been unconscious for weeks, maybe longer. He learns that the world moved on while he slept, but not too far — the school year hasn’t ended yet, the sun still rises and sets.

He also learns that you're always there.

At first, he thinks it’s coincidence. Maybe you're just passing by, and you wave through the window or knock on the door. But soon it becomes a rhythm—your gentle knock at nine in the morning, your book in hand, your blanket slung over one shoulder.

You never stay long. Sometimes just ten minutes. Sometimes more. But it’s enough.

He finds out you have a chronic lung condition — something you joke about, though it clearly wears on you. You’ve been in and out of hospitals your whole life, and this time’s no different.

“Isn’t it boring?” Suho asks one day. “Sitting with someone who can barely move?”

You raise a brow. “Better than being bored alone. And I like talking to you.”

He wants to say the same. Wants to admit that your presence has become the only part of his days that feels warm. But Suho’s not great with feelings. Not yet.

Instead, he just nods. And you smile, and go back to reading aloud from the book you brought.

Days become weeks.

Suho starts healing — slowly. He’s able to sit up on his own. The scars don’t hurt as badly. And every time you show up, it feels less like chance and more like routine.

You bring puzzles. Movies. Candy you’re not supposed to eat but sneak him anyway.

“You’re kind of a bad influence,” he teases.

You stick out your tongue. “You love it.”

He does.

It’s terrifying how easily your laughter becomes the background music to his recovery.

Sometimes, he finds you asleep in the chair beside his bed, arms curled around a pillow, chest rising and falling too lightly. He wants to wake you, but never does. Instead, he tucks the blanket tighter around you, heart full of something quiet and tender.

He doesn't know what this is — this friendship, this comfort — but it feels like hope.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

One rainy afternoon, you show up with wet hair and a flushed nose.

Suho frowns. “You’re sick. You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”

“I live here, remember?” you sniffle, pulling the blanket up to your chin. “Besides. You’d be bored without me.”

He scowls, but his voice is soft. “You need to take care of yourself.”

You blink, a little stunned by the sincerity. Then, softly, “So do you.”

He doesn’t reply, but his hand drifts toward yours on the bed. His fingers brush against yours — hesitant, unsure.

You intertwine them.

The room is quiet except for the rain tapping the windows and the steady, shared rhythm of your breath.

That night, he can’t sleep.

He keeps thinking about your hand in his. How natural it felt. How scared he is that your smile might disappear when he leaves this place.

The door creaks open sometime after midnight, and your silhouette appears.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper. “Can I stay?”

He nods.

You settle into the chair beside him, blanket and all. He watches you tuck yourself in like it’s your second bed. And it kind of is. You’ve made this place feel like home.

“Suho?” you say after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you woke up.”

He turns his head to look at you. Your eyes are closed, but your words hang in the air like something sacred.

“…Me too.”

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Your stay is extended.

Something about your lungs not recovering fast enough. Your doctor is cautious. You’re frustrated, but you don’t complain to Suho. Instead, you say, “At least I get to bother you a little longer.”

He doesn’t say it, but he’s relieved.

You both fall into the routine even more deeply now — breakfast in his room, trying to help him walk, movie marathons with one earbud each, inside jokes that no one else would understand.

He even learns how to make those dumb origami cranes you’re obsessed with. Your room fills with them — on your tray table, taped to the wall, tucked under your pillow.

One afternoon, he finds a folded pink one with a small note inside: “thank you for making me laugh again.”

He keeps it under his pillow.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

The shift from strangers to friends was quiet.

The shift from friends to something else is quieter still.

Suho doesn’t even notice it at first — how his heart lifts when you walk in. How he always listens for your voice in the hallway. How the thought of leaving this place without you physically hurts.

He watches the way you tug at your sleeves when you’re nervous. The way you read with your lips moving silently. The way you look at him like he’s not broken at all.

He’s never had someone see him like that before.

And the more time he spends with you, the more he realizes he wants you to see all of him. Not just Suho the patient. Suho the fighter. Suho who made it out. Suho who was himself

Just… Suho.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

The day eventually comes when the doctor tells him he can be discharged.

You smile when he tells you. “That’s amazing.”

He nods, but there’s hesitation in his chest. “…Yeah.”

Your smile falters a little. “You’ll be back at school soon. Back to real life.”

He doesn’t know how to say it — that this felt like real life. That it was the first time he didn’t have to wear armor around someone.

That leaving you feels like the hardest part.

You sit in silence for a while. The air is thick with something unsaid.

“…I’ll miss you,” you say quietly.

His heart cracks and fills all at once.

“I’ll miss you too.”

You reach into your blanket and hand him something. A folded crane, this one made of soft yellow paper.

Inside is a tiny note: “don’t forget me, okay?”

He swallows. “Never.”

Then, bold with the weight of everything he feels, he takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. Just once. Gentle. Barely there.

Your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away.

Instead, you smile — so softly he thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Three weeks later, he comes back.

He walks down the hallway — stronger now, no IV, slight limp— holding a little paper bag.

He knocks on the door to Room 207, and when you answer, your face lights up.

“Suho?!”

“I brought you the strawberry milk you like.”

You laugh — startled, disbelieving. “You remembered?”

“I remember everything,” he says. Then, more shyly: “I was hoping we could… keep hanging out. Outside this place.”

Your cheeks flush pink. You reach for the milk, then for his hand.

“I’d like that,” you say.

And Suho — the boy who survived fist fights, violence, silence, and grief — realizes this might be the beginning of something even braver than healing:

Love.

A/N: did I break your heart be honest?? requests back open soon when I can push out enough requests now!!

[poppitron360]

I might not have as much to say as I did before, as I haven’t actually picked up a PJO book in over six months and am a bit burnt out on it all. However, I had my notes app open in a window as I read, so I could write down my thoughts in real time.

Also it is gone midnight over here so most of this probably won’t make sense. I am sleepy.

- “The only slight comfort was that Jason would have been dead right away- hopefully he hadn’t been in pain for long”- this is an interesting point to bring up, because Leo knows for a fact what it feels like to die, and knows how painful it was. And if I recall correctly the way it’s described in Leo’s POV makes it seem like not only did the explosion hurt, but the act of being dead itself also hurt, so much that Leo wondered if it was his eternal punishment. Idk- that’s my personal interpretation. It just hits me that Leo can’t be comforted by speculation that dying isn’t so bad, because he himself died in agony and knows what it’s like. Fun times.

- I have never been able to figure out how to write Caleo. I want to show both of their flaws without sounding harsh or judgemental or angry, and also while making it clear that they shouldn’t be together. Perhaps that’s a testament to the fact that I don’t like the source material I have to work with. But you’ve got them down perfectly, in a way that frames their relationship as toxic as it is but also makes both their actions understandable without condoning them. Leo feels in-character in terms of his negative self-talk and it’s also framed in a way that’s relavant to the messaging of the fic

- I don’t want to get ranty about Caleo again but one problem I have with the writing in the books is that for most of the other ships we see both POVs of the characters and are equally invested in both- but in Caleo, Leo is the only main character featured in the ship, and so we for the most part only really care about the relationship for him. So people who try and defend anti-caleo arguments with “Leo was a piece of shit to her too” don’t get that that’s the fault in the writing. There are some points in the books that make Leo actually hatable, and as someone who’s grown attached to him it just felt off. Readers generally don’t like hating their favourite character.

- Because Leo is actually factually correct in saying he’s a garbage boyfriend to Calypso, and this fic is genuinely holding him accountable for that, while still making him a character I want to root for. From what I remember about the books, this wasn’t handled as well in canon.

- You’ve kept Leo as a sympathetic character despite the fact that he’s objectively being a terrible partner, which is something that I don’t think even Rick did very well (to be fair, I started reading TOA a year ago so I’m probably remembering it harsher than it is) I guess because this is Leo’s POV and not Lester’s, it makes it easier to explain why Leo’s acting that way, but also it’s because you’re a fantastic writer.

- Idk if that made any sense but I hope you get the gist. Book Caleo Bad. Fanfic Caleo nuanced and complex, with no wishy-washy “happy ending” lens to it.

- Leo being the only competent person at Food in the Lost Trio is a recurring situation that never fails to be a fun read. It almost acts as a reward to avid readers of your fics, because the narrative impact of this nice, funny, relatable domestic moment is emphasised greater by the familiarity and cohesiveness between this and your other fics.

- Also, as a vegetarian myself (pescatarian technically but it doesn’t really matter), I love Leo being accommodating and making everything vegetarian (although the joy of pick-your-own-toppings is that the meateaters can fry up something on the side without making a fully separate meal)

- Piper clearly has no understanding of balanced food groups because beans AND tofu is WAYY too much protein

- Thank the fates I have the buffer of PJO burnout. If I was in the throws of the hyperfixation I would be in tears by now

- (Also no promises because I might still cry later you are an AMAZING writer)

- Congrats on finally getting it finished!!! Fourteen months on a fic is just wow, especially since I know you’ve had exams.

- I can already tell that this fic is now my favourite PJO book and I wish I could have a paperback copy.

The choiceless hope in grief (chapter 2)

Summary: Leo Valdez has lived and died for the gods. Their war has shaped his life since he was a baby. With Gaia defeated, he sort of hopes he can finally rest. He has friends and some semblance of home to return to for the first time since he was eight years old. Just this once, he allows himself to hope the good things might stick.

But the gods aren’t done with them just yet, and by the time Leo finds his way back, Jason is gone.

This time, Leo decides he’s done just taking the Fates’ bullshit lying down. If getting his best friend back means striking a deal with the gods and venturing into the Underworld… well, it’s probably not even the most reckless thing he’s ever done.

The caveat of said deal? He has to trust Jason will follow him, or his self-doubt will doom them both.

And after the life he’s lived, Leo is so intricately familiar with self-doubt that he could probably trademark the word.

Or: The only possible way for Orpheus to succeed is if he learns to think of himself as a person worth loving.

Word Count for chapter 2: ~6k

Rating: Teen and Up

< Prev | Next >

General notes for this chapter: -More grief/self-loathing themes. Not sure if I’ll be warning for those for each chapter individually since they’re quire relevant to the overall fic, but it’s been a minute, so I thought the reminder probably couldn’t hurt. (It having been a hot minute since I posted the first chapter is also the reason why I put the fic summary here again, I won’t do that for every chapter) -This does also go into the demigod deaths from Tyrant’s Tomb (at least a little bit). The death toll in that book is huge and I honestly found it really upsetting. I’m aware the Hunters don’t canonically stay behind to help rebuild but this is my fic and I can do what I want <3

-For my sanity and yours, we’re suspending our disbelief and taking the fact that Calypso is mentally sixteen in canon at face value. Her and Leo have a variety of problems, and, as should be clear by the premise of this fic, they’re not gonna last, but please note that I will be treating them both as traumatized teenagers.

———

Chapter 2: Piper tries to make burritos unsupervised

The first Iris Message came through on the ninth of April, barely ten minutes after breakfast. Piper’s dad was already at work, which at least meant they thankfully didn’t have to explain why there was a floating rainbow that had people’s faces in it chilling in the middle of the living room.

It was Thalia and Reyna. 

Leo hadn’t even realized they knew each other, but apparently the Hunters of Artemis—Diana, whatever—had come to Camp Jupiter’s aid. This should have been a relief, but there was no relief to be found in Reyna’s expression. The only flicker of joy he saw on her face was when she told them she’d be joining the Hunters.

