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lnracer · 1 month ago

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I have a requesttttt lately I’ve been thinking about Lando and I kinda think it would be so fun if he was with someone totally opposite to him SO my vision is:

Badass girlboss Reader (I personally imagine an Elle Woods-esque corporate trial lawyer or something) and Lando have been sneaking around but out in public they look like just friends and they’re kind of dating around but they end up getting jealous bc Reader thinks Lando wants the influencer/models he’s surrounded by and Lando thinks Reader wants a serious academic type. How it ends is up to you — maybe they work it out or maybe they just belong in different worlds :’)

Pairing: Lando Norris x Corporate Lawyer! Female Reader.

Warnings: Mild miscommunication, mild angst with a (very) happy ending and jealousy (mutual, a little petty).

Word Count: 3.601k.

a/n: Ahh, I just loved your vision so much! It was really easy to write and play with this dynamic (I don't think I've ever had so much creativity to write something so fast, but I ended up staying up all night writing this because I was genuinely so entertained 😅) but anyway, thank you for the request and I hope it meets your vision in the best way possible and that you like it! ☺️🧡

By day, she was the powerhouse trial attorney — the kind who walked into courtrooms in heels that could kill and left with verdicts that made headlines. The fashion magazines loved her almost as much as Forbes did. She was the youngest partner in her firm, a Harvard Law alumni with a Chanel addiction and a sharp tongue. Men underestimated her. Judges respected her. And juries? They adored her.

By night — well, lately, her nights often involved sneaking out of an apartment in Monaco, wearing one of Lando’s hoodies over her silk blouse.

Lando knew what the world thought. That they were “just friends.” That maybe she was his lawyer or his PR advisor or some business connection. The paddock shots of her standing beside him, sunglasses on, whispering something that made him smirk? Oh, the fan theories were relentless.

But behind closed doors? Their situationship was toeing the line of something real. No labels. No pressure. But a lot of stolen glances, late-night phone calls, and moments that felt too intimate for friends.

The problem? She was the type to keep her heart padlocked. Lando was used to people chasing him — but she didn’t chase. She leaned against his car in the McLaren garage and made fun of his post-race hair. She kissed him like he was hers, then told him she had court in the morning and disappeared in a plane.

Still, she wore his hoodie in her post-run selfies. And he kept saving seats for her in the paddock.

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They met at a charity gala in London — her firm was sponsoring, McLaren was donating, and neither of them wanted to be there. She was bored out of her mind, cornered by a finance bro pitching her crypto nonsense, when Lando swooped in like a cheeky, curly-haired lifeline.

“Sorry, mate,” Lando had said, slipping an arm around her waist with perfect ease. “I promised her the next dance.”

She had raised an eyebrow, amused and intrigued. He was only a year older than her, maybe a little cocky, but charming in that boyish, slightly-messy way. She didn’t dance, of course. Not at galas. But she let him lead her away anyway.

“You don’t look like a lawyer,” he’d said under his breath once they were out of earshot.

“And you don’t look like someone who reads contracts,” she fired back, her smile sharp.

That was the start of it. Flirty texts turned into late-night calls. Then came dinners in quiet places where no one recognized them. Then weekends in cities where she happened to be trying a case, and he happened to have a break in the calendar.

There was no official talk. No defining the relationship. But every time she passed through the paddock, Lando’s eyes would find her like muscle memory. And every time he showed up at her apartment with coffee after a red-eye flight, she didn’t send him home.

They didn’t owe each other explanations. Not when she was knee-deep in legal warfare Monday through Friday. Not when he was crossing continents chasing trophies. But there was something magnetic about them. Something they didn’t touch too closely for fear of setting off fireworks they couldn’t control.

He brought chaos into her perfectly curated life. She brought calm into his whirlwind. They weren’t each other’s type, and yet — they were exactly what the other kept coming back for.

Addictive in the best way. Dangerous if it ever tipped too far.

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It had been a week since the last time they’d spent time together. She was in New York for a deposition, Lando was in Italy for the race. Their texts had been sparse — just the typical “miss you” and “good luck” messages, but nothing too personal. It was their thing, keeping things light when the world was heavy.

But tonight, something felt off. She had just wrapped up a ten-hour workday and was about to dive into a pile of case files when she got a text from him:

Lan:

Can we talk?

She frowned at the screen. It wasn’t unusual for him to reach out like this, but there was a seriousness in the tone that made her stomach churn.

She stared at her phone for a few moments before typing back:

Y/N:

Of course, what’s up?

Seconds later, the phone buzzed again, this time with a FaceTime request. She hesitated, then answered, putting on the usual mask — cool, composed, business-like.

Lando’s face filled the screen, but it wasn’t the warm, mischievous grin she was used to. His brow was furrowed, eyes heavy, like he hadn’t slept well in days. She sat up straighter, her lawyer instincts kicking in, trying to gauge the situation.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice carefully neutral.

“Hey,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve been thinking.”

Her heart rate spiked. Thinking wasn’t good. When Lando thought, things got complicated. And she didn’t need anything complicated.

“About what?” she asked, her tone even but laced with caution.

“About us.”

There it was. The words she had known were coming, but hearing them still felt like a slap.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her, the walls going up instinctively. “What about us?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, though she tried to keep the edge out of her voice.

Lando sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “You know this whole thing… whatever it is… it’s killing me, Y/N.”

Her jaw clenched. “What are you talking about? You knew what this was when we started. No labels. No promises. Just… us. And if you didn’t like that, you should’ve said something earlier.”

“That’s the thing,” he snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. “I never wanted it like this. I thought maybe… maybe we could actually figure it out. But you’re so damn cold. You keep me at arm's length, and it’s like I’m not even real to you when we’re not together.”

Her breath caught. She was used to the cold, used to compartmentalizing her emotions, but this wasn’t a courtroom. It was Lando. And as much as she hated admitting it, it stung.

“I’m not cold,” she said, her voice tight, but the walls were beginning to crack. “I just… I don’t do messy. I have a career to focus on. And you have the entire world chasing after you. I’m not the type to play these games.”

“Games?” Lando repeated, his eyes flashing with frustration. “This isn’t a game, Y/N. I don’t get it. One second, it’s like I mean something to you. The next, I’m just some guy who’s filling space until the next big thing comes along.”

Her chest tightened. “You think I’m stringing you along?” She could feel the heat rising in her face. This wasn’t just an argument. It felt like it was unearthing something deeper — something they hadn’t dared to look at yet.

“I don’t know what I think anymore,” Lando shot back, leaning closer to the screen, his expression hard. “I’m asking you to be honest with me for once. What the hell is this? Because I’m not just gonna sit here pretending like it’s nothing while you keep everything locked up.”

Her pulse raced, the words threatening to spill out before she could stop them. “You think I’m the one who’s afraid of this? Of us? Lando, I don’t have time for games. You want someone who’s all in, someone who will follow you around and pretend that this is normal? It’s not. And I’m not some girl who’s gonna throw my life away for—”

“For what?” Lando interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through her words. “For someone who you don't even give a damn? For someone who you treat like a casual fling when everyone’s watching?”

She froze, the hurt in his words hitting her harder than she expected. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You don’t get to do that. You know what my life is like. You don’t get to judge me for how I handle things. I’ve worked too damn hard to get where I am, and I won’t throw that away for anything or anyone.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched long between them, heavy and tense. Finally, Lando broke the quiet, his voice softer but laced with frustration.

“You don’t have to throw it all away. I just… I just want to know if I matter, Y/N. If I mean anything to you.”

Her throat tightened, the words suddenly stuck. “You do,” she said, barely above a whisper. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple,” Lando pleaded, his eyes searching hers through the screen. “Stop hiding from me.”

She stared at him, her heart racing, the emotional walls crumbling faster than she could rebuild them. “I can’t promise you what you want,” she said finally, her voice shaking just a little. “But I’m not walking away. Just… just give me time.”

Lando sighed deeply, his expression softening. “Time. Yeah. Okay. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m fine with this.”

She didn’t have an answer for that. Not yet.

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The next couple of weeks after their argument were… strange. Awkward. Almost like both of them had hit a wall they didn’t know how to scale.

She kept herself busy. Ridiculously busy. Court cases, meetings, contracts — anything to keep her mind off the tension that still clung to her thoughts. She buried herself in work, refusing to admit to herself that something about Lando was starting to haunt her, even if she wasn’t ready to admit that out loud.

Lando, on the other hand, was everywhere. In the paddock. At fashion shows. With influencers, models, and people who seemed to have everything in the world but didn’t seem to be doing anything. They laughed, they posed for the cameras, they made it look easy.

It drove her insane.

She wasn’t supposed to care. She wasn’t supposed to get jealous over him. But when she saw a photo of Lando and a famous Instagram model sharing a laugh at a recent charity event, it felt like a punch to the gut.