It wasn’t the kind of decision Leo had expected from Reyna. Then again, she barely looked like the same girl that had shown Leo around New Rome with a proud smile, eagerly listening to and expanding on Leo’s ideas for fortifications and long-range weaponry. Had it really only been a few weeks since then? It felt like a lifetime ago now.

There was still that same grim set to Reyna’s jaw, but her usual proud posture looked more like she was… well, posturing, for lack of a better word. And the expression on her face… 

Leo knew that expression. He had seen it in the mirror many times as a child, and again in the last few weeks. It was the expression of someone who’d seen their home get burnt down to the foundations and found themself sitting in the wreckage.

He knew the kind of news they were getting even before Reyna started telling them what had happened.

Thalia was easier to look at—Thalia, whose grief was all fury, small bolts of electricity dancing through her dark hair like she was the human embodiment of a storm cloud.

At that moment, she looked nothing like Jason. It was such a relief that Leo almost cried.

They’d won the battle against the emperors, but Reyna called it a Pyrrhic victory—one that was so disastrous for the victors that it was basically indistinguishable from a defeat.

New Rome was in ruins. So many had been wounded. Even more people were dead.

Leo felt sick to his stomach. He’d known some of these demigods. Not well, admittedly, but he’d fought side by side with them. The thought that so many lives had been cut short, and that none of the gods had bothered to interfere for the longest time, despite the fact that it was their kids down there, made him want to punch something. 

Knowing that at least some of them had probably been friends with Jason in the life he’d never properly remembered, and how desperately Jason had always tried to protect everyone when the gods couldn’t be bothered to… 

Leo clenched his trembling fists, flames dancing in his curls and licking at his arms, all the way up to his elbows.

He needed to go outside and cool down for a bit to avoid lighting Piper’s bedroom on fire by accident.

~~~~ They were talking about Jason’s funeral when he got back. Thalia hadn’t been able to make it, which felt like a punch to the gut. She hadn’t found out he’d died until after it was already over. Percy and Annabeth still didn’t know, and Reyna wasn’t sure about Nico.

And there was the regret Leo had been so terribly afraid of feeling. He didn’t regret keeping Piper safe, especially not after hearing just how hard-won the ensuing battle had been. She was sitting here, next to him, alive, and nothing would ever make him regret that. It wasn’t even that he suddenly thought attending the funeral would have brought him any closure. How the fuck could there ever be closure for something like this?

But the thought of Jason, who’d been abandoned by both of his parents and had his memory wiped by his patron—whose camp had barely looked for him after he’d gone missing—going into death alone, surrounded mostly by strangers who had only known the person he’d been before he’d lost his memories, if that, made Leo feel sick to the stomach. 

It didn’t matter that he knew Jason would have cared more about them being safe than he would have about them attending the funeral. It felt like failing him all over again.

“I ditched you both in life, and now he’s gone, and I couldn’t even bother to be there for him, then.”

His eyes were swimming again. Piper wrapped her arms around him wordlessly. 

Reyna—serious, stoic, collected Reyna—had an expression on her face like she wanted to reach through the Iris Message and pat his head.

“I held some private rites for him,” Thalia said gently. It wasn’t worded as a suggestion, but the meaning was clear anyway. “I’ve also spent a lot of extra time shooting arrows at stuff lately. It helps, if only a little.”

“The only thing I could shoot here is Leo, and he hasn’t annoyed me that much yet,” Piper commented, so Leo promptly kicked her in the shin. “Ow! Actually, keep it up and I might use you for target practice, after all.”

“You can’t. I still owe Thalia hot sauce.”

It was such an absurd statement that even Reyna almost cracked a smile. “Yeah, I’m going to need context on that one.”

~~~~

Two hours later, a rainbow image of Frank and Hazel popped up. The worst part of that conversation was them asking how exactly it had happened, because apparently Apollo had performed a song about it, which had been emotional but not super clear on the details. Piper struggled to tell the story again, and she was reassured several times that she didn’t have to, but she pushed through. The only slight comfort was that Jason would have been dead right away—hopefully he hadn’t been in pain for long.

The second worst part of the conversation was way more mundane: Frank asking what their plans were going forward. 

Leo didn’t think there would be much going forward for him, just in general. In his mind, he’d been planning on staying in this reprieve forever—playing video games and getting lost in the woods with Piper as they continued to pointedly ignore the emptiness of the third chair at their little table.

Jason’s face kept popping up in his dreams, but the days were mostly bearable as long as he was here with Piper.

But then Piper talked about school, and the classes she was planning to take, and the possibility of college somewhere in the area. She talked about her dad and camping and maybe getting a job to help out.

Things that a person with a normal life would have done.

And, okay, maybe a part of Leo had realized that his idea of the future wasn’t exactly realistic. He also realized he couldn’t stay 

there forever. He didn’t want to be a burden on Piper and Tristan. He knew how long Piper had been wanting to properly spend time with her dad, and now she actually had the chance to, and here Leo was, inserting himself right into the middle of their already complicated father-daughter-relationship. He wasn’t supposed to be here, messing this up for her.

As much as he disliked thinking about this, he couldn’t keep ignoring that particular part of reality. He’d already spent too much of his life in homes where he wasn’t wanted. He couldn’t stand the thought of bothering Piper so much that she started feeling that way about him, too.

As good as it felt to see Hazel and Frank, a part of Leo was relieved when they ended that call. The even more horrible, selfish part of him was also glad Hazel had promised to be the one who told Nico. Leo didn’t know him that well, but he knew Nico didn’t have many friends and that he’d already lost too much. That particular breakdown Leo felt like he was in no way equipped to handle. He could hardly even deal with himself right now.

The calls didn’t stop. 

Piper’s siblings called, asking how she was and what had happened, and so they had to tell the story again, tearing off the scab and making their wounds bleed all over the place. 

Then, like everything else wasn’t bad enough, Leo got an IM from a very anxious Harley, who seemed relieved he was alive and asked when he was coming back to camp. 

“Don’t know yet,” Leo said, forcing a smile. “Probably not for a while. I’ll call you, though. I promise.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell his kid brother that he wasn’t sure he was ever coming back—that even thinking about stepping into this place that was brimming with memories of Jason made him feel sick to the stomach.

Leo supposed he couldn’t blame Reyna for wanting to leave behind a city full of ghosts when he couldn’t even handle one of them.

~~~~

Shel invited Piper out for coffee two days later. Via letter, of all things, because obviously Piper hadn’t had a phone number to give her but Shel apparently wouldn’t let that stop her.

“You falling out of a tree really did it for her, hm?” Leo teased, trying to read the letter over Piper’s shoulder. 

“Har. Har. Har.”

“Hey, you were the one who said you liked me being supportive and annoying.” He nudged her. “Come on, what’s it say?”

“Like I told you, she just asked me to grab coffee with her.” She folded the letter before he could get a proper look at it, but Leo knew it had way too much text to just be that. 

“Liar.”

“Okay, okay.” Piper held up her hands defensively. “She really did just ask, but she might have done it with a poem.”

“Damn.” Leo raised his eyebrows. “You think she’s picked out engagement rings yet?”

“Shut up.”

“I will refer back to your comment about liking that I’m supportive and annoying again! You’ll never get me to shut my mouth now. Besides, I did promise to make you regret saying you missed me,” he teased her. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

Piper snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Shel’s picking me up in an hour. Are you sure you’ll be alright here on your own?” 

It was clear that she was reluctant to leave him, especially since her dad was at work. 

Truthfully, Leo wasn’t super thrilled about the thought of being alone, either. But it was clear that Piper wanted to do this, and that was more important than him not wanting to be alone for a few hours.

He could totally do this. He’d spent a pretty large chunk of his life alone. He had plenty of experience keeping himself busy.

“I’ve third-wheeled on enough of your dates for one lifetime, thanks,” Leo informed her, still grinning. “Besides, I should probably call my own girlfriend. That’ll be a lot less awkward without you being around to give me shit.”

Because contacting Calypso may have barely crossed his mind in the past few weeks due to him being both a garbage boyfriend and a garbage person just in general, but at least in theory, they were still dating.

Piper stuck her tongue out at him, and he just hoped his laugh wasn’t too obviously fake.

“For the record, though, this won’t be a date,” Piper said determinedly. “I’m not- I don’t think that would be fair to Shel. Not when I still have so much to figure out, and not when I’m still dealing with… you know.”

“For the record, I don’t think Jason would be the type to show up and haunt his ex during dates. If he does, let me know, because then I might have to unfriend him post-mortem.”

He knew Piper didn’t love when he made these kinds of jokes, but she never told him to stop. Humor had always been how he coped. Piper got that.

“Leo.” Piper groaned, exasperated. “Be serious for a second, yeah?”

“Oh, I’m super serious. Possessive ghost exes are a total friendship dealbreaker for me.” Leo nudged her again. “As the resident expert on constantly getting rejected, maybe don’t take my advice on this, but I don’t think there’s a timeline for these things. It’s okay if you find her cute. I think he’d want you to be happy. That’s the kind of awful sap he is.”

Leo realized he’d slipped into present tense again, but he didn’t have it in him to correct himself. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I do find her cute. I just don’t think I’m ready for a relationship at the moment.”

“That’s fair.” Leo shrugged. “If I don’t get to be best man at your wedding, I’ll be really pissed, though.”

Piper stepped on his foot, so he kicked her in the leg and a moment later, they were swatting each other with pillows like they were little kids. Piper was actually laughing. For the first time in weeks, she seemed genuinely excited about something. And Leo wanted her to be happy. He was glad at least one of them was.

~~~~

The door closing behind Piper was terrifying. Suddenly, Leo was truly alone with his thoughts for the first time since Jason had died. Even late at night, when his thoughts inevitably drifted in all kinds of awful directions, Piper was there. Even if she was asleep and all he could do was hear her breathing, that still helped. This? Being alone with his thoughts in a completely quiet room? 0/10 experience, would not recommend.

He didn’t give himself much time to think. He rummaged around in his tool belt and pulled out a golden drachma for an Iris Message—as upset as Leo was with all the gods right now, he supposed at least his dad had the decency to actually give him an allowance—then pulled out the device he’d been working on. It was a small cylinder, no larger than the palm of his hand, and it obediently folded out into a prism at the push of a button. You just needed to fill it with water, switch it on, and voilà: you got yourself a rainbow. It even had an inbuilt flashlight in case you needed to use it when the sun was out.

He tried to swallow his anxiety and flipped the drachma into the rainbow.

“Iris, goddess of the Rainbow, please accept my offering. Show me Calypso. Waystation, Indianapolis.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the rainbow flickered and an image appeared—blurry at first, then slowly taking shape. Calypso was sitting at a desk by a window, brooding over some notebook that almost looked like…

Leo blinked.

“Huh, am just heroically saving you from your homework?”

Calypso’s head snapped up. Her eyes went wide as saucers. “Leo?” 

“I do recall that being my name, yes.” He grinned and waved. “Hi.”

He tried to remember how to talk to Calypso. The thing was, Leo wasn’t sure he’d ever actually known. Hell, even if he had, how exactly did you greet a girl you’d sort of ditched a few weeks ago and hadn’t called since?

Calypso didn’t look very amused. “Where are you? You were gone so long that- I was beginning to think you’d died!”

“Well, yeah, I did,” Leo said with a shrug. “That’s how I rescued you, remember?” 

It was easier to say that than to say anything else. To admit it really did feel like there was a part of him that had died and that he was never getting back. He didn’t want to have to actually talk about Jason—to tell the story again—especially not without Piper there. 

He realized his mistake a moment too late. Calypso’s eyes flared with anger.

“For the last time, you did not rescue me!” she snapped. “And do you think that’s funny? You disappear for weeks without a word, and that’s one of the first things you say to me? Do you have any idea how worried we were?”

Right. Joking back and forth with Piper had been so natural and easy that he’d briefly forgotten Calypso didn’t like it when he did that.

Okay, admittedly, Piper probably wouldn’t have appreciated that particular joke either. She would have crossed her arms and told him off. But they would have been okay, after.

He never felt like he and Calypso were okay, coming out of these arguments. Most of the time, he just felt like shit.

“Yeah, well, things happened. And it’s not my fault communications were down.” He didn’t look at the image in the rainbow.

“What is it?” Her voice softened a little. “What happened?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Well that’s not exactly helpful,” she huffed. “Will you tell me when you’re coming back home, at least? Maybe we can talk then.”

Leo was pretty sure he visibly winced at the word ‘home’. He wasn’t sure what the Waystation was, but he’d only spent a few days there. It wasn’t a bad place, but it most definitely wasn’t home. Home had burnt down when he’d been eight years old. The only other home Leo had ever found was ashes scattered across the ruins of New Rome now. 

Leo pushed the thought away. He had to keep it together. 

“I… listen, I don’t know yet. I just need some time to… I don’t know. Process, I guess.” 

“Process whatever it is you’re refusing to tell me about.” Calypso crossed her arms. “Fine. But you are coming back?”

There was an edge to her voice now—that of someone who had been left behind a few too many times. Over the course of her life, every person who’d ever kept her company had eventually dipped and left her heartbroken, never sparing her another thought. 

And now Leo had done the exact same thing.

Wow, he was a terrible person.

“Obviously.”

He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t continue bothering Piper when she clearly wanted to at least try to move on. And he had promised Calypso to try and stay somewhere with her—to live a normal life with her. Going back on that wasn’t fair to her. Not even when he was sure he was too broken to live that kind of life—too broken for anyone to ever properly put him back together. 

Staying here wasn’t fair on poor Festus, either. Leo knew his dragon friend didn’t like being folded up into suitcase form as much as he was, but Piper’s new home wasn’t exactly made for huge metal dragons. 

Leo tried to keep talking to Calypso. He really did. She lit up a little when he asked about school, and so they talked about that for a while. Calypso told him about classmates she got along with and how she liked marching band and Emmie tutoring her in the subjects she didn’t understand. 

Leo listened and tried to get past the fact that he just didn’t get it. He tried to grasp her excitement for a place that had at best been boring as hell and at worst been actual torture for him. 

“That sounds… I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I wish you were here. You’ve already missed several weeks of classes, but I think you’d like this school.”

Leo almost laughed. “I highly doubt that. They have yet to invent a school that can even contain me, never mind one that I actually like.” 

“If you’re still refusing to engage in any sort of actual conversation with me that even vaguely implies there is a future where you may be coming back,” Calypso said bitingly, “will you at least tell me where you are so we can all stop worrying so much?” Leo kept brushing past the answer to that question because he knew it would prompt more questions that he wasn’t ready to get into. “Did you manage to help Camp Jupiter?”

“I-” Leo’s throat closed up. Not enough, his brain supplied. I couldn’t save Jason, and I couldn’t protect his home, either. I’m not sure me going there made a difference at all. He couldn’t bring himself to say any of that. “Kind of. I’m with Piper right now.”

Calypso’s expression soured even further.

“You ditched me and let me think you were dead for weeks so you could hang out with your friends? Let me guess, Jason is there, too.”

Somewhere, there was a rational part of Leo’s brain that realized this did sound bad. If he had been listening to that rational part right now, he probably could have had a mature conversation about this with Calypso. They could have resolved this like reasonable people.