It wasn’t that she was jealous. No, of course not. She wasn’t like that. But… they were so perfect for each other. Gorgeous, carefree, and living in a world where appearances were everything. The kind of world she didn’t belong to.

So, she did what she did best: she pretended it didn’t bother her.

She posted a few pictures from her latest trial, looking fierce in a tailored suit, with her caption reflecting the confidence she wanted to project: “Court’s in session. Winning isn't a choice. It's a guarantee.”

Her phone buzzed almost immediately with messages — friends, colleagues, even a few family members. But the one that made her stop was from Lando.

Lan:

Looking good in court. You know, you should wear a suit more often…

She stared at the message, blinking as the words sat in front of her. Was it a compliment? Or was it just a casual comment, like he always sent? Either way, she couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling in her gut that told her he was distracted by something — or someone — else.

So, she ignored his text. Just for a few hours. Maybe she was being petty. But she couldn’t help it.

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Meanwhile, Lando had his own demons. He’d been thinking about the conversation they had, replaying it over and over in his head. Make it simple. She’d said that to him. But the more he thought about it, the more complicated it seemed.

He'd been surrounded by people, sure, but all these models, influencers, and socialites? They didn’t fill the space she left behind. They never could.

Still, seeing her posts — those posts — with all her academic accomplishments, her sleek, polished persona… it made him second-guess everything. He knew she was fierce. She was a force. But sometimes, he wondered if he was the right match for her. Was he really what she wanted? Or was she just pretending, keeping him at arm's length like she had from the start?

He'd seen how she interacted with the serious academics — those suave lawyers, those well-dressed business types she surrounded herself with at galas. People who played the game of life like it was a chess match, making calculated moves every step of the way. People who probably looked better on paper than he did. Lando couldn’t help but think, Does she need someone like that? Someone more… professional? More grounded?

The thought twisted at his insides.

A couple of days later, his answer came when he saw her with one of those very types at an event — a tall, dark-haired man in a crisp suit. He was talking to her, laughing at something she said, clearly enjoying her company.

Of course she likes someone like him, Lando thought bitterly, as he watched from across the room. The man was everything Lando was not — serious, calculated, and mature. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, and he certainly didn’t have to make himself a spectacle for people to notice him.

Lando’s grip tightened around the flute of champagne in his hand. He turned away, trying to shake off the unease bubbling in his chest. But the feeling stuck with him. All night.

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The next day, he texted her again, his message half-accusatory, half-playful:

Lan:

So, who’s the guy? Looks like a lawyer from here. Thought you were into people who could keep up with your… complicated life.

She read the message and snorted. Was he really going to throw that at her? The jealousy card? Really?

She quickly typed back, biting her lip.

Y/N:

He’s just a colleague. Someone from work. You know, not everyone revolves around F1 or the latest influencer trends.

The words stung even as she typed them. She hated that she was putting walls up, but she was so tired of constantly second-guessing herself.

Lan:

Right. And I suppose I’m the one who’s into those trends?

Y/N:

I mean, you’ve been hanging around them enough.

There. She said it. She was being petty, but jealousy was eating at her.

Lando’s response came quickly, almost instantly.

Lan:

Yeah, because that’s exactly what I want, more Instagram followers and pretty girls with no substance.

Her eyes narrowed at the text. She read it twice, the sharp edge in his words cutting deeper than she expected.

Y/N:

Then why do you keep surrounding yourself with them?

His response came even faster this time.

Lan:

I don’t know, Y/N. Maybe because I’m tired of wondering if you even want to be with me or if you’d rather be with someone who looks like he has it all together.

She froze, her heart dropping.

The tension between them had reached its peak. It was a tangled mess of insecurities, unspoken fears, and silent accusations. They both thought the other wanted something they weren’t ready to give. They were both fighting to keep a part of themselves that the other couldn’t touch.

But maybe… just maybe, it was time to tear down the walls and face it.

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Monza had been a whirlwind for Lando — racing, media events, and the pressure that always seemed to come with the spotlight. But that wasn’t what weighed on his mind. No, it was her.

He had tried to act like he was fine, ignoring the nagging feeling in his gut, but deep down, he knew things were slipping. Every moment without her felt like they were growing further apart, despite how hard they tried to convince themselves otherwise. The jealousy, the silence — it was building up, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

So, without a second thought, he packed his bags and boarded a plane. Destination: New York. The city that never sleeps, or so they said. But for him, it was the city where he would finally have it out with her.

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Lando stood outside her apartment building, his heart racing. He wasn’t sure how he got there, just that something in him had snapped. The confusion, the doubt — it was all consuming. The thought that they could end like this, with all the words left unsaid, made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the situation. And angry at her for shutting him out, even if she didn’t realize it.

He hit the buzzer.

A moment later, her voice crackled through the speaker. "Yes?"

He didn't even give it a second thought. "It's me. Lando. Open the door."

There was a pause. He could almost hear her hesitation through the intercom. Then the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

She stood there in front of him, looking stunned, her hair disheveled from a long day of meetings and calls. But despite the exhaustion, the moment their eyes met, everything else seemed to disappear. The anger, the confusion, the jealousy — it all melted away in that instant. But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

Lando stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.

She crossed her arms, not backing down. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“You didn’t think I would?” Lando’s voice cracked, and the rawness of it hit her like a punch to the chest. “I’ve been standing on the edge of this whole damn mess for weeks. Watching you pull away, acting like I don’t even exist. And then I see you with some guy at that gala, acting like I’m nothing but a distraction. So yeah, I came here to figure this out once and for all.”

Her face flushed, but she refused to back down. “You think I want to be with you, Lando? You think I’m the one pulling away? I saw you with all those models and influencers. You think I can’t see what’s right in front of me? You want someone who fits your world — someone who doesn’t have a career that takes up all her time, someone who doesn’t get tangled up in complicated lawsuits and corporate contracts.”

Lando shook his head, walking toward her, his frustration mounting. “No! That’s not it at all! I don’t want someone like that. I want you.” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “But you keep acting like I’m not good enough for you. Like you don’t want someone who’s just... here. You want someone serious, someone who can sit in boardrooms and talk numbers and contracts all day. I’m just some guy who drives cars.”

“Lando…” She started, but he cut her off, his words tumbling out faster now.

“You don’t get it, do you? I’m in this world, yes, but I don’t care about that crap. I care about you. I care about us. But every time I try to get close, you push me away, like you’re afraid I’ll screw it all up. And you’re right, I’ve been surrounded by people who don’t care about anything. But you— you’re different. You’re smart. You’re ambitious. You’re real. And that scares me, okay? It scares me because I’ve never had someone like you before. And I don’t want to lose you because I’m too scared not being enough.”

She stood there, silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Her gaze softened, the tension in her shoulders releasing as she let out a long breath.

“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly, almost in a whisper. “Scared that I’m not the kind of person you need. I’ve seen how you are around those people— how easy it is for you to just... slip into that world. And I thought, maybe, that’s what you wanted. Someone who can play that game better than I ever could.”

Lando shook his head vehemently. “No. No. I don’t need that. I need you. You’re the one who makes me want to get out of bed every morning, who pushes me to be better. Not some model or influencer with a perfect smile and a million followers. I need someone who knows who they are and isn’t afraid of what the world thinks. And that’s you. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Her lips parted as if she was about to argue, but something in his eyes stopped her. She took a step forward, looking up at him.

“Lando... I don’t know how to make this easier. But I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not. I’ve been so wrapped up in what I think you want, and I forgot what I need. I want us. I just need to figure out how to stop being so damn scared.”

Lando reached for her hand, his voice softer now. “Then let’s figure it out together. No more pretending. No more games. Just us.”

She smiled, the weight lifting off her shoulders. She finally closed the space between them, letting her arms wrap around him.

“I’ve never been good at this,” she murmured, her face buried in his chest. “But I want to try.”

Lando squeezed her tighter. “Me too. I’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means figuring out how to play the long game with you.”

They stood there for a long time, just holding each other. The silence between them felt different now — like they were both finally on the same page, after all the chaos.

And as the city buzzed around them, they finally understood: sometimes, the best relationships weren’t the ones you planned out. They were the messy, complicated ones you couldn’t live without.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x female reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1blr #formula one fanfic #formula one fanfiction #lando norris fanfiction #lando norris x female reader

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floriealis · 2 months ago

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He leans in before thought catches up — cheek to palm, jaw to fingertip — like gravity forgot the rules when it came to her. As if muscle and skin remembered something he hadn’t spoken aloud. Touch as a reflex. Touch as a religion. She is stillness in motion, the calm rotunda of the hurricane, chaos spinning all around them — sure, always — but here? Here, it is quiet. Here, he breathes. “ You kidding? ” Soft, not fragile. This time, he means it. This time, he lets it land. “ You just offered food, a kiss, and a loophole in the labor system. That’s basically the trifecta. ” ( A joke, yes. But reverent, almost. Like naming gods in the dark. ) And he could stop. Should stop. The punchline is hung, the grin ready. But then— she’s looking at him like he’s made of maybe. Like she doesn’t see it. Like she hasn’t felt the way he has mapped her shadows, catalogued the echoing places in her chest where laughter used to live. He sees her. And it’s not poetic. It’s just true.