But at the mention of Jason’s name, he just shut down. He did not tell Calypso anything. He just hung up on her.

~~~~

Leo showered, so by the time Piper got home he didn’t look like he’d spent the past hour curled up in a corner, bawling his eyes out.

Piper wasn’t an idiot, though. She knew that something was up the second she stepped through the door to find Leo in the kitchen making burritos.

“You okay?”

“Just got hungry.” He shrugged, like he wasn’t in fact trying to cook out the feelings he hadn’t been able to get rid of with his tears. It hadn’t really worked—cooking couldn’t exactly fix relationship issues or the fact that his best friend was dead—but rolling up the ingredients in one of his handmade tortillas at least helped keep his hands busy, and he actually was a little hungry. “You can have one, if you didn’t already eat on your date. Ingredients are pick what you want,” he said, gesturing at the mess of bowls and the still sizzling pan of fried tofu, “but they’re all vegetarian.”

“You are my favorite person in the whole entire world, and also definitely trying to distract me,” Piper said, shaking her head, but she did move to fill up one of the still-warm tortillas with a ridiculous amount of black beans, lettuce and tofu, combined with not nearly enough salsa, as far as Leo was concerned. “And it wasn’t a date.”

“Mhm, sure. Did you guys-” Leo broke off in horror. He’d been watching Piper work, and sure, he’d been lovingly judging some of her completely unbalanced food combos in his head, but this he could no longer tolerate. “Pipes, what in the world are you doing? I’m unfriending you.” 

He set his own food down on his plate and moved to stand beside his best friend. Screw the date interrogation, for now he had to save Piper’s poor tortured burrito.

“I thought I just had to roll the tortilla. Did I put too much stuff on it and that’s why it doesn’t work?”

She’d been trying to roll the entire thing in a single direction, impressively managing to make her excessive amounts of filling spill out of three sides at once. 

“This is what I get for briefly forgetting you grew up a rich kid with a private chef,” Leo groaned, shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief. He gently shoved Piper away from the kitchen counter to do rescue breathing on her half-slaughtered dinner. “You can’t roll it like that, you absolute heathen. You need to tuck the sides in. Here, like this. That way you won’t end up with ingredients all the way down your shirt.”

He gently opened the tortilla back up, took a spoon to move the filling Piper hadn’t spilled to the middle and then rolled it properly, like his mom had shown him when he’d been five. He made a point of doing it way slower than necessary, like he actually expected Piper to memorize the steps and maybe take notes.

“Okay, okay, point taken.” Piper raised her hands. “But heathen is a hilarious insult considering we both have a Greek god for a parent.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a riot.” Leo grinned, neatly cutting the burrito down the middle and handing the plate back to Piper. Then, he started wiping down the counter. Kitchens were the only work spaces Leo had ever properly bothered to keep tidy. “Now that neither you nor your food are at immediate risk of death, tell me how things went with Shel. You engaged yet? For your sake, I hope she’s better at rolling burritos than you, because otherwise you’re both doomed.”

He made a show of looking at her hands like he was actually expecting to find a ring.

“Shut up.” Piper rolled her eyes, but she smiled. “It was pretty great, actually.”

“Hello? Details?” Leo waved his hands in circles for emphasis. “You don’t seriously think I’m letting you off the hook that easily, do you?”

Instead of moving towards the table like she should have, Piper flopped down on the small couch with her food, so Leo grabbed his plate and joined her there. He wasn’t complaining about dinner on the couch.

“I’m only telling you if you tell me what’s up with you first. Because, distraction or not, you won’t get rid of me that easily, either.” She nudged him gently, then stuffed her mouth with food like she was trying to emphasize she wouldn’t go first.

Her face melted into a completely content expression, and Leo immediately felt happier.

“That good, hm?” Piper made a humming noise of confirmation. “Then I think you owe it to me to tell me how your date was. I promise I’ll tell you what’s up with me after,” Leo said with a grin.

He knew he had to give her something or she would never talk, but he really wanted to hear about Piper’s day before he went and ruined the mood.

“Ugh. You’re the worst.” Piper sighed, letting herself fall against the sofa’s backrest dramatically. “Fine. But only because you’ll be completely unbearable otherwise.”

“You know me so well.”

Leo tried not to feel a sting at how great Piper’s day had been without him there. What he felt when she talked wasn’t the same painful sting he’d felt when it had been her and Jason dating, though Leo couldn’t quite explain why. Most of him didn’t mind this. Hell, most of him was happy for her.

But it certainly didn’t help the feeling that he wasn’t exactly needed here.

The not-date itself actually sounded pretty nice, as long as Leo managed to make all the useless voices in his head shut up.

Shel and Piper had grabbed coffee (which Leo couldn’t sympathize with) and just talked for ages. Shel was apparently on her school’s swimming team, did theatre in her free time and liked a lot of the same music and movies as Piper. She’d lived in Tahlequah her entire life. She’d also known she was a lesbian since she was eight years old.

At that point, Piper had apparently felt like she owed her some sort of heads up—both about the fact that she was still new to all this and about having recently lost a really close friend that she’d dated at some point and how that didn’t leave her with much headspace to figure out… everything else.

That seemed like a lot to share so early on, but Piper said Shel hadn’t minded. She’d just thanked her for being so honest, and told her she was there if Piper needed someone to talk everything through with.

“Which I obviously can’t, because well, if I told her a Roman Emperor came back to life and stabbed my ex, she’d definitely think I’ve lost it completely, but it’s a nice sentiment.”

“Yeah, I thought everything else was already a bit much, but ‘my mom is a Greek goddess, I can brainwash people and me and my friends saved the world last year’ really isn’t a conversation for a first date.”

Leo wasn’t sure how Piper could stand it. The thought of having to keep most of his life secret from a mortal parent and any new friends he made seemed impossible to him. Hell, even if he’d wanted to, Leo was pretty sure he’d inevitably slip up and make a joke about the time he almost got eaten by a giant killer shrimp, and that was if he didn’t anxiously catch himself on fire first.

“Anyway, she said it’s totally understandable that I need time, and if the worst she can get out of this is a friendship with a pretty girl, that’s still a win in her book. And she still insisted on paying, to welcome me here,” Piper told Leo fondly. “It was… I don’t know. She’s nice. I’ll probably end up at the same school as her, and she’s offered to show me around.”

“So, how soon can I expect a wedding invite?” Leo asked with a grin. “You’ll remember the best man thing, right?”

“Keep this up and you won't get an invite if I do actually get married one day,” she teased back, gently flicking him in the head. “Now, tell me what’s going on with you. You promised. Did your call with your girlfriend go okay?”

Leo winced, which was answer enough in his opinion, but he knew Piper would disagree with him on that one. He still didn’t want to have this conversation. He also really didn’t want to bring Piper down when she’d finally had a good day for the first time in ages.

But she was looking at him expectantly, and Leo knew that no matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to get out of this one.

“It wasn’t great. Apparently, me being gone for so long had everyone pretty worried. Go figure,” he admitted, hoping he could avoid elaborating. He didn’t exactly want to dump all of his relationship issues on Piper, especially since there wasn’t anything she could do to fix them. He knew it was sort of necessary to keep talking, but he could barely get the words out. “And, uh. Because of that, I think it might be time for me to head back to the Waystation.”

It was something he’d been thinking about on and off since that IM with Frank and Hazel. And as much as the thought of going back made his stomach pool with dread, the call with Calypso had just sealed the deal. Once he’d managed to stop crying like a baby and his heart had quit throbbing out a painful rhythm of Jason, Jason, Jason until he couldn’t breathe, Leo had at least tried to figure out what he wanted to do now. He couldn’t keep staying with Piper, who was finally starting to be somewhat okay again. He couldn’t keep ignoring the fact that he’d just ditched Calypso for the world’s longest, most depressing sleepover.

If he wanted any chance to salvage that situation, and if he wanted to give Piper a chance to actually move on instead of continuously dragging her down with him when he didn’t want to move on the way she was trying to, then he had to go back to the Waystation.

The teasing smile slid off Piper’s face.

“Oh,” she said, her lip wobbling a little. “Do you really have to go?”

Leo felt almost relieved that Piper seemed sad, though he realized maybe that was a bit of a shitty reaction on his part. At least he hadn’t completely annoyed his way out of this friendship just yet.

“See, that’s why I refused to go first. Instant mood killer.” He tried for a half-smile. “But yeah, I should probably go back soon. I’ve kind of been neglecting my girlfriend a whole bunch—I haven’t seen her in over a month, which is pretty shitty of me. Besides, poor Festus deserves to be in a place where it’s easier for him to stretch his legs. You know he doesn’t like being in sleep cycle this much.”

Piper wrapped her arms around herself. “I guess that makes sense, but- do you have to leave right now?” 

Leo shrugged. “I mean, I don’t think another day or two will make a difference at this point. I’m going to get an earful once I get back either way.”

“Okay. Good. I know that you can’t stay here forever. But I need a few more days with you. I’m sure Festus will forgive you eventually.” Piper was obviously trying to sound like she was teasing him, but something pleading, almost desperate crept into her voice, which had Leo worried. 

“Yeah. Festus.” Leo cringed internally. He actually wasn’t all that worried about Festus staying mad at him—sure, he might pout for a bit and would probably complain most of the way back to the Waystation, but he was usually easily appeased with enough motor oil, Tabasco sauce and maybe an upgrade or two.

Leo was unfortunately pretty sure his relationship issues with Calypso would need fixing that was beyond the magical abilities of Tabasco sauce—though what would fix them, he had absolutely no idea.

Them having problems wasn’t exactly new, and hadn’t entirely been caused by him running off on her now—even if that admittedly hadn’t helped.

“So, are we doing the world’s longest goodbye movie marathon, or do you need me for anything specific?” Leo joked, trying to hide his relief at getting to stay for a few more days, consequences for his relationship with Calypso be damned. “I know you’ve been lucky to bask in my presence for so long, I’d be reluctant to let me go, too, but that sounded like you might have actual plans.”

Piper didn’t laugh. She didn’t even roll her eyes at him, which was a terrible sign. 

“If you really have to leave, there’s something I want to do first.” She reached out and took his hands with shaking fingers. “I- I’ve been thinking. About what Thalia said. And I want to find a way to properly say goodbye, too. But I don’t think I can do this without you.”

Leo felt like someone had punched him. He could basically feel the way all color drained from his face at Piper’s words.

“I- I don’t know if I can-” he stammered, fighting his instinct to immediately turn on his heels and run—out of this room and this house and preferably the entire state of Oklahoma.

Joking about it was one thing. Facing the reality of it—the fact that Jason was truly gone and he’d never get to see him or hug him or joke with him again—was an entirely different beast.

Leo wasn’t sure he was ready for that. He wasn’t sure he would ever be ready for that.

“You don’t have to say or do anything you don’t want to. I promise,” Piper told him, gently squeezing his hand. “I won’t force you to do anything you don’t feel ready for, okay? I just need you there. Please?”

Piper wasn’t charmspeaking him. Leo would have known if she was, and he knew that she’d never do that to him—not when it came to something as important as this. But she was looking at him with such wild desperation in her eyes that it was still impossible for him to say no.

It didn’t matter if this didn’t help him. Piper needed it. He’d left her for over six months. She was the one who’d actually been present when Jason had died.

The thought of that kept him up at night. He kept imagining Piper kneeling over Jason. Piper shaking Jason’s shoulders and screaming his name, hoping desperately for an answer she’d never receive. Piper clutching Jason’s body to her chest for the very last time. Piper wailing on that awful beach while Leo was a thousand miles away.

He hadn’t been there for her when she’d needed him the most. This was the least he could do to start making things up to her.

“Okay,” he said, reaching out to pull Piper into his arms. It was a mostly selfish act, really—if he hadn’t been holding onto something, Leo wasn’t sure how he would have kept himself from falling apart. “What do you want to do?”

“Jason wasn’t just a Roman demigod. Not since-” Piper broke off, but Leo caught her meaning anyway. Not since he met us. “He belonged to both camps. That was important to him. I think he should have a proper Camp Half-Blood funeral, too.”

———

Some more notes:

So, it’s been six months since I posted the first chapter of this fic and about fourteen months since I first started working on it, and I am delighted to announce that it’s finally done! I can therefore reliably promise both weekly updates and that this fic won’t be abandoned partway through! Hooray!

It still feels kind of dizzying whenever I think about this story actually being done considering how long it’s been my main writing project. I originally thought this whole fic was going to be done in like three chapters. It turns out what my brain wanted instead was a whole Leo Valdez novel. I cannot say that I, personally, am upset about this outcome.

Special shout-out to my friends who have listened to me ramble and rant about this fic for months LMAO

I poured a lot of love into this story and I hope you’ll have a good time with it! Comments obviously super, super appreciated. Thank you all for reading!

Tag list: @poppitron360 @bookIshpolythist @lilyfrey @lady-silkwing @intenebrisobscurat @manygeese @ann-rex

(If anyone wants to be added/removed from the tag list, let me know!)

[lokh]

and listen. old men yaoi aside. wouldnt de-ageing snake like. defeat the point

[keeps-ache]

physically i feel like i've experienced exhaustion going at least 75 on a side road while i was just chilling and standing next to my own mailbox when it hit me with its stupid 2025 ford f150 But at least my eyeballs aren't itchy :)

[icewindandboringhorror]

Apparently I can meet my goal of roughly 400,000 words in 6 months if I just somehow write at least 2,200 words a day ghbjh... Almost 2,500 today... huzzah...

[dorianbrightmusic]

an interpretation of kieran’s mental health in the indigo disk

One thing that’s me very consistently while playing through the Indigo Disk DLC is how Kieran’s behaviour, though erratic, feels horrifyingly believable through a certain lens. Many of his behaviours are painfully reminiscent of my own memories of having anorexia nervosa—and while that’s absolutely not the sole reason someone could break down into an antithetical version of themself as dramatically as Kieran does, I think that as a reading, it can actually coexist very nicely with the actual plot reasoning of ‘competitive tunnel vision’. If anything, it would complement his competitive frenzy quite effectively.

I’m aware this is a risky and hyper-specific interpretation to share, but I’m posting my reasoning beneath the cut, since I think it’s worth sharing not just as a reading of Pokemon, but also as an intersectional look at ED pathology that doesn’t focus so much on either food or figure. Every time I’ve headcanoned a character as anorexic, it’s been because their behaviours seemed painfully perfectionistic and inflexible (see Seto Kaiba), rather than because they looked a particular way. Obviously, massive trigger warning for discussion of restrictive EDs as attempts at self-destruction.

(n.b. None of this is necessarily based on what I've read in scientific papers so much as on experience and observation of others with this disease. As such, if this feels a bit Freud-y-mumbo-jumbo-y, it probably is.)

Let’s start by looking at where Kieran starts out. In Kitakami, he’s stunningly isolated at the best of times. He thinks in extremes—good, bad; hero, villain; strong, weak. His relationship with his sister isn’t bad, per se, but she’s tempestuous and brash, whereas he’s sensitive and fearful. Her attempts to protect him from the worst of the world reinforce his sense of weakness—she shelters him in the harshest way possible, simultaneously expecting him to be tough enough to bear her toughness and weak enough to be able to tolerate nothing else. And though he attends a specialised school for battle, he’s long been the designated weak sibling; as such, he cannot, by nature, be considered admirable at Blueberry Academy. At home and school alike, he feels less than, and desperately lonely. 

To cope, he renders weakness and loneliness as part of his identity, and latches onto the idea of Ogerpon as a courageous outcast, rather than as a villain. It’s an awkward, immature means of coping, as its sole mechanism of granting him any sense of worth further entrenches his isolation and inferiority complex. In defying conventional wisdom on local mythology, he’s choosing to distrust others’ judgement, cutting off any chances of accepting others’ approbation, and locking himself into his own estrangement. His sense of self is constructed around total denial of the fact that being isolated still hurts. So long as he takes up in fantasy, he can’t acknowledge the reality of hating loneliness; and, every time this loneliness and weakness is brought to his attention, he’s suddenly dealing with years of feeling worthless, as compressed into a single moment. As such, he takes defeat awfully, and, having built up very few other ways of coping over the years, gets stupendously angry.

When somebody who’s not from the village comes along, however, maybe he has room to be seen as sensible, rather than contrarian—and, when the player is accepting and kind, he realises that maybe, maybe, there’s room for him to be likeable, worthwhile, in someone’s eyes, after all. So, it’s little wonder that he clings hard to the player, and becomes painfully attached after one day. The player’s affirmation is basically all he has by way of a positive sense of self outside of his own distorted interpretation of legends. Then, cue the player lying to him and taking away Ogerpon. This moment has removed both of Kieran’s last bastions of positive self-image, of ‘maybe it’s okay to be weak, maybe I’m worthwhile anyway’. To him, this isn’t just a minor betrayal—it’s the destruction of his ability to have a sense of worth. It’s pressing on a pain that he’s been systematically ignoring, and reminding him just how much it hurts. 

All he knows, though, is denial—so, to deal with this, he needs to create a new sense of self that can ignore the pain of being weak. But since identifying with weakness hasn’t worked for him, he now attempts the opposite, and takes to pursuing strength at any cost. If he’s strong, then how can weakness hurt him, right?

Except this time, the denial is more extreme, more overtly compartmentalised. He assumes a new team, a new hairstyle, a new manner of talking, dressing, acting. He builds up new rules for life, strict as can be, and brooks no exceptions for any weakness. He is trying, in every way possible, to obliterate the existence of the boy from Kitakami.

An obliterated existence/A dual self

I’d like to pause for a moment here to discuss the compartmentalisation of identity that takes place in anorexia nervosa, as I think it’s relevant here.

Anorexia is a coping mechanism—specifically, the disease promises that by supplanting some part of the self that is currently extremely distressed, it can remove the pain and control the situation. The anorexic personality comes from the original personality, but promises to fulfil its ideals by any means possible. So, seeking a sense of security, the afflicted person compartmentalises—the anorexic personality deals with this thing, the healthy personality with that thing—and reserves the healthy personality from having to deal with distress. The problem is, the illness doesn’t usually fix the problem it promised to, but creates many more. But because it allows one to deny psychic pain, it feels comforting—‘I’m in control of this situation, and the powerless part of me has been obliterated’. Rather than resolve the issues created by the illness by attenuating anorexic behaviours, the person tries to instead brute-force fix things with more anorexia; and onward goes the vicious cycle. In doing this, the afflicted person cedes control of their life to the illness, and, over time, comes to identify with it. While it blocks out their source of pain, it also bonds them to it, forcing them to acquiesce to, if not actively seek out, the increasing physical and emotional toll of the illness.

(I promise it gets better.)

The anorexic personality is split into pieces—the healthy self, and the anorexic self—and the healthy self is usually still dealing with something, so doesn’t feel healthy enough to deal with the things the anorexic self deals with. At first, these selves can be very distinct—the anorexic self often be strict, perfectionistic, and tight-lipped, unwilling to burden others with the original self’s vulnerability. Strict rules and schedules often come to dominate the person’s life while they’re ill—must work this hard, do these things and these times. Over time, the boundary between the healthy and sick selves becomes increasingly murky—one’s mind is invaded from the inside—and the original personality changes further to accommodate the illness. To complicate things further, anorexics tend to not only conceal their distress from themselves, but conceal their illness—and the underlying upset—from others. This is much easier to pull off if you’re isolated to begin with. Recovery thus isn’t merely physical, but psychological, trying to rehabilitate and reintegrate the original identity after a period of being compartmentalised and fragmented. This involves abandoning a coping mechanism and confronting pain that had been abnegated throughout and prior to the illness, so is more complex than just trying to attenuate anorexic cognitions and behaviours. 

Another look at Kieran

Kieran is unbearably lonely, and has long been trying to deny this loneliness in some way or another. Even when he’s identified with the loneliness, he’s done so in order to try to avoid the associated pain. It’s not really acceptance, in that it’s volatile, so much as unsophisticated avoidance hidden by a veneer of acceptance. This unbearable loneliness is his underlying problem—and even back on Kitakami, he’s very much trying—and failing—to push it down. The events of The Teal Mask are enough to show him that denial through surface acceptance isn’t going to cut it, as his relationships with the player and Ogerpon (or at least the idea of Ogerpon) have reinforced how incredibly alone he is.

When he flips on his axis to pursue strength, he’s not pursuing any more sophisticated a means of coping than before, but he’s being much, much more overt about it. Though the source of his angst is, in fact, loneliness and an inferiority complex, he’s convinced himself that the problem is not that he’s alone, but that he’s weak. If he can deal with the weakness, why would he care about feeling lonely? And since the boy from Kitakami was weak, that personality has got to go. Kieran develops a second self, and hands control of his life over to this self, expecting it to resolve the problem that he’s weak. He becomes brutal, because if he can tolerate his own brutality, why should anyone else struggle? He used to be weak, weaker than any of them, after all. 

Pokémon training, realistically, is a form of exercise. And as weak a kid as he’s always been, he’ll make himself stronger, now, so he’ll train, however much hell it is for his team, his classmates, his sister, however much strain it puts on his body, as he barely rests, barely sleeps, barely stops by his room to cook himself anything. Does he need sustenance, when the whole point of this work is to bury his weakness, starve the kid inside himself of his own name and face? Externally, he’s attempted to obliterate the appearance of the kid he used to be – not just in the sense of changing his appearance and his demeanour, but also trying his best to alter his reputation. Physically and behaviorally, he needs to change, he thinks, to block out his weakness, lest it be obvious to an onlooker. Anything less than being a perfect champion will destroy him. 

What happens, then, when the player takes his title, and Drayton ridicules him as ex-champion? Kieran has been hoist with his own petard—with his title in shreds, his identity, too, is in pieces. The player has destroyed him. He’s destroyed himself. And years, years, of abnegated misery now come crashing down once again. So, he makes one final attempt to seize glory with Terapagos, for indeed, other than glory, he has nothing. For the first time, he has to confront the fact that he has nothing. That’s terrifying. What can he do but lash out? He’s been pressing down the scared kid inside for a long time, and as such, that scared, angry part of him is in a state of prodigiously arrested development. So, he screams and he screams. And then, at last, he can start to repent. So, he helps the player. And then, the two of them get to start over—as friends, rivals, family. 

This is recovery: desperately clinging to dysfunction, only to reconcile with being powerless, and, at last, to choose to come back, to walk away from the wreck made of oneself. Kieran must go home to Kitakami—he had no choice, because there was where his real issue—loneliness—had started. (If he didn’t attend a lot of therapy throughout this time, I’ll be amazed.) And, in his time away from school, after finally breaking down and admitting before Terapagos, before the player, before Briar and Carmine, that he had nothing, nobody, he was always going to have to learn, somehow, how to have something, someone, and how to pay respects to the absent space left for both in the meantime. And when he finally comes back to Blueberry, he’s integrated bits of both of his selves. The timid boy from Kitakami is still there, but now has a spine. The tough, one-track-minded champion helps him stay focussed, but doesn’t seep into his personal life—or at least, not to the exclusion of the kinder part of him. He’s not the same kid he used to be—part of that kid died somewhere along the way, in some sense—but at last, he can acknowledge what he really was—scared and lonely—and, with the courage and strength he once misapplied, he can finally move forward, and learn how to breathe again. 

[yusuke-of-valla]

I am so nervous I wan puuke!

[the-judicial-assistants-notebook]

why didn't they just use franziska for literally all of this.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C���mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

[inkedbybarnes]

none of it was fake

bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader

summary: you've been undercover with bucky as husband and wife. upon returning, he seems to have forgotten that it was all pretend.

word count: 1.6k+

warnings: two idiots cluelessly pining for each other. fluff. usage of petnames such as sweetheart, doll, and baby. lowercase writing.

note: hi, babies. how's everyone? this is my first fic in ages, so sorry if it's not my best one. i just wanted something cute ++ this is unedited & not proofread, might fix it laterrr. still hope you'll enjoy this one! xo

dividers made by @firefly-graphics!

comments, reblogs, and likes are highly appreciated. thank you! ♡

“i can't believe your first kiss happened during a mission. an undercover mission!”

wanda huffed, still hung up on the mission you had with bucky weeks ago wherein you had to play pretend as a married couple. there had been a kiss or two during that time, and it felt impossible not to tell your best friend about it when you had been crushing over the soldier for ages.

wanda knew what you felt towards bucky. in fact, she was the only one who knew, or at least the one you shared th information with, and she made sure to ask everything about the mission, even if it took days for her to interrogate you.

“excuse me? that was not my first kiss,” you said defensively, reaching for a cup from the cupboard that you had just opened. “and why are we still talking about this? you and nat already squeezed out every information from me for an entire week.”

“i didn't mean your first first kiss!” she exclaimed, following you around the kitchen as you made yourself a cup of coffee. “you've had a crush on the guy for so long, and the first time you two kiss each other is when you're pretending. that's not how i pictured it at all!”

you had to admit, the mission was sort of a blessing in disguise and a curse at the same time. you were glad to be able to spend time with bucky in ways you've dreamt of, but there was also the horrible reminder that none of it was real. with how avoidant bucky was with you, it was impossible for any of it to happen outside of the mission.

“well, maybe you should stop picturing us doing that sort of stuff. you're way more invested in this than i am, wanda. don't you have your own relationship to think about?” you asked. although you knew she was in a happy relationship with vision, you just wanted her to take a break from all the bucky talk. “when is your man home anyway?”

“my relationship is doing great, so i'm good. i don't need to think of it as much since he gives me everything that i need, and i think of yours because you deserve happiness as well.” she smiled fondly, her eyes sparkling with happiness. “and i'm glad that you asked because this reminded me that vision's arriving with bucky soon.”

“already?” your eyes widened at her statement, completely forgetting that bucky, along with steve, clint, and vision, were coming home today from their mission. “why didn't you tell me sooner!?”