“ Also, ” he says— thumb brushing her cheek, a blonde filament caught in the curve of her face, “ I’m not exactly in the habit of turning down dinner with the girl who makes everything feel… less heavy. ” Less heavy. Two syllables and a shiver. The word catches, cracks at the edges, like a window that’s held too long against the storm. Because that’s the weight, isn’t it? The slow, unbearable gravity of never being enough, of trying until your hands bleed and still wondering why no one sees you holding the world. But she sees it. Caroline Forbes. Sunshine girl. Steel spine. Miss Everything-in-its-Place. She gets it. That ache behind the mirror. That dread that lives in quiet hallways. They are matching ghosts in different houses. So yeah, he’s in. Dinner. Kisses. Whatever this is, whatever she is offering. He’ll take it all and ask for seconds.

“ I’ll even let you pick the place, ” and now the grin, finally, finally, blooms— because she needs it. Because he needs to give it. “ But only if it’s not that vegan café with the weird kombucha flight. I’m still traumatized by that beet-ginger monstrosity. Pretty sure I met God. He was disappointed in me. ” Fingers find fingers. No ceremony, no fireworks. Just belonging, effortless and exact. Maybe that’s the miracle. Not the kiss. Not the quip. Not even the way she steadies him like a lighthouse. But this. This hand-in-hand. This heartbeat beside another. “ C’mon, baby, ” he murmurs, tugging her into motion, into them, into something real. “ Let’s go be co-dependent and mildly sarcastic somewhere with french fries. ”

of course he made a joke, & she let him. it felt like something she needed, something that eased up on the weight she felt in her heart, made her float instead of sink. & oh god, she was so used to sinking. used to grief & doubt flooding her mind. was she good enough? would she ever be? would anyone ever see her? like really see her? but then stiles came into her life, an easy going smile, but his eyes hid so much more depth. like he knew pain, maybe theirs wasn't the same, but they sang to each other. like a harmony she hadn't found in anyone else - like birds on the first day of spring, returning from their winter journey.

shaking her head with a soft laugh, poking his chest with her index finger. then leaning in, kissing his cheek. "i don't think there's a girlfriend hr, & i mean, can you really complain to human resources if your girlfriend is a vampire?" making a joke back to him, laughing softly as she steals a kiss from his lips this time.

"do you want to grab dinner together tonight? my mom is working," aka: she didn't want to go home to an empty house. she knew that must happen to stiles too - their parents working together, always out on late calls. she wonders if he hates it, or if he just gravitates towards his best friend. does he ever feel like a bother to the world? she did often. but rarely with stiles. maybe it was silly - to think that he liked hanging out with her, but they were dating, so maybe not that silly anyways. tilting her head, moving her hand to his jaw, sliding her finger down his sharp line. "only if you want to hangout, if you've got other plans, that's totally fine."

#WRITINGS: STILES STILINSKI.#LOVERSTHE: CAROLINE FORBES.#Q.#loversthe #how abt he just takes her to dinner instead??

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fandomshatepeopleofcolor · 2 years ago

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Okay, since the Spielberg post blew up, I need to clear up something because I can see in the notes that pple think that Spielberg owns the rights to MLK speeches and I don't want to spread any misinformation. This is what the Vice article says:

In 2009, Steven Spielberg's DreamWorks company paid the estate for film rights to King's words, along with his life rights, which allow a person or company to make content based on an individual's story. DreamWorks has yet to produce or direct Spielberg's planned King biopic, but the rights have caused complications for numerous filmmakers. (Neither Spielberg's literary agent nor King's estate returned Broadly's request for comment.)

This means that while the MLK estate still owns the original copyright for the speeches, Spielberg actually bought and now owns the film rights to MLK's speeches. However, this doesn't erase how problematic it it is since this means that Spielberg is the only filmmaker legally allowed to use MLK's speeches word for word in his films. A White filmmaker is essentially holding onto the film rights, at the expense of Black filmmakers. The article talks about how Ava Duvernay had to write original speeches from scratch for Selma.

King has received only one major biopic, 2014's Selma, directed by Ava DuVernay [...] Instead of using King's speeches, DuVernay wrote original monologues that sounded like soliloquies the civil rights leader could have given. [...] When asked about the changes in 2014, DuVernay told the Washington Post, "We knew those rights are already gone. They're with Spielberg."

The article also mentioned that Spielberg bought life rights and according to this Forbes article, this means that Spielberg also bought the rights to MLK's life.

By paying the Estate for the film rights to Dr. King's speeches along with life rights, Spielberg obtained unprecedented filmmaking access to Dr. King’s life — supported by Dr. King’s extraordinary intellectual property (the right to use Dr. King’s actual words.)

Hope this clarifies everything!

- mod sodapop

#mod sodapop #steven spielberg #martin luther king jr #hollywood

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flawssy-227 · 17 days ago

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Day Dreaming | Harry Castillo x female reader

harry castillo x (bartender) f!reader

summary: harry is your bar regular, reeling after his breakup with Lucy, you two form an unlikely bond.

tags: 18+, female reader, always write for woc in mind, but there are no descriptions so everyone is welcome to read. unspecified age gap, classism, alcohol consumption, kissing

a/n: I can't wait for this movie omg -- loosely inspired by the best song ever, day dreaming by Aretha Franklin.

w/c: ~2700

“Your man is back again.”

You were just in the middle of making yet another old fashioned, a staple amongst the finance bros who frequented your workplace, when you looked up to see Harry Castillo gliding into the empty stool at the far end of the bar.

He had become a staple during your shifts for the last eight weeks or so, one Susan, your coworker, annoyingly loved to point out.

“Not my man,” you replied, but you couldn’t keep the smile off your face when you made eye contact. You handed the now complete old fashioned to a very inebriated man wearing a Morgan Stanley vest. He would be cute if you had eyes for anybody else.

You made your way down to Harry’s side of the bar, Susan giving you a nod of acknowledgement that you knew meant she would manage the rest of the patrons while you caught up with Harry. She was annoying as hell, but you had to admit she was one heck of a wingwoman.

The smile he gave you changed his entire demeanor. His default setting was shrewd businessman, scowling at those who tried to get too close. But with those who he tolerated, maybe even liked, he offered warm, wide smiles that spread across his face and brought life to his big, brown eyes. It made your heart catch to be on the receiving end of one of those smiles.

“Three times in one week,” you grinned at him. “What a lucky girl I am.”

“Sometimes you gotta make your own luck,” he responded. You had half a mind to question what he meant by that, but the wink he shot you succinctly short circuited your brain. This man was too cute.

You cleared your throat, trying to suppress the heat that was spreading across your face. “You want your usual?”

Harry feigned thoughtfulness, but you rolled your eyes, knowing he only ever ordered your old fashioneds.

“Don’t know why I bothered asking.”

You got to work, peeling an orange, muddling a dark cherry and sugar cube when he broke the silence: “What time are you off tonight?”

“12. I always close on Fridays.”

Harry just hums at that, patiently waiting for you to finish making his drink. When you're done and he takes his first sip, the moan he releases at the taste is absolutely sinful.

“Been waiting all day for this.” He leans back in the seat and takes an appreciative look at you.

The way he was looking you over was making you feel incredibly heated. Big brown eyes scanning you up and down. You did the same, noting the way his dark brown sweater fit his shoulders perfectly. With the hours he worked, you wondered if he made time for a personal trainer and was just naturally built. He looks healthier now than he did a few weeks ago.

When you first met Harry, he was a man healing from a brutal breakup.

“She completely blindsided me,” he had told you one night when you had definitely overserved him.

This big businessman who had been on the cover of Forbes three times in the past decade was crying to you about some matchmaker who broke his heart. It was… disarming, to say the least. You shared your own brutal breakup story with him and before you knew it, you were fast friends. It didn’t hurt that he frequently left you crisp $100 bills as a tip. Some of your other regulars would murmur about how the Harry Castillo was so close to them; you had to Google him.

And now, Harry was energetic, light even, seemingly over his heartbreak and back to being the heartbreaker himself. It was nice to see.

Two hours later, you and Susan were closing up, cashing out checks and collecting abandoned glasses. It wasn’t lost on Susan that Harry was still there, patiently sitting at the bar and responding to emails idly on his phone, glancing up at you and throwing a heart pounding grin your way when he caught you staring.

“We’re closed now, Harry,” Susan stated over the roar of the dishwasher, a cheeky smile on her face. “If you’re gonna stay here, you gotta make yourself useful.”