after finishing your mission with bucky two weeks ago, he was immediately sent into another mission which specifically needed him. so, today would technically be the first time you're seeing him again since you last called him your “husband,” which was more nerve-wracking than you expected.

“hey, i'm your best friend, not your alarm.” wanda raised her hands up, defending herself. “and why are you so worried? i can feel your anxiety without needing to be in your head.”

“well, we never talked after.. you know,” you replied, taking a big sip out of your cup. “i know none of it meant anything and that we were just doing our job, but it's the first time i'll be with him normally and not as a pretend married couple. it's kinda awkward, wands.”

“you were able to pretend you didn't like the guy for months, you can do it again for another day.” she answered. “unless you finally tell him what you feel?”

“oh, that? yeah, never happening. i'm not going to risk—”

“there you are, sweetheart.”

there was a collective shocked gasp from both you and wanda, recognizing that voice from behind. except the gasps had different reasons.

you were surprised with his arrival.

wanda was surprised that he casually called you sweetheart.

you turn to find bucky already walking towards you with a smile on his face.

this man never smiles unless he was tasked to do so!

“bucky! you're back!” you awkwardly greeted him.

“yeah, didn't they tell you? i was looking for you when we landed.” he said, pulling you close to him before bending to place a soft kiss on your lips like it was something he'd always done. “you okay, baby? you look pale. did you eat?”

i look pale because wanda is right here with us and you just kissed me while acting like we're dating!

“um, yeah, i'm fine. i'm fine,” you answered, gently pulling yourself away from his arms before he could wrap them around you completely. “can we talk? privately?”

he frowned, worry etched on his face, but he nodded and squeezed your arm softly. “of course. where do you wanna talk, doll?”

“anywhere where wanda isn't there.” you said lightheartedly, throwing a sharp glance at wanda who finally understood what you wanted her to do.

“oh! right, right. i'm sorry, you guys can stay here. i have um..” she paused, thinking of a reason to say. “i have to look for vision anyway. we're supposed to watch a movie together. bye!”

and just like that, wanda was gone and you were left alone with bucky in the kitchen.

before you could speak, bucky asked you first. “what's the matter, doll?”

“what's the matter?” you echoed in a higher tone. “what was that all about?”

“what are you talking about?” he asked, seemingly confused.

“you kissed me, bucky, like it was nothing. then you keep calling me these nicknames.” you reminded him. “we're back home, not in los angeles in our fake house that we used as a fake couple.”

bucky took a step back when he realised his actions, now finding it hard to look at you. “i.. i'm sorry. i completely forgot. i just.. i wasn't thinking. i got used to how we were before,” he mumbled, still finding the right words to say. “did i make you uncomfortable?”

“no, but you made me confused,” you replied. “i'm guessing you got used to how we acted as a fake married couple, but you were gone for another mission. how are you still stuck with the old routine we had?”

“because that's all i could think about,” he answered, now staring at you. “while you're back here in the tower, completely done with our mission, i was thrown back into another one, having only you in my head to pull me back up from the fatigue.”

“you're telling me that you kept thinking about us even when you were gone? why?”

“haven't you?”

“is this a trick question?”

“it's a question to find out whether you like me too or not.”

“you.. you like me?” you blinked. “that's impossible.”

“how on earth is that impossible?”

“because you're always so cold and grumpy around me,” you answered. “i think you're just confused with all the acting we've done, bucky. you don't like me.”

“i was supposed to go on that mission with sharon, not you.” he exhaled. “she volunteered to do it, so she was initially picked. i tried getting out of it, but i had advantages that they needed for the mission to go smoothly. so, i agreed, but in one condition.”

“what was it?” you whispered.

“that you should be my partner,” he answered quickly. “ask me why.”

your heart pounded. “why?”

“because i wanted an excuse to act the way i've always wanted to. i wasn't cold or grumpy because i didn't like you, i just didn't want to scare you.” bucky explained, his hand reaching out for yours. “god, doll. figuring out whether you like me or not has got to be the hardest mission i had to deal with. so do me a favour and get me out of this misery.”

once your lungs found a bit of oxygen again, you finally spoke. “what you said.. you mean it?”

bucky nodded. “every word.”

“well, i like you too.” you tried to bite back a huge smile. “for some time now, actually. wanda will eventually tell you all about my obsession with you. i can't believe we were both worrying for the wrong things.”

“your obsession with me, huh?” he asked cockily, a teasing grin plastered on his face.

“really? i said all that and that's what caught your attention?”

“can't help it. i've been obsessed with you for a long time now as well.” his eyes crinkled at the corners, a little smile gracing his lips while his arm slipped around your waist.

your eyes peeked up at him through your lashes. “does this make it real now?”

“do you want it to be?”

“you're really asking me that?” your chest rumbled. “of course i do.”

“then let's make it real.”

bucky watched you intensely for a few seconds as if he wanted to frame this exact moment before licking his lips and leaning down. you suck a breath, eyes closing as you felt his soft lips meet yours.

you never realised how much you've grown familiar with his touch and affection since your time together as a fake couple.

except this time, none of it was fake.

should we see their time in los angeles as an undercover married couple? 👀

if you have any requests for bucky, send them my way! 💌

[asxgard]

Handprints | [3/3]

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x pregnant wife!doctor!reader

Previous |

Summary: The birth of your first child and all the little moments that you cherish with your husband.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: I’m honestly enjoying this Robby and Reader, so I might do something with them/inspired by them. Let’s see where season 2 takes us👀

This one got away from me, but I had a lot of fun writing it!

Word Count: 4.4k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: afab!reader, established relationship, pet names (my love, sweetheart), mild angst, comfort, fluff, birth scene (nondescript), postpartum, mentions of a prior panic attack, therapy, Mother’s/Father’s Day, vague smut (minors dni!!!!), Robby getting good things because he deserves it

not beta read

Langdon returned in the last few weeks of your pregnancy, rolling into the Pitt with something to prove. He wasn’t as cocky as he had been, but he threw himself headfirst into the chaos of it all — which worried you that he would only fall back into his addiction.

Michael had put strict rules in place for him after he was done rehab — random urine tests, he needed sign offs for most of the drugs he could prescribe, as well as having him attend NA meetings. You could see plainly that even if Frank succeeded in all of that, Michael would need so much time to trust him as he once had. You didn’t know what had transpired between them during that shift, not really, but Frank had let your husband down majorly.

Most in the Pitt might not have known he had been stealing the drugs from patients, or the ED, but with one glance at you and it was clear Frank knew that you knew about it. How could you not? You were Michael’s wife, his one true confidant in the mess of it all.

Frank sucked up to you, maybe thinking it would be an easier way to soften Michael’s heart to him again. Brought you a muffin from the cafeteria when he saw you hadn’t eaten, pulled a stool over to your computer so you could sit, even taking the meaner or nastier patients from your plate. All with a smile. All with a humility you hadn’t seen in awhile.

You appreciated the gestures, but it did little to help gain your trust back.

“It’ll just take time,” you said to Langdon one afternoon. “He won’t trust you again if you take the easy way out.”

He seemed to consider it. “And you? When will you trust me again?”

You turned away from the computer screen to look at him, “Pass all your drugs tests. Show me that coin you get after one year in the meetings. Don’t fuck with my patients again. Then we’re square.”

He gave a curt nod, “Okay, I can do that.”

You smiled softly at him, “I hope so, Frank.”

Due to your large bump, you were not frequently in the trauma room, not wanting to risk bumping into anything or anyone. Like usual, you stuck to triage and the non-critical patients. Michael wanted to keep your stress and adrenaline levels down, which you accepted with little pushback. He also ensured you always sat down to have lunch, even pulling himself away from the chaos long enough to eat with you when you demanded requested it.

If he was going to make sure you ate, you were going to make sure the same.

It was roughly lunchtime when the cramping started, starting as just a mild sense of discomfort before edging closer to moderate pain. Braxton Hicks contractions, you thought, seeing as you were only in your 38th week. You had been getting them periodically since starting your third trimester, but they never got any worse than mild.

Dana found you hunched over the nurses station, trying to take slow, even breaths. The cramping had gotten substantially worse, edging closer to you not being able to think properly.

“Honey?” Dana called your attention.

You took another deep breath through your nose and out through your mouth. “It’s nothing, I’m okay.”

“You and your husband, I swear to god.” She let out a long breath before raising a careful eyebrow at you, “How long has it been going on?”

You hummed, thinking, “I don’t know, noon?”

Dana grinned at you, “Looks like you’re about to have this baby, kid.”

Your eyes widened, “What? No. I still have two weeks.”

“Babies come when they’re ready, not when you are.” She chuckled.

You groaned. Adam, you really had to make an appearance now, huh? Couldn’t have waited a week and a half for when I started maternity?

You clenched your teeth, “Where’s my husband?”

“I just saw Robby head into Trauma-1.” Frank said as he passed, eyeing you warily. “You okay?”

“Baby Adam just decided he didn’t care about the plans I had, no biggie.”

“You better get used to that.” Frank said with a laugh.

You only rolled your eyes at him, trying to catch your breath after the contraction. You watched as Frank ran to grab Michael from the trauma room, and you mentioned to Dana it might be smart to call in someone to cover until the end of your shift. In one fell swoop, two ED doctors were about to be unavailable.

You tried not to feel guilty.

Michael exited Trauma-1, hiding his annoyance of being pulled away well enough, before he spotted you. His eyes flashed before he was jogging over to you, hand immediately going to your back.

“Sweetheart?” His cool mask had slipped, the one that kept everything between you two mostly professional while you were at work.

You squeezed his hand, “Adam has decided he’s ready to meet us.”

Michael’s eyes widened, gaze flickering between your belly and your face. “What?”

“Contractions edging closer to five minutes apart, for about a minute. They’ve gotten worse since noon.”

“Noon?” Michael yelled, though not at you, glancing at his watch. “It’s nearly five! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We were busy.” You said, “I thought it was just Braxton Hicks, like it’s been all month.”

“We were busy.” Michael echoed, tone disbelieving. “You were seriously—”

You hushed your husband as another contraction hit, clutching his hand tightly.

It felt like mostly a blur after that. You had gotten up to Labor & Delivery a little bit later, and Michael called a friend of yours to go get your go bag and baby bag to bring to the hospital.

As the contractions got closer, so did your desperation.

“Why did you do this to me, again?” You panted. “Jesus Christ, just get him out of me.”

Michael grinned at you, “Last I checked, you were the one begg—”

You swatted him away like he was nothing more than an annoying fly. “Michael Robinavitch, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking mildly amused, though he tried to contain his grin.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he said a few minutes later, after another contraction, kissing your hairline.

“Trade with me?” You asked with a sly grin.

He chuckled, “I would in a heartbeat.”

You made a small noise in the back of your throat, trying to catch your breath, using the techniques you had learned in birthing classes.

“Now you say that.” You said, closing your eyes. “Wish you had said that before I went into labor.”

Michael kissed your forehead and rubbed circles onto your back. “Tell me what you need.”

You hummed, “I think I want to walk around. Might help.”

He helped you from the gurney to your feet, holding you steady. You wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned on him for support, swinging your hips from side-to-side. After breathing through a particularly bad contraction, Michael helped you walk back and forth across your room.

You breathed through each of them, taking them one at a time and trying not to get overwhelmed with how far you still had to go. Michael was steadfast beside you, nearly intuitively understanding what you needed when you needed it. Cold washcloth, soft caresses over your shoulders, squeezing your hips together while you leaned over the gurney, whispering encouraging words to you, or holding you close when the pain subsided.

“You’re so amazing,” he said, tone soft, standing behind you and swaying with you while you breathed in and out, arms wrapped around you. “You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart. Strongest woman I know. I love you so much.” He kissed your neck, moving to your jaw and then your cheek.

You hummed in acknowledgement, though you kept your focus on breathing through the contraction.

A few agonizingly slow hours later and you were ready to push. You felt ready to cry, clutching Michael’s hand with a grip that rivaled a vice. He soothed you, kissing your forehead.

“You’ve got this. Push when you breathe out, come on,” he encouraged.

Part of you wanted to kiss him. The other wanted to throttle him.

During the next contraction, that was what you did, breathing out as you pushed. Slow, controlled, powerful. It ripped through you and you screamed.

You had once wanted to be dignified during your labor. You worked at this hospital and these people were more-or-less your colleagues, even though you did not always work with them directly. The thought of remaining composed now made you want to laugh.

“Alright, he should be out on the next push.” your OB told you, looking over to Michael. “Would you like to do the honors, dad?”

Michael’s eyes got glassy, though he looked at you. “I’ll stay right here if you need me to.”

“It’s okay,” you breathed out, mustering a smile. “I know you want to.”

He kissed you, before moving to assist your OB with delivering your son. Thankfully, she had been right, and it only took one more push before your son was in Michael’s arms.

Adam Robinavitch was finally here.

You cooed at him softly when he was laid on your chest, though he cried loudly — clearly upset to be anywhere else but your womb. You could hardly blame him, but you felt overwhelming joy finally holding him in your arms. Tears leaked from your eyes, a warmth cascading through your insides at the sight of him, at the feeling of his tiny hand on your skin.

Michael had his hand on your head, stroking your forehead softly with his thumb. His teary eyes remained, looking between you and your son with a soft smile on his lips.

Adam gurgled on your chest, making small noises to highlight his displeasure. You kissed the top of his head before letting your head fall back onto the pillow, letting out a long sigh of exhaustion.

“I love you.” You said, blinking through your fatigue to look at your husband.

“Thank you.” He whispered back to you, big brown eyes soft and warm as he held your gaze.

You raised an eyebrow.

He smiled, kissing your forehead. “For this life. For loving me. For giving me a chance. For bringing our son into the world. I don’t know why you decided to take a chance on an old guy like me, but I’ll forever be grateful that you did.”

Tears blurred your vision and you blinked them away, “Oh, Michael. I’m so grateful it’s you. Even before I knew it, it was you. It always has been.”

He kissed you tenderly, whispering ‘always will be’ against your lips.

—

Postpartum was no joke, and add in being new to motherhood? You were in the trenches. You were thankful Michael had gotten a decent amount of time off to be in the throes of it with you, but at times, it still felt like you were drowning.

You tried not to feel guilty when you knocked out on the couch or turned in early, leaving the brunt of night shift to Michael. He was an ever faithful partner, and never even flinched when you felt he was shouldering too much of it. All he asked was that you rest, heal and spend time with Adam.

He took time in the mornings for himself, even started seeing a therapist via Zoom and you could see it helping. His shoulders seemed lighter and it created healthier habits for when he went back to working.

Michael’s first shift back did not come home with him, though you knew it was not likely to always be that way. Not when harder patients hit, or major casualties, but you hoped the things he was learning in therapy would help him whenever that day came.

You were rocking Adam back and forth, trying to get him to fall back to sleep, humming a lullaby softly. You caught movement out of the corner of your eye, and you turned your head to see Michael standing in the doorway, tired smile stretching across his lips.

“Hey, my love,” you said lowly, trying to keep your voice quiet so as to not stir your baby, who still would not fall asleep. “How was your shift?”

He gave a small shrug, “I’ve had worse.”

You raised a careful eyebrow at him, but didn’t push. “I think Adam missed his daddy.”

Michael stepped into the room, walking until he was beside you, looking at your son in your arms.

“Yeah?”

You made a small noise of agreement, moving to hand him over. As he stirred, Adam opened his eyes to look up at his father, their eyes complete mirrors of each other. It was undoubtedly one of your favorite features that he had inherited from Michael.

“I think he likes your lullaby much more than mine, actually.” You said, kissing the top of your son’s head.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true, is it buddy? No, mommy’s lullabies are the best.”

Despite having a tough day of your own, your heart warmed. You leaned your head on Michael’s shoulder, staring down at Adam and rocking side-to-side with Michael’s movements.

Perhaps this was a healing all its own, in the quiet of your son’s room, just the three of you.

—

Mother’s Day came shortly after you got off maternity leave, and while it was nice to return to work, you missed Adam. It was nearly painful. But all your co-workers made it feel like a second home.

Dana and McKay were happy to swap baby stories with you, while Langdon attempted to give you and Michael tips. You seemed more receptive to it than your husband was.

You had decided that for your first Mother’s Day, you wanted the day off to spend with your son. Michael also ensured he had off, and let you sleep in. It was peaceful to wake up to a quiet house.

Michael brought you breakfast not long after you woke, and you showered him with kisses in gratitude. It really was the little things.

“I have a full day planned,” he told you, sitting beside you in bed, sipping a cup of coffee. “Slow morning, then when you’re ready, we’re gonna go out.”

“Out?” You questioned. “Care to be more specific?”

A sly grin formed on his face. “Nope.”

You scoffed, but you were smiling.

Sometime after noon, Michael was packing a lunch bag while you got changed, curious to see what he had planned. He got Adam ready, and you met him at the car with an eyebrow raised. He only smiled at you.

It was easy enough to guess what he was up to once you pulled up to the park. It was a beautiful spring day, and you enjoyed the little things — a picnic in the park with your family of three was perfect. Not too complicated, or required too much effort from you, and it was simple enough that you weren’t worried about Adam fussing too much.

You relaxed on the picnic blanket, enjoying the feeling of the sun on your skin, the warmth sending a happy buzz through your system.

Adam was only four months, but he took in the world around him eagerly. He was beginning to roll over with only a small amount of assistance, and he clapped his hands when he was excited, babbling nonsense.

It seemed like such a short amount of time since he had been born, but he was already beginning to grow far too quickly for your liking.

Michael kept Adam entertained while you read a bit, before you ate together. Michael really had quite the spread, aside from the sandwiches, he also had fruits and cheeses and crackers and your favorite chocolates.

“This is exactly what I needed.” You told him. “Thank you.”

Michael raised an eyebrow at you, “You think this is it?”

“Oh? Do tell.”

He only smirked.

You discovered when you got home that Michael had hired a babysitter for that night. He said he wanted to take you out to dinner, and an excitement thrummed through you. You and Michael had barely had any alone time since Adam came into your lives, and while you enjoyed all the time you got with your son, you knew a night out with your husband would be good for you.

The restaurant he had picked? It was where you had had your first date.

A quaint little Italian place, and you nearly cried when you pulled up to it. It was not fancy or lavish, but it meant the world to you.

“Thank you for today.” You said, sipping your drink, trying not to cry in the middle of the restaurant.

He grabbed your hand on the table and ran a thumb over your knuckles. “You deserve it, sweetheart. You’re the best mom Adam could ever ask for, and I always want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

Your face heated, suddenly feeling sheepish.

Conversation flowed easily, and it was nice to be able to feel normal again — not just a mom, or a doctor, just you. It made your chest feel lighter. The topic eventually leaned back to Adam, and the fact that you missed him.

“We can take dessert to go.”

You smiled in relief, “Yes, please.”

On the ride home, you intertwined your fingers with Michael’s.

“So…any thoughts on another one?” You ventured quietly, a teasing smile on your lips.

Michael choked on an intake of air, “What?”

You laughed, “Eventually. Maybe. I don’t know. Just popped into my head.”

“Give a guy a little warning next time.” He chuckled.

“Consider yourself warned.”

He squeezed your hand, “Do you want another?”

You shrugged even though he was looking ahead at the road. “I don’t know. Adam’s still so little, but he’s also already so big, you know? I already miss how little he was. I wouldn’t be opposed in a year or so, but I wouldn’t be upset if we just stuck with one.”

“So…possibly another?”

“What do you think?” You asked instead of answering.

There was a long pause, and then a sigh, “I’m not getting any younger, I’d like to watch Adam grow up, go off to college. If we decided to, I wouldn’t want to wait too long.”

“So possibly another?”

You could hear the smile in his voice, “Possibly another.”

—

Father’s Day came with another day off, Michael wanting his first to be spent at home as well. You knew these kinds of holidays might need to be sacrificed in the future, so you were grateful that at least your first of each would be spent at home.

Knowing Michael, you knew he wasn’t one to want much fanfare, so you planned most a day in. From breakfast and lunch, to a few nice things to grill for dinner. It was mostly about spending time together, and you were happy to supply it. The details of his present sat in a card on the dining table, a cabin rented in the Poconos to fish with enough room for Jack and Jake to tag along (both had already agreed).

The day turned into a well deserved relaxing day, though you could see how much Michael was enjoying spending some time off with his family.

After dinner, you handed Michael the card, Adam in your lap. You bounced your legs, making car noises with your mouth, making him giggle and clap. You heard Michael open the card and silently he read over it.

“Jack and Jake already took off, and I worked something out with your shifts, you’ll be all set.”

He blinked at you before he was out of his seat and kissing your face, making you giggle. Adam squealed in your lap, clapping more eagerly while he babbled at his dad.

“This is…thank you.”

“You haven’t taken any time to go back up there in a really long time.” You shrugged, knowing he used to try to get away more frequently earlier on in your relationship. Sometimes you tagged along, but you thought a boys weekend away was just what the doctor ordered (you, you were the one who ordered it). “Soon you’ll have to bring Adam with you.”

Michael grinned, looking down at his son. “You’ll love it, I can show you how to…”

You watched Michael excitedly explain fishing to your son, who watched him with big brown eyes, mesmerized.

You put Adam down to sleep sometime later, before joining your husband in the living room. You curled up next to him.

“Thank you for today…it was very needed.”

You kissed his cheek, “You’re an amazing father, you know that? I’m incredibly thankful for you.”

He pulled you closer and kissed your head. You turned in his grasp and kissed his lips, moving into his lap to kiss him deeper. Michael responded instantly, one hand going behind your head and the other going to your hip.

The first time you had been intimate after giving birth to Adam had been a process riddled with your insecurities. Michael kissed his way through each one and took his time, like he was relearning your body. It took an incredible amount of pressure off your shoulders, and you revealed in his touch.

Your hands moved from his chest to his hair, tongue licking along his bottom lip. His grip on you tightened, his tongue slipping into your mouth. Warmth pooled in your abdomen, and you moved your leg to straddle him.

His fingers ghosted over the skin of your hips, making you shiver. He moved a hand up your torso, grabbing at your flesh and you moaned into his mouth. You moved your hips down to find some sort of friction. A groan echoed low in Michael’s throat, and the sound set you on fire.

Michael had you up and on your back on the couch in a swift motion, settling between your hips. You pulled at the hem of your shirt until he helped you pull it over your head. He kissed down your neck and across your torso, moving lower until your head buzzed with pleasure.

You felt like your body was thrumming under his touch and you lost yourself in it. It wasn’t long before all of your clothes were scattered across the living room, Michael back between your hips.

He whispered his love for you against your skin, and proved it with each slow drag of his hips, until you were a moaning mess under him, a blinding heat overtaking your senses. He was everywhere, feeling so full of him, tears falling from the corners of your eyes, blissed out and overwhelmed with all the warmth swirling around in your chest.

Michael came with a few low grunts, groaning against your throat before pulling you into a rough, sloppy kiss.

You ran your hands over his shoulders, panting with him, foreheads touching. You leaned up to languidly kiss his lips again. He brushed a thumb across your cheek. He kissed along your cheek and nose, the hairs of his beard tickling your skin and making you giggle. You lightly pushed him away.

“Get off me, old man.”

An eyebrow rose, “Old man, huh? This old man can make you come again, if you—”

You laughed, “Get off.”

He moved his head in such a way that the softest touch of his beard ran along your neck and your face, making you squirm. The sensation was incredibly ticklish.

“Alright, alright, I yield. I yield!” You laughed again, turning your face away from him. “You’re not even that old anyways.”

He laughed and kissed your cheek, moving to sit back on his haunches. He looked down at you with a soft smile.

You raised a challenging eyebrow, “If you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, I might have to take you up on your offer.”

A sly grin spread across his lips, “Yeah? Thought I was an old—”

You reached up for him, “Just get back down here, Michael.”

He laughed, but complied.

—

A rare quiet morning was always a welcomed thing in your household, slow and lazy. With the hectic reality you both faced at work, you had begun to cherish these days. Adam on his playmat, you and Michael sitting on the couch eating breakfast and enjoying the company of each other.

When Michael came back into the kitchen from taking a shower, you had Adam sat in his highchair. You had a spread of paints and a canvas print sat on the dining table, a handful of newspapers protecting the wood from any mess.

Michael looked over it all with a face drenched in curiosity.

“Care to fill me in? What’s all this?” He looked over all the paints, raising an eyebrow at you. “This a new hobby, or something?”

You shrugged, “Not quite.”

He stayed silent and waited for you to elaborate, but you were messing with a few different colors, mixing them on a paper plate.

“Blue or red?” You asked.

“...blue?”

You handed him a paper plate with blue paint.

He stared down at it, “Do you want me to..?”

You looked at him and smiled, “Put your right hand in it.”

“Right, right. Of course. Logically, that was my next step.”

You chuckled, “I thought it could be a cute art piece for Adam’s room. Your hand, my hand and his in the middle.”

A softness warmed his face, and then he did as you asked. You pulled over the canvas print for him to put his now paint covered hand on. You handed him a damp paper towel when he was done. You dipped your hand into the red paint and copied your husband, so that your hands mirrored each other.

Adam seemed thrilled to be involved when you dipped his hand into the purple paint you mixed, placing his hand between both handprints you and Michael had left. You wiped his hand off and gave him a kiss on the head.

“It’s perfect.” Michael said in your ear.

You pulled him close, “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

You stared down at the little art piece of your handprints, your heart swelling at your little family you and Michael had carved out for yourselves. Even amidst the chaos, you had found your home.

“Always?”

“Forever.”

No matter what you two faced, you knew it was a promise you would both keep.

FIN.

All Dr. Robby content taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43

All The Pitt content taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph

Robby deserves only good things. This brought me back to the layout I did for A Lesson in Firsts and omg it was another great journey.