Harry stood up from his seat and you figured he was tired of Susan’s light ribbing. This man was an old money, multi millionaire in private equity—he didn’t need to take shit from some random bartender. You were about to tell her to lay off, if not for the fact you were harboring a tiny crush on Harry, at least for the sake of his incredibly generous tips, when he grabbed a serving tray and started collecting miscellaneous glasses from around the room. Your jaw dropped.

“Holy shit,” Susan muttered.

Harry didn’t even turn to look back at you, he just kept bussing your tables like it was second nature. “Are you two gonna help or make me do all the work?”

Harry wasn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart, of course. He tried to recall a summer in the early 90s where he helped buss tables at his godfather’s restaurant. His dad told him it’d help build his character, something about not relying on nepotism alone to become a success.

In truth, Harry was helping you both close down the bar for purely selfish reasons. He wasn’t sure when exactly he stopped reeling over Lucy and you began consuming all his thoughts. He had thought about putting some distance between you both, maybe skipping the bar a bit more. He forced himself to stay away on Thursday after seeing you already twice this week, but during work on Friday, in meetings he should have been more present in, it was only you that was on his mind. He worked late, finishing up all the things his workaholic self would have done to fill up his Saturday, knowing that tonight, he was going to take things with you to the next level.

He didn’t have anything specific in mind—maybe dinner at that 24 hour diner he used to frequent when he was at Columbia for grad school or perhaps he could convince you to grab breakfast with him tomorrow morning. Hell, if you at least gave him your number he would walk away from tonight happy as a clam.

It was almost 1 AM when you finished cleaning. Typically by now you would be dead tired, aching all over but with Harry still hanging around, the promise of something new gave you an extra burst of energy. You kept catching his eye, unable to stop the smile on your face when you did.

“Alright kids,” Susan started, an easy smile on her face when she looked at the bashful looks you two were giving each other. “Let’s get outta here.”

She locked the doors, gave you both a wave and a wink before she headed to the subway. The silence was slightly awkward. After an entire evening of him drinking at the bar and helping you clean with an ease that made it seem like he had always been there to help you, he was quiet, lost in thought. Men are all the same, you thought to yourself. He was being too quiet, too pensive, and you weren’t sure if you should try to extend the evening or just call it a night. Before you could make a real decision, Harry finally speaks up:

“Wanna take a walk?”

And yes, you really do.

You don’t have much of a destination in mind, your apartment is on the other end of the island and you’re certain Harry has a driver on standby somewhere, but right now, in the middle of the night in Lower Manhattan, he’s light on his feet and ready to spend the rest of the night walking 60 blocks with you.

Harry’s equally surprised at how giggly you are this late. He knows he’s tired, but just being near you seems to recharge his soul. The conversation is too easy, easier than it ever was with Lucy and he’s punching himself a bit at being so hung up on her for so long. He wants to take you to dinner, he decides. Somewhere nice and comfortable, no tasting menu nonsense that still leaves you hungry even after 12 courses. He’s just about to ask you what night works best for you when the loud rumble of your stomach breaks up the conversation. You want to be embarrassed, but Harry just smiles at you and laughs.

“C’mon sweetheart. Let’s get you something to eat.”

The idea of a meal with Harry is enough to light up your eyes, but then your attention shifts to something just behind him. He blinks and you’re running past him, approaching a hotdog vendor. If he’s being honest, the idea of a New York City hotdog makes his stomach curdle, probably something to do with the expensive palate he’s been developing for the past two decades. But he’s helpless when you look at him with those bright eyes of yours and big smile.

“This is the best hotdog vendor below Canal street,” you tell him.

He buys two without thinking too hard.

Once you get to Tribeca, he offers you a sheepish smile and tells you his building is just a little ways away. “Nightcap?” he asks you.

He looks far too earnest for you to turn down, so you follow him to his building. The white-gloved doorman gives you a nod.

“This is where you live?” The $12 million apartment is even more grand than you imagined when you took the private elevator up. “Harry, this is…”

“Too much isn’t it?” He takes an appraising look around, clearly not phased by the size. “Figured one day I would grow into it. Get the wife and kids and annoying little dog, but…” he trailed off and looked at you. Your heart fluttered at the sight. He wants to tell you to move in, that you belong here in his oversized space. He’s certain you would make it a home and less cold to walk into after another long day filled with pointless meetings. He thinks better of it when he remembers he doesn’t even have your phone number.

Patience, Harry.

He pours two glasses of a Bordeaux he picked up in France last winter at some investment conference while you make yourself at home on his sofa. You fall into a comfortable silence, letting yourself enjoy the wine and being so close to Harry. It’s so different from being with him at work, where you’re serving him and separated by the heavy wood of the bar. Here, you’re a guest in his pristine home, not at all ashamed to still be wearing your soiled work uniform on a couch that probably costs two months rent, at least. Harry would not shame you for being working class, so you don’t shame yourself. When you turn to look at him, he’s already there, watching you.

“Harry,” you sigh, “I don’t usually go home with guys I barely know.”

“I think you know me well enough,” he responds. “Plus, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

Harry also wasn’t the type to bring women he barely knew back to his palace, but there was just something about you. He couldn’t get you out of his head. You, with your perfect face and perfectly imperfect smile. You ran through his mind all day.

“It feels… I don’t know, different with you.” It’s the first time you’ve seen him look so bashful.

“I get what you mean,” you tell him with a nod. “It feels like I’ve known you, really known you, for a lot longer than I have.”

He understands what you’re saying. It goes beyond some rich guy who tips you well without being creepy. There’s a pull, some sort of magnetism that brought you together.

“You know, I walked past that bar every day for the past two years and never went in.” You just look at him, soft, glossy eyes peering into his own. “I was a little depressed.”

You laugh at that, because you knew. You had seen him sallow and worn down for weeks. But there was still always something bright about him even when he looked so sad.

“And the day I finally decided to come in, it was because I saw you from my office.”

You gasp at that. “Really?”

He hums in acknowledgement and grabs your hand that isn’t holding the wine glass. “It had just stopped raining, and the sun was shining like a spotlight right in front of the doors. I looked down, and you were there, just basking in the sun like it was the first time you had seen it all winter. And I swear, it kickstarted my heart.”

You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to say something vile or vulgar and take you out of the moment. After years of being single and dating in New York, you had determined there were no earnest men left in the city. Surely no one like Harry, but here he was, laying his heart on the line for you.

“I was heartbroken and you saved me, by just being you.” Like a beacon of hope, Harry was drawn to you day in and day out for weeks. With each passing conversation, you chipped away at the ice in his heart, what had formed in a protective shell since everything happened with his ex. He was oddly grateful for her now, the way she had abandoned him, devastated him. He would have settled down with her and been happy enough, but because she was who she was, and she did what she did, he got to meet you.

“I don’t want to rush into things,” he told you, still tittling with your fingers. “But I really do care for you and I think, with time, we can have something special.”

You were at a loss for words. You liked Harry, but you figured he brought you here for a fun night or short fling, not to explore something serious with you. Perhaps you were classist, holding on to some archaic view of dating politics in high society, but it was clear, that was the furthest thing from his mind.

You decided to wear your heart on your sleeve, just like Harry. “I really like you, too.”

He didn’t say anything, but the slight brightening in his eyes told you everything. He grabbed your wine glass and set it down on the coffee table. He moved closer to you and let his thumb run across your jaw. You leaned into his touch and let your lips ghost over his.

Harry was all consuming, ravishing your lips like he’d been waiting to kiss you for years. In a way, he had been. Constantly waiting to find the right woman, waiting to feel actual sparks when his lips met someone else’s. Waiting for the butterflies, the fireworks, the chills, and whatever else the romance movies he’d watched as a young man portrayed. He was so close to writing them off, categorizing them as the fiction they were, but you, you had proven them truthful.

You hadn’t had a makeout session in years, never enjoying a kiss as much as you were right now. Kissing Harry Castillo. His lips, his hands, his scent. You were surrounded, drowning in the best way possible, all because of him. You touched his hair, his neck, his chest. You unbuttoned his shirt and moved your hands lower, lower, until he grabbed them and separated from your lips. His breath was heaving and he let his forehead rest against your own.

“Wanna go to bed?” he asked you.

You squeaked out a quiet yes and let him lead you to yet another magnificent room. Wood and earthy tones consumed the space but you didn’t get the best look as Harry pulled your body back into his. You fit perfectly, you decided. A missing puzzle piece that slid into the side of his body, your head resting neatly on his shoulder.

“Can we take things slow?” you questioned, looking into his mocha colored eyes. “I just want to lay here, with you.”

“Of course, baby. We can do whatever you want.”

And you knew that he meant it.

#fic: day dreaming #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo #harry castillo x woc!reader #harry castillo x black!reader #the materialists fic #harry castillo the materialists #harry castillo fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction

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kingkat12 · 29 days ago

Text

OCD; obsessive cunt disorder (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: sex toys, vibrators, exhibitionism, voyeurism, humiliation, OCD freak-out, banter, fluff, degradation, overstimulation, slight clit-torture ig, I want to have lunch with this asshole too pls

summary: Mr. Godfrey has invited you to lunch-- you best believe it won't be a normal one

word count: 10,331

← previous chapter |

a/n: FORBES NOSE ALERT ON THIS GIF... but ok phew I love this man and this chapter was written on a ten-hour writing session this Wednesday because I'm obviously either ovulating or going crazy, so ENJOY<333 think this gif is from @godfreysteel btw!!

When Mr. Godfrey sent me an email telling me to join him for lunch, I nearly choked to death-- literally.

I coughed and harked as I crouched over my desk, wondering whether I was choking on my left lung or all the excitement my body had managed to muster. With tears in my eyes from the restricted air flow, hoping my face hadn't turned bright red, I grabbed the weekly report he had asked for earlier and made my way to the top floor.

Mr. Godfrey didn't eat with the rest of us lowlives, no-- he had his own private lounge for that. I had only been inside there once to tell him that one of his business partners had arrived earlier than expected, and that had been one of my most nerve-wracking moments of working at Godfrey Industries to this day.

The only way I could describe his private lounge was sterile. Typical him, really.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I bit down on a smile and entered with careful steps; there was no way in hell I'd trip over in my Louboutins now.

Seated at the marble table by the floor-to-ceiling window, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes skimmed the pages of what looked like The New Yorker. Of course-- he wouldn't be caught dead reading anything less pretentious. With a comfortable manspread and a glass of cucumber water in front of him, untouched, the plate beside it sat the most sterile meal I'd ever seen; a few folded, pale slices of poached chicken breast, cut into perfect, rectangular portions.

Even his fucking food seemed like something taken out of OCD-heaven.

I hovered by the door, clutching the report like it might protect me. My heels made no sound on the marble, but I felt loud, clumsy, human. "Sir?" I called out. Had he maybe not noticed me?

This was my first mistake-- Mr. Godfrey noticed everything. He had even warned me himself, a few weeks ago. He simply hummed; "You're late,"

"No, sir," I whispered back, clenching my jaw to ensure my smile wouldn't slip. "I'm not." Our typical dance.

Mr. Godfrey glanced up, and in that split-second, I remembered why I still worked at this hell-hole.

His brown hair was immaculately swept back, making his shadowed cheekbones visible. He was wearing all black, naturally-- something told me this was a new suit, even more expensive than the last one. His green eyes didn't look at me so much as diagnose me, probably wondering what the heck was wrong with me to dare to talk back to him like that, until something in them shimmered-- I knew that deep down, I amused him more than anything. He gestured to the chair opposite him; "Sit," he said.

But just as I was about to move away from the door, Mr. Godfrey allowed himself a smirk as he delivered the final blow; "Unless... you're still sore, of course,"

My eyes widened just a bit-- I should've known that this wasn't going to be a normal lunch. Trying to calm down my jumping heart, I let out a tiny scoff, shaking my head as I approached his table with composed elegance-- I wasn't going to let him get that one so easily.

However, as I sat down, I had to bite down on the tip of my tongue to not wince. Sure, fine, I was a bit sore. After how he put me over his knee and spanked me last evening, that was to be expected, right? Something told me that Mr. Godfrey enjoyed the way my eye twitched as I shifted to make myself comfortable, and he chewed his next bite with that cocky grin he didn't manage to wipe off his face.

To relieve some of the stinging on my left side, I crossed my legs-- simply for relief, nothing more. Nothing more, nothing more. Clearing my throat, I placed the folder on the table; "So, I brought you the weekly report, but only for you to review it. Are you happy with the forged signature, sir? I wouldn't want anyone to get suspicious, and--"

"You're not, then?"

My brows drew together as I watched Mr. Godfrey's green eyes, the unmistakable evil glee shining through more blatantly obvious than ever. Did he not care to hide it anymore, or was I just getting used to his small quirks? "Sir?"

Mr. Godfrey shrugged, cutting up his next bite without breaking eye contact; "You're not sore?"

... Fuck.

My breath got stuck in my chest-- it didn't move. I stared back at him, blinking once, twice. "And what answer would please you, sir?"

"That's not relevant," he replied, short. "Although I'm flattered that you're eager to please."

I so dearly hoped I wasn't blushing. "It's not that bad,"

"It's not?"

"It's bearable," I mumbled, shifting in my seat as I now avoided his gaze, fidgeting with the weekly report.

Mr. Godfrey didn't respond right away. He tilted his head just slightly, and I felt his eyes track the way I moved, how I adjusted my weight, how I sat a little higher on my right hip-- I could practically hear him cataloging it in that freaky mind of his.

"Right," He speared another perfect slice of chicken with his fork, but didn't eat it right away. "That's disappointing."

I blinked. "Pardon?"

Mr. Godfrey finally brought the fork to his mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully, like he was tasting more than just the food. His green eyes never left mine; "I thought you knew better than to lie to me by now," he said, setting the utensil down with a quiet, final sound. "Bearable isn't honest. Bearable is what people say when they're trying not to cry."

My lips parted, and I had to force myself to speak. "But sir, I--"

"Are you perhaps about to cry?"

"No!"

He leaned back in his chair, appraising me with a clinical interest, like he had found a new setting on a machine and was waiting to see what it would do. At the same time, his gaze narrowed like he was waiting for me to crack; "Then specify,"

I wanted to throw the weekly report at him, yet I knew I had to collect myself. Taking a deep breath, uncrossing my legs, therefore applying pressure on that exact spot on my ass that still made my thigh twitch with stinging soreness, I allowed myself to wince out loud; with my eyes burning into Mr. Godfrey's, I managed a smile, staring back at him through the sharp pain that was slowly subsiding; "You could do worse,"

And then, there it was-- as though I had unlocked a new level on a video game, or slipped the right key into an unknown door, the hinges came undone. Mr. Godfrey was now smiling back, no mask to cover his intent. There was an unfiltered joy to him now, like a sigh. He put his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers; "Are you hungry?" came his response.

This made me feel warm. Way too warm, way too comfortable. With my fingertips buzzing with excitement, I nodded. "I can go take lunch and come back, sir?--"

"Nonsense," With utmost elegance, Mr. Godfrey leaned back in his chair, motioning for someone to come. I would've thought he was asking for a bill or something, hadn't what looked like a chef appeared through the door within the blink of an eye. Where had he come from? Stumped, I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, immediately wincing under my breath.

Mr. Godfrey motioned toward the chef, his nostrils flaring for a brief second at the sound of my pain; "Martin here will make you whatever you want," he said, charming as ever.

"Oh," I breathed, smiling shyly up at Martin. He seemed nice, after all, but I wondered if he could sense how out-of-place I felt. "I don't-- I don't know, I--"

"Come on, now," Mr. Godfrey sat back, watching me like I was a contestant getting grilled on X-Factor for entertainment. "Don't be shy."

I swallowed. This must be the perk of being filthy rich, right? Private chef, private lounge, private secretary.

Just as I finished ordering a salad and a cup of tea, letting out a small breath of relief when Martin left the room, I kept watching Mr. Godfrey and wondering when he would switch back to being the CEO I knew.

But... he didn't.

He didn't lean back, didn't reach for his glass, didn't even blink.

Instead, he studied me. His elbows still rested on the edge of the table, fingers laced together like he was listening to a confession only he was smart enough to understand. His black suit, tailored to his every inch, cut a sharp silhouette against the backdrop outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The warm sunlight hit the side of his face, and for a second, he didn't look real-- when did he ever, though? Gorgeous, gorgeous man.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes were clearer than I'd ever seen them, glittering like a well-polished scalpel; focused, intrigued, and almost soft.

Almost.

"There's something else," he suddenly said.

Oh. "Sir?"

Mr. Godfrey tilted his head slightly, and his lips (that were so unreasonably pink for someone with so little softness in him) curved with a hint of satisfaction. "You've proven yourself rather... resilient," Then, he paused, the weight of that word hanging-- "And you seemed to like your last present, so I have another one for you."

I blinked again, slower this time, as I bit down on a sheepish smile. "You didn't have to,"

What kind of present had he gotten me? Was it more lingerie? Maybe another set of Louboutins? Oh, I'd certainly like that. I tried to push away all the occurring questions on whether this was actually some form of prostitution, sex acts for gifts, as Mr. Godfrey reached beneath the table. His movements were smooth, measured in the way men who don't rush for anyone tend to be-- from below the gleaming marble, he produced a small black box. No label. No ribbon. Just a clean square, matte and elegant, like it had been made by a brand that didn't need to announce itself.

My heart immediately kicked into my ribs. This box was small. What could this be? Some stupid part of me sort of hoped it would be an engagement ring, and that he would now get down on his knees and profess his never-dying love for me!--

... Christ, I needed to grow up.

Mr. Godfrey placed it in front of me, the soft scrape of the box against the table becoming the only sound in the room. Immediately, I felt my body reacting; hips pressed tighter against the chair, thighs subtly tensing, breath caught somewhere just behind my collarbone, I finally reached for the black box, allowing a soft, grateful smile to show before I slowly opened it like it might detonate.

Inside, cradled in black velvet, was a...

My jaw clamped down on the gasp that nearly escaped me. Oh my God.

With round, wide eyes, I stared down at the sleek, red vibrator in the box. It wasn't too big, and it was flat-- I hadn't seen one like this before. I used to have a different vibrator when I was eighteen, maybe even seventeen, but that was more of a clit-sucker than anything. This one curved upward just slightly, and it had a smooth, satin finish; this was some sort of new tech, wasn't it? How did this even work?

Just as I dared to look up and meet Mr. Godfrey's burning gaze, I spotted the way he smoothly caught the oblong remote he had hidden up his sleeve. He stared back at me with that boyish charm he wore the first time I met him, like he was testing a hypothesis he knew would be correct. "I thought you'd appreciate something a little less... taxing, this time around," he murmured, tasting his words. "And something to make up for last time, hm?"

For the time he spanked me raw? Christ.

I kept staring at my boss-- his white shirt clung to his frame with obscene elegance. Slim collar. Two buttons undone. Enough to glimpse a sliver of chest, smooth and pale and maddeningly inaccessible. He wore power like other men wore watches; effortless, ingrained, and expected. Mr. Godfrey was so, so beautiful that it made me stupid. I certainly felt stupid right now, gawking at the brand new device in front of me-- had this model even hit the market yet?

My fingers twitched against the edge of the box. I couldn't even bring myself to touch it-- not yet. My cheeks burned, and something impossibly hot coiled low in my stomach, like the idea of him thinking of me, this version of me, flipped a switch to something supple in me that I had long suppressed.

I was still staring at the vibrator when he spoke again, voice pitched low; "It's custom," Mr. Godfrey said. "Quiet. Discreet. More powerful than it looks." His long fingers gripped the remote loosely, like a predator toying with the leash of something small and caged. "And you're looking at me like I've just confessed to dropping the bomb on Hiroshima, so I suggest you start speaking."

Eager to please, I straightened up in my seat again, only to be met with the stinging of my backside once more; with yet another low hiss, I allowed my intrigue to spread across my lips. "And I put this...?"

"In your underwear,"

"Ah," I felt myself clenching around nothing; I must've gotten aroused in record time, no? "And what you have right there is the?--"

"Remote, yes,"

Letting out a breathy, anxious giggle, I allowed my fingers to trace the smooth surface of the vibrator. "Where's the catch?"

At that, Mr. Godfrey actually laughed. It was a warm sound, low and real, like it came from deep inside his chest, and somehow that was worse than any reprimand. "There's no catch," he said. "See it as a... reward."

"For?"

"Taking your punishment," Then, slowly, Mr. Godfrey placed the remote down on his side of the table. His fingers tapped against it once, casually, like a man resting his hand on a loaded weapon. "So, if you could go on and put it in that little pocket in your underwear, I'd appreciate that. I don't have all day, so I suggest you use my time wisely."

How the fuck did Mr. Godfrey know about that pocket?! How familiar was he with women's underwear...? Damn him. My breath caught somewhere in my throat, and for a second, I just stared at him; not in horror, but with that strange, weightless sensation of realizing I was about to do this in front of his lunch. "You're serious," I whispered, and it didn't come out like a question.

"I'm always serious," he said, voice like velvet dragged over a blade, humoured. "You said it yourself once, I'm a very serious man. Serious man with a serious business. Can't get more serious than this."

Yeah right, asshole. My hand moved before my thoughts could catch up; I picked up the vibrator, but I hesitated for a second-- then, subtly, I slid my hand under the hem of my skirt, avoiding Mr. Godfrey's gaze as my cheeks started to burn.

I adjusted slightly, trying not to wince as the bruises from earlier flared up again with my every move. With ease, I slipped the vibrator neatly into place, nestled in that stupid secret pocket that was supposed to be a damn secret. It fit perfectly, clearly made for this exact space and use.

I looked up, my breath choppy, eager to please.

Mr. Godfrey hadn't moved. His gaze followed every twitch in my expression as his fingers tapped against the remote, waiting for the fog in my brain to clear.

Swallowing over and over, I tried to sit normally again, like I hadn't just tucked a goddamn vibrator into my panties at lunch. "There," I said, my voice soft. "Like this?"

For a moment, Mr. Godfrey didn't answer. Then, the corners of his mouth lifted, slow and decadent. He reached for the remote-- not to hand it to me, not to pocket it, but to turn it on.

The effect was immediate; a sudden, quiet hum bloomed low between my legs, like being struck by a breath of heat and static all at once. My thighs snapped together under the table, breath punching out of my lungs with an involuntary stutter-- the pleasure was unexpected.

"There you go," Mr. Godfrey murmured. "We'll go with the lowest setting for now."

I glared at him, lips slightly parted, trying not to squirm; I loved how this reduced me to the state of a cat in heat, but was I about to show it so easily? Fuck no.

"Sit still," he added, with a quiet authority that pinned me to the chair harder than gravity ever could. "If you want to prove that you're obedient, then you're going to sit still, eat lunch with me like a professional, and keep quiet. Those are the rules."

"This is crazy," I whispered, throat dry.

He smiled wider, teeth just barely visible. "We've done worse," Then he took a sip of his wine, calm and composed, like he hadn't just weaponized my own underwear against me. "If you fail to follow the rules, I'll make sure those pretty eyes of yours tear up every time you sit down. Have I made myself clear?"

My... pretty eyes?

"Yes," I said, feeling my heart swell.

"Good," Mr. Godfrey leaned back in his chair like this was a perfectly normal business lunch, not mentioning his little slip-up. Had he even noticed that he said that? Had he intended to call my eyes pretty? I doubted it.

I tried to mimic his composure, tried not to fidget, but it deemed itself harder than expected. The hum between my thighs was subtle but torturous, just enough to distract me, to keep my focus needle-fine and shaky-- I hadn't expected the shape of the vibrator to be so effective. It somehow managed to cup my whole mound, yet the curved tip of it pressed into my clit with the utmost delicious of pressures; if I could, I'd start rocking into it, but I knew that could leave me in a much worse situation.

Mr. Godfrey picked up his wineglass and took a sip, slow and elegant. The weight of his attention hovered just above my skin-- watching, waiting. "You've gone quiet," he pointed out.

"I'm just-- trying," I muttered, breath catching. "To follow your rules, sir."

A smile ghosted across his lips; "And how's that working out for you?"

"It's... difficult,"

"Good,"

I squirmed just slightly, but that was all it took for the vibrator to shift, sending another warm, taunting wave through my core. Now, it pressed just a tiny bit harder against my clit, and I inhaled sharply and tried not to make a sound; this felt so good. So, so good. "Thank you, sir," I breathed.

"Oh, you're thanking me now?"

"It feels-- nice,"

"Bet it does," Mr. Godfrey cooed, taking another bite of his food. Putting the cutlery down with a hum, and with practiced ease, he palmed the remote as though debating whether to turn it up a level or not. I held my breath, watching him in anticipation as I felt my underwear grow damp.

He tilted his head to the side, watching me. "What? You want more already?"

I didn't utter a word-- I was too scared to say the wrong thing.

Mr. Godfrey's grin remained; "Posture," he said softly. "Straighten your back, shoulders down, and I'll think about it."

I obeyed without thinking, like a string had been pulled somewhere behind my spine; I didn't care about the ache in my behind anymore. My hands came to rest neatly on the table, and I could feel my heartbeat everywhere at once as my skin prickled and my stomach coiled. The low pressure of the vibrator against my clit wasn't enough anymore-- I had to do everything in my power not to start grinding on it to get more friction.

Then, Mr. Godfrey picked the remote up properly, as though to study it. I wondered whether he heard the way my breath caught with hope. "I think this has different settings too," he pondered out loud. "Let me see... What happens if I do this?"

With a soft click of the remote, the steady vibrations I'd had on my clit changed-- the pattern changed. Now, it was as though the vibration came in wavy motions, starting from the bottom of the surface until it moved to the tip, like I was being licked. I gasped softly, and bit down on the inside of my cheek; this was some really high-tech shit. My thighs snapped together beneath the table, pressing harder now, as heat pooled between them so fast that it was almost cruel.

Mr. Godfrey's voice was steady, completely unmoved, as his voice rung as a reminder; "Still the lowest setting,"

"You're insane," I whispered, cheeks flaming. "This is-- this is evil."

He lifted his brows in mock innocence; "No. This is lunch,"

"Fucking-- fuck,"

With another hum, Mr. Godfrey's thumb hovered over the button again with faux innocence; "Now I'm getting intrigued, though. What else does it do?"

Click.

My hand shot to the edge of the table, fingers gripping the smooth wood. My breath came out short, sharp, as the pattern changed again-- this was more of an on-and-off motion that nearly had me jolting in my seat. This one made it feel like my clit was getting flicked, and I wasn't the biggest fan. "Sir," I tried. "I-- I think the first one was best."

Mr. Godfrey's eyes wandered between the remote and me, scanning the burning pink hues of my cheeks. "I see," he said. "I'll keep that in mind for the future."

To my relief, he clicked something that reset it and put it back to that wonderful, toe-curling pressure on my clit. "Thank you-- Thank you, sir,"

He hummed; "You've caught me in a good mood,"

And just as Mr. Godfrey leaned forward to pick up his wineglass, there was a polite knock at the door-- three soft taps, barely a warning before the door swung open. My heart stopped in my chest, and I widened my eyes to signalize him to turn it off.

But... Mr. Godfrey's grin widened. Oh no.

His darkening green eyes dropped lazily to the table, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he slipped the remote back beneath his sleeve, hiding it like a magician about to perform a trick no one else would notice.

Oh no, no, no, no.

As if on cue, the chef stepped in, carrying a tray in one hand and a wide, distracted smile on his face. "Apologies for the wait, Mr. Godfrey," he said, making a beeline for the table. "The rest of the staff have taken to lunch, so it took a bit longer than usual."

Mr. Godfrey hummed in response, noncommittal. His eyes tracked the way I stiffened as the vibrator continued buzzing quietly between my legs, an unholy pulse I had no control over. My cheeks were burning with humiliation, nearly worrying myself into cardiac arrest over whether the chef could hear the damn vibrator I had against my clit.

"That's fine, Martin," Mr. Godfrey said, absentmindedly waving with the same arm that had the remote. "We won't need anything else, so you're free to take lunch after this." And just as he put his hand down, his eyes seared into mine as he tapped once against the underside of his sleeve.

I buried my mouth in the palm of my hand as the vibrations got stronger, having been upped a notch. I tried to focus on the tea that was placed to the side of me, followed by the salad, yet I could only think about how nicely the curve of the vibrator pushed up on my clit, the harder buzz now making it jump just slightly at the surprise. I felt myself pulse as I locked eyes with Mr. Godfrey, silently pleading with him to turn it off with the chef still present.

Chef Martin straightened up, announcing the ingredients of my salad like any professional cook would-- however, I could only focus on trying not to squirm. It was nearly impossible to fight the urge to grind down against the vibrator now, and I was holding on by a small thread. The chef's voice drowned out as I tried to keep my face composed, tried to ignore the growing tension in my lower abdomen, and the steady rhythm teasing the edge of the unbearable. My palms were flat against my thighs under the table now, nails biting into the fabric of my skirt.

"Thank you," Mr. Godfrey finally said, glancing briefly at chef before waving him away like royalty.

But instead, Martin paused, sensing something strange; "Do you hear that too, sir?" he asked. "It's like a... small buzzing sound of sorts?"

No.

No, no, no!

This was the moment to faint, wasn't it? I genuinely felt like I was about to die from how mortified I was, yet... that feeling of shame made the vibrations feel even stronger. God, I was a freak, wasn't I? I felt myself trying to fight how much wetter I suddenly was, like clenching my walls would make it stop seeping out of me, but nothing helped. Instead, with all the willpower I had left in my body, I mustered the courage to draw my brows together and blink at Mr. Godfrey like I had no idea what Martin was talking about. "I'm-- I'm not sure I hear it, actually," I said. "It might be the vents?"

Mr. Godfrey sat back in his chair, mouth twitching in delight. It felt as though we were speaking our own little language that no one but us could understand, and certainly not the chef; then, to put the icing on the cake, Mr. Godfrey pressed his wrist against the edge of the table again, turning the vibrator up one more notch.

I held back a hitch of my breath and the urge to squeeze my eyes shut as Mr. Godfrey spoke; "It might be the construction, actually," he explained to Martin, voice smooth as ever as he turned to the chef with an apologetic look. "They're remodelling the offices right above this room. Don't pay it any mind."

With an awkward nod, Martin seemed to accept that as a plausible explanation. "Right," he mumbled. "Enjoy your food."

When he finally stepped out, with the door clicking shut behind him, I let out a sigh of relief as I buried my elbows into the table and hid my face in my hands. Hopefully, that had suppressed the soft moan that escaped me, finally coming out after holding it in.

Mr. Godfrey could only chuckle, slipping the remote from under his wrist. Then, he reached for his fork as though nothing had ever happened-- fucker.

My heart hammered in my chest as I bit down on all the noises I wanted to make, but I allowed my lips to part and my eyes to shut. This felt way too damn good, and I couldn't stop myself anymore-- my hips bucked softly against the vibrator in my underwear, grinding my clit against the buzzing sensation with slow, repeated motions. The pressure was near perfection, now.

Mr. Godfrey's eyes scoured me; "Eat," he ordered. "You'll need the energy."

My eyes snapped to his. "For what?"

His fork paused in mid-air. "Endurance,"

... Fuck.

I picked up my utensils with trembling hands, trying to keep my face composed as I dug into my salad. The vibration pulsed on, rolling my clit gently but consistently, like he'd tuned it to the rhythm of a ticking clock. I brought the first bite to my mouth, chewing carefully, trying not to hum or moan.

"You're doing very well," Mr. Godfrey murmured between bites, not even bothering to look up. "Most women wouldn't have lasted this long."

That made me pause mid-chew. I swallowed, feeling my heart drop; "You've-- You've done this before?"

"Of course I have," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

My breath caught. Had he done this with his previous secretary too? The one with the odd tear in her skirt, the one who was now suing him? I shifted slightly in my seat, and immediately regretted it-- the pressure was worse now, the angle crueler, somehow more precise. My hand darted to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.

Mr. Godfrey set down his silverware and leaned back in his chair with that infuriating calm, tilting his head to watch me with something dangerously close to fondness. "I think I'll turn it up a notch," he purred, picking up the remote again.

My eyes widened; "Sir, wait, please!--"

Click.

My hips jolted forward before I could stop them, an involuntary movement so stark I nearly knocked over my damn tea. The sound I made wasn't a moan, but it wasn't exactly a dignified noise either.

Mr. Godfrey smiled, serene; "You can take it. Just breathe,"

Well... All I could do was breathe deeper to keep from crying out, praying the chef didn't come back in. I wanted to snark, wanted to snap back at him, but I didn't dare to. The fourth level was too much; this notch was overstimulating to the point of pain.

He let me suffer like that for another twenty seconds (longer than any reasonable person would ever call funny) and then, at last, blessed relief; a click sounded, and the vibration dropped back down to something bearable, something I could manage, even if my thighs still shook and my face burned hotter than the fucking sun.

I exhaled through my nose, my whole body trembling like a tuning fork. "You're a sadist,"

Mr. Godfrey raised an eyebrow as he dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. "And I bet you're very, very wet,"

Oh my god.

"Oh my god," I echoed aloud, too stricken to filter it. My entire body tensed like I'd just been caught naked in a church. "That's-- Jeez, that's just not something you say at lunch."

"But it's true," His gaze dipped to my plate; "Eat."

Somehow, I lifted my fork again. My fingers barely worked, but I managed another bite-- lettuce, maybe cucumber, who knew? Anything to distract from the low, steady hum between my legs and the flush of embarrassment flooding my whole body. "Sir," I breathed, pressing my legs together to press the vibrator closer to my clit-- God, my thighs felt sticky. "What if I'm-- What if I get close?"

"Are you?" he asked, conversationally, as though discussing the weather, while he folded the newspaper in front of him and placed it on the edge of the table.

"... No," Liar, liar, pants on fire. My fingers tightened around my fork as the vibrator buzzed away, relentless and patient with my poor clit. "Just clearing up the-- the rules."

Exactly-- Just clearing them up. Not that I had any say in the rules, anyway.

I watched as Mr. Godfrey dismissed my question and absentmindedly tilted his head sideways to read the headline of the newspaper, as though something suddenly grabbed his attention and he regretted folding it.

He continued eating like everything was fine-- but if he was going to act like this was completely normal, maybe it was time for me to try as well?

My throat felt tight as I reached for my tea. The mug was still hot, a small comfort in the storm of sensations uncoiling beneath the table; was it so smart for me to be handling hot beverages in this state? Certainly not. Still, I stirred it without thinking, once, twice, three times, just to keep my hands busy, and then--

A fourth stir.

The spoon made a soft clink as it circled the cup one more time. The moment was so brief, so small, I almost didn't register it until the air changed, thickened, stilled.

I looked up.

Mr. Godfrey's gaze was fixed on me like something in him had stopped breathing. His fork hovered above the plate, frozen mid-bite, his knuckles white where they gripped the handle. He looked like he'd been slapped. Or kissed? Possibly both. He didn't speak, didn't blink, didn't move, but the tightness in his body was undeniable.

Oh God.

Four.

I had stirred it four times. A mistake. A message I hadn't even meant to send.

Mr. Godfrey's jaw ticked once, like a tectonic shift beneath still waters. He set his fork down without a sound, and my stomach flipped as his hand moved slowly, with grave intention, to the remote beside his plate.

I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late.

Thrice; Click, click, click.

The pulse that tore through me wasn't a hum-- it was a jolt. A full-body convulsion that punched the air from my lungs and dragged a startled cry from my throat; it wasn't loud, but it was desperate, ragged, animal. I slammed my thighs together under the table like it would help, like it would contain the sudden cruel pressure that frankly hurt like a fucking bitch. This was torture-- this was unescapable.

My spoon slipped from my hand and hit the saucer with a muted chime, but I barely noticed; I was too busy trying to breathe.

"No-- fuck--" I gasped, my back arching just slightly, shame crashing through me in hot, breathless waves as my knees knocked together beneath the tablecloth. This was too much, this was painful, this was overstimulating beyond anything I had ever felt. Too much.

Mr. Godfrey hadn't blinked in a while-- he stared at my tea, his other hand balled in a fist like he was locked in a stream of compulsive thoughts. "Two more," he hissed. "Fix it."

"I-- I can't--" My hand trembled violently on the table, hovering above the spoon.

"You will,"

I couldn't hold his gaze; I was afraid I'd break. My eyes dropped to the mug, staring at it as if it could save me, and my hand moved like it didn't belong to me. I felt my heartbeat in my ears, my throat, my chest, my fucking clit, as I finally managed one stir, and then the next.

Now the number was divided into two threes, six, just like he needed it.

The second the spoon clinked against the porcelain for the final time, Mr. Godfrey pressed the button again, and the vibrator from hell turned off.

Relief crashed over me like cold water as my body collapsed back into the chair, too weak to pretend anymore. I was panting, face flushed, sweat prickling at the back of my neck, and my thighs trembled like I had just ran a marathon. I was soaked-- I knew I was soaked. Every inch of me ached, but not from pain. From want? I wasn't sure. My brain had melted, and it was probably now seeping out of my damn pussy.

With a sharp inhale through his nose, Mr. Godfrey closed his eyes. Finally, he allowed himself to breathe. "You don't play with symmetry in my presence," he hissed, almost as a reminder to himself. "Never."

His fingers twitched once on the table, and then quietly, methodically, he began to move.

First, Mr. Godfrey tucked the remote into his pocket before he reached for the newspaper. He didn't unfold it or glance again at the headlines. He simply picked it up, smoothed it flat, and set it further aside. Then his water glass followed, his cutlery, mine, the folded napkin-- each item was relocated with silent, terrifying purpose to the edge of the table, like a man clearing a surgical tray. Was this his version of freaking out?

I was still recovering, rubbing my aching thighs as I watched him. What was happening? Was this my cue to leave?

The ceramic of my tea scraped gently across the tablecloth as Mr. Godfrey pushed it away from me, followed by my plate, even though I hadn't touched more than a few bites, and then he followed it up with his own.

He didn't speak, didn't even glance at me-- he just kept clearing everything like it would somehow make him feel better. And then, when everything had been carefully placed at one edge of the table, he stood. The chair scraped back just enough to make a sound, deliberate and low, but I flinched like it had barked at me; was this just me still being overstimulated?

Mr. Godfrey came around to my side, ominous as ever. I caught myself trying to sit up, yet I barely had the energy, and accompanied by the sting of last evening's spankings, I gave up. "Sir," I tried, hoping to get his attention through what I could only assume was some sort of OCD-fog. "I didn't mean to-- are you alright?--"

"Get up,"

His voice was tight, restrained, and certainly unforgiving.

I didn't dare to hesitate-- with a shaky breath, I somehow got up from my chair, flinching at the loud scrape of it. Mr. Godfrey gave me no time to catch my breath, no comfort in the pause as his eyes flicked down, slowly, like he was taking note of the state he had left me in. "Up," he hissed, nodding to the cleared tabletop. "Lie down."

My heart slammed against my ribcage-- I was so screwed.

With my brain still fogged up from my leftover arousal, I did as told. The table wasn't cold, as it had absorbed some of the sunlight from the window, but I shivered as I climbed onto it anyway. The cloth shifted under me as I eased back, awkward at first, trying to find a position that didn't feel insane-- my skirt rucked up high on my thighs, and I froze halfway down, arms bracing behind me as I looked at him in silent disbelief.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes seared into mine, dark and contained for now. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt with slow precision, and his chest rose with slow strokes as he eased himself out of his OCD-mania. If I hadn't been so anxious about what was about to happen, I'd be more focused on how gorgeous his nose was-- Forbes nose, Forbes nose, Forbes nose. Then, the more I focused on how beautiful he was, the more I managed to calm down, block by block.

I dared to lie all the way down, back flat, spine stiff, breath shallow. The tablecloth rasped beneath me as my heels hung just off the edge; I so desperately hoped they wouldn't fall to the floor and make me look like even more of a mess than I already was. The ceiling above me looked suddenly unfamiliar... stark. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears; how had I ended up here? How had I managed to rope myself into this mess?

Mr. Godfrey's deep, dark voice sounded through my spiral; "Lift your hips,"

I obeyed again, my body no longer mine, and he slowly reached for the hem of my skirt, almost ceremonially, and pushed it to my waist with a clinical efficiency that made my stomach tingle with anticipation. Cool air kissed the wet heat between my legs, and my breath caught instinctively. I would've closed my legs, had I not been so eager to see what he would do to me next. How fucking wet had I gotten from this ordeal? It was humiliating that he was seeing this-- fuck, why did that make me feel so warm? Goddamn freak. Nasty fucker.

Then, Mr. Godfrey ran two fingers along the inside of my thigh without touching anything of consequence, and it was enough to make my hips twitch. "I'm wondering what to do to you next," he said, forcing his voice softer-- I could sense the way he held back from barking at me. "But that feels unfair. How could you have possibly known?"

I swallowed hard, scanning him over and over. I couldn't calculate his next moves, and it scared me. "Known what, sir?"

"That I need things to be in threes," he mumbled, trailing his fingers up and down my quivering thighs with a feathery touch. "You don't know me very well, after all."

... What?

Mr. Godfrey nodded to himself like he had finalized a good way to go from here. "Maybe you think I'm some pretentious asshole that implements fucked-up rules on my employees, like stirring my coffee thrice," he continued, absentminded. "And maybe you're right. I'm sick. You're sick. We're both sick. But you're... fresh. You're new. And as your dominant, I have an obligation to sometimes also just... forgive you."

He sighed through his (Forbes, Forbes, Forbes) nose, like this was all a burden for him to bear-- my trembling, my disobedience, the mess I had made of myself, and the fact that I existed under this roof at all. "As your dominant," he repeated, almost lazily, his fingertips brushing the tender skin near the hem of my underwear; "I have a duty to show restraint."

I wanted to answer, I wanted to say thank you, or please don't stop, or what are you going to do to me you little freak, but I couldn't seem to get my mouth to work. My throat was too tight, my head swimming with heat and adrenaline and fear and... whatever sick fascination had landed me on my boss's dining table like this.

"You didn't know the rules," Mr. Godfrey said, clearly to himself. I watched as that sentence calmed him, and his shoulders rolled forward just slightly. "So let me apologize."

I let out a small whimper as he suddenly leaned down, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I braced-- but then, I realized that I could feel his breath on my skin. His lips hovered above my inner thigh for long enough to make me worried, and I jolted when his mouth finally touched me.

Mr. Godfrey's lips pressed a single, maddeningly soft kiss where my mound met my thigh. It immediately sucked the air out of my lungs, and I felt my body melt at the contact. Had that just happened? To make matters even better, I sensed him reach into his pocket and click the remote thrice-- level three was my favorite. It was almost symbolic.

I allowed myself a small, frail moan, shuddering beneath my boss. Mr. Godfrey reached forward, tugging the fabric of my underwear upward, subsequently pressing the vibrator closer to my clit, and I brought my hand up to my mouth to suppress any further noise.

There was a second kiss on that exact same spot, just on the other side, mirrored; Jesus fucking Christ, Mr. Godfrey was kissing me. The realization hit me like a truck, and I bucked up against the vibrator with a high-pitched whine when he placed a third, final kiss on my right hipbone.

"You're really wet," he said, breath warm against my skin. "Had I been a different man, I'd have allowed myself to taste you." He