Damn, s1 of The Pitt is over. What am I going to do with myself?? Write a lot? Probably

Also?? Heartbeat has over 1k notes?? That’s insane, thank you guys so much🥺🥹

[saminsecret]

Slashers Reacting to their S/O trying to "escape" while sleep walking

Inspired by this post by @amomentsescape . Go check them out! Fell in love with their post and just HAD to write about it myself I am working on a few requests and original ideas, so if you've requested something know that it is (slowly) in the works!)

posting this early to show I'm still active! let me know if you want a part two with other slashers, im already working on one for the sinclair bros but check my character list to see which others i should add! ive added a few new characters to my list aswell :3

CW: Implications of abuse, kidnapping, and other unhealthy relationship dynamics

GN Reader!

Characters include Michael Myers, Thomas Hewitt, Brahms Heelshire, Billy Loomis, and Stu Macher!

You’ve been with your slasher for a while now, trapped living with them in their respective homes. You have no intentions of leaving as Stockholm Syndrome has long kicked in. But right as your slasher lets you sleep without the chains, your brain decides that it’s a perfect time to start sleepwalking…

Michael Myers (Halloween ‘78)

Michael is up the second you are. He never truly sleeps, so the moment your body starts to shift out of bed his eyes are open and watching you intensely. He stopped handcuffing you to the bed post a few nights ago, but he still doesn’t trust you to not leave. Before you can walk towards the bedroom door, he’s already infront of you and grabbing your wrists tightly.

He doesn’t care that you’re asleep. When you didn’t react to him grabbing your wrists, he tilted his head. It takes him a few moments to realize that you’re still asleep. He grabs you by the shoulders and aggressively shakes you awake, startling the hell out of you. “What the fuck!?” You wake up to see Michael glaring down at you menacingly. He is pissed.

You can’t plead with him. Your wrists are back to being cuffed to the bed and he doesn’t let you leave the bedroom. It doesn’t matter that you were asleep, you still tried to leave him. You cry and beg, swearing up and down that you love him but all you get back is an icy glare. Any trust you thought you had with him is gone for the next few months. He loves you Y/N, no matter if you like it or not.

Stares at you through the night. The first couple of nights after your sleepwalking incident, he can’t close his eyes. Ends up just staring at you for the rest of the night, not really sure how to feel about what you’ve done. He won’t say it, but his feelings are really hurt. Why can’t you just do what he wants?

Thomas Hewitt (Texas Chainsaw Remake)

He wakes up alone in bed. He has to get up extra early for his daily chores, so he’s used to see you by his side, still fast asleep. When you aren’t there, he starts to panic. He’s tossing the room frantically hoping to find you, all while fearing the worst. He should’ve listen to his family when they said not to unchain you.

He finds you at the front door, staring at it absentmindedly. He rushes towards you and grabs hold of you, which wakes you up. You scream in confusion which makes him scream. He’s a blubbering mess afterwards while you try to explain what sleepwalking is and how you weren’t consciously trying to leave

He believes you, but he’s still scared that you might leave. He installs a lock on the bedroom door and keeps the key hidden away during the night so you don’t wander off again. He’s worried that you might end up hurting yourself walking around the house, so you can’t coax him out of the lock.

He hugs you extra tight at night. He was always a cuddler, but now he’s nearly smothering you every night in fear that he might wake up alone again. Don’t fight it, it’ll only make him hug you tighter.

Brahms Heelshire (The Boy)

Crashes the fuck out once he realizes you aren’t in bed with him. He’s running around the mansion frantically looking for you in every nook and cranny, getting more and more worked up. Probably starts crying and/or screaming after not being able to find you quickly.

He finds you in the garden, eventually. He hates going outside. He hates you going outside even more. It’s dead of night when you wake up to Brahms incoherently screaming at you while being dragged back inside. You’re so confused while Brahms is just having a full on meltdown, accusing you of trying to leave him.

You have to wait for him to calm down before explaining what happened. He's screaming so loud, sobbing and stomping back and forth the hallway as you sit on the ground, half-dazed. You try to talk to him but he literally can't hear you over his tantrum.

Clings to you. After his break down, you explain what happened-- "I was just sleepwalking, Brahms." He isn't completely convinced but he accepts the explanation on the condition that you never do it again, which you try to say you can't really control it but- oh well. It doesn't matter, as Brahms is always by your side now, holding your hand or waist or the hem of your shirt while you go on with the chores. You never have a moment alone now, and probably never will again for a good while. Do you even want to?

Billy Loomis (Scream)

Another certified crash out. He wakes up one night expecting you beside him, only to find you gone. Immediately tears the house apart looking for you. And when he cant find you? He snaps. Thinks you've left him. Escaped his tight grasp. Destroys everything, grabs his knife, and goes to look for you. If he cant have you then he's going to kill you.

He finds you standing on the porch. Looking back, he doesnt know how you didnt wake up from the noise he was making. He puts the knife to your throat, threatening you until he realizes you were kinda just...not responding. Waves his hand in front of your face and realizes you are asleep and just stares at you. How the fuck did you even get past the locks anyways?

So pissed at you. Its not your fault but it doesnt matter. You should subconsciously want to be near him at all times, sleepwalking or not. He drags you back to the bedroom, gripping your arm so tightly that it wakes you up. You're confused on whats happening, but Billy ignores your questions before tossing you on the bed and forcing you to go back to sleep.

He starts tying you to the bed. He doesn't let you have a say in it, either. He won't say it, but waking up and seeing you gone was one of the very limited moments in his life when he felt fear. And he doesn't intend to ever feel that way again.

Stu Macher (Scream)

Where'd you go, Y/N? He wakes up without you under him, and is immediately confused but not worried. You must have needed to go to the bathroom! Still, he feels a weird flutter in his chest as he gets up to check on you.

He finds you in the hallway just standing there, like a ghost. You startle awake because he screams, not expecting to see you in such a creepy way. He laughs immediately after, finding it hilarious that you managed to scare him!

He has a tight grip on you as he guides you back to bed. You notice as you both lay down that he clings just a bit more to you than usual, so much that you almost feel suffocated. He won't say it aloud, but he doesn't like the idea of you leaving the bed, of leaving him.

He starts laying on top of you during the nights, as a way to hopefully stop you from leaving the room. It works for the most part, and Stu loves the new-found closeness, even if you have to give up a bit of air at night. If you ask, he'll try to shift his weight to one side so he doesn't completely cut off your airflow, but he's reluctant to get off of you completely. What if you hurt yourself walking around?

Freaks out every time you move. Ever since that incident, Stu is hyper focused on you when you sleep. Every time you slightly shift during the night, Stu is locked on you, waiting to see if you try to get up or not. He doesn't want you to leave, y/n, and if that means having to sacrifice some sleep to make sure you stay, that's alright with him.

[ddlydevotion]

Grace and Bo Chow both being infatuated with you 💌 ₊˚⊹⋆

a/n: I hope you guys enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing this! This post contains nsfw content/slightly obsessive behavior so proceed with caution. This is also quite long so I apologize for that. Look out for a part two!

currently listening to: Cupid by Sam Cooke

You met Bo first. You applied for a job at the shop and proved yourself to be incredibly dependable. He allowed you to count the money in the register, keep logs of what was going in & out of the store, and take care of client records and accounts. The two of you had a purely professional relationship, but if a professional relationship consisted of longing glances, lingering touches, and endearing nicknames.

You knew he was married, the golden band around his ring finger didn't let you forget the fact that he was. You felt horrible for even entertaining the nicknames and the close contact he kept with you, but you considered yourself to be on the safe side of things. As long as the two of you kept the touchiness to a minimum and didn't take your affection for one another to the bedroom, everything was fine.

His wife, Grace, tended to their shared store on the white side of town. She'd occasionally pop into the store to check in on Bo & their daughter, making sure she completed her tasks for the day. Afterwards, she'd never fail to make her way up to you and ask about your day.

"How are ye doin? Bo been treatin' you well?"

"You're doin' a good job around 'ere, girl. We gotta keep you here, don't want the other stores to try an' take ye from us."

Bo would affirm her praise by nodding his head and adding in his own little two cents. Grace wouldn't shy away from rubbing your arm or placing a delicate finger underneath your chin while saying "you're a real pretty girl, y'know that?". Her physical touch could be disguised as something playful and sweet, something between two women that were fond of one another. But, as the two of them made eye contact over your head they knew that what they had in store for you was anything but playful.

The playful banter between the three of you continued for weeks after that. You didn't expect anything more to blossom from your friendship with the married couple, but the clueless cloud you had over your head was quickly blown away one night. It was usual for them to invite you over to have dinner at their shared home. It was a common occurrence that even Lisa looked forward to as you were never anything but kind to her.

If you try to tell them that you wouldn't be able to make it due to a packed schedule, they'd do everything in their power to convince you to show anyway.

"Oh, we promise we won't keep you long. C'mon ya could just come on over for some dinner and make your way home after that. promise."

"awe are ya sure? Lisa was really lookin' forward to seeing ya again."

Sure, it was common for them to invite you over for dinner. However, it wasn't all too common for them to invite you into their bedroom. They'd usually keep you past midnight to have conversation going in the kitchen, but Bo offered to move the late night ritual into their bedroom. The conversation went on as normal and the wine in your glass disappeared by the minute. You sat with your legs crossed on their wooden-framed bed, the couple sat right in front of you. Bo's hand made a home for itself on the skin of your thigh that peaked from underneath your dress, he rarely ever showed such explicit affection like this. You expected Grace to become angry with the two of you, rightfully so, and have the night come to an end. Instead, she moved towards you and swept your hair out of your face with those delicate fingers of hers you've come to admire.

"I don't think ya know just how pretty ya are. I mean, jus' look at that face, baby. You just might be the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen." Bo's hand moved towards the inside of your thigh and a small smile stretched across his lips. "s'true, sweetheart", both of his hands eventually moved towards the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him, Grace shuffling behind you before positioning your head to lay on her lap.

The night ended with your legs curved around Bo's slender waist as he pumped his cock into you, the coarse hair at the base of his cock stimulating your pulsing clit once he finally bottomed out. Grace kept herself busy, too. She rubbed your throbbing clit with her middle & ring finger, occasionally cradling your flushed cheeks and encouraging you to "take that cock, baby. s'so big, ain't it? I know, I know", shushing your whines and cooing at your fucked out expression. She couldn’t help but smile when you let out a surprised squeal at the feeling of her fingers tweaking and pinching your sensitive nipples.

Your relationship with the Chow's was never made public to the town, I mean, why would it be? Everyone in your close circle knew that the three of you were quite the close bunch of friends, but they didn't know the rest of it.

I can definitely see the both of them being possessive over you. They could see you talking with a friend of yours outside of the store and immediately interrogate you about it.

"She's just a good friend of mine! What's this all about?"

"Y'know damn well what this is all about. She looked like she was imaginin' what ya looked like without your clothes on."

It'd make them inexplicably upset to see you in a relationship with anyone that isn't them. They'd never allow you to do so without putting up a fight, though. It'd be foolish for you to think they'd let you go so easily. Even if you did get romantically involved with anyone else, you'd never be truly satisfied. Grace and Bo raised your standards to the damn moon and it'd be impossible for anyone to try and fill their shoes. Whenever your partner did anything wrong, you couldn't help but think "they'd never do that to me."

Helping Grace whenever she's working on a sign for a client. She doesn't hold back on sharing just how proud she is of you when you finish up a paint job.

Sharing many passion filled nights with the couple at the Juke Joint. You spend so much time sat at the bar without ordering anything just to talk to Grace. Bo pulls you in to dance with him and no one around bats an eye. What's wrong with two friends sharing a dance together? However, the way his glistening eyes gaze into yours with such intense passion behind them is anything but platonic.

It's incredibly easy for you and Grace to hide the true nature of your relationship. Nobody suspects anything even when her arm is firmly wrapped around your waist, or when her lips graze your cheek in a sweet peck. That's just how good friends celebrate one another.

They always find themselves on your front porch with gifts and they hardly ever show up empty handed. The gifts range from sundresses perfect for the southern heat, pastries they know you'll enjoy, savory treats the both of them worked on.

You're constantly heading over to their home and being convinced to stay the night by the sweet-talking couple. They don't entertain the possibility of you staying in a spare room, they want you to make yourself familiar & comfortable with their bedroom. Their spare room is honestly quite useful in having visitors believe that's where you stay, assisting in avoiding any questions about the true nature of your 'friendship'.

Bo wraps himself around your body like a koala and Grace curls herself into a fetal position in front of you, relishing in the feeling of your warm arms around her.

taglist: @officialthrad @bochowswife @thegr33nc0met @missroro @mjwhis @foreid let me know if you'd like to be added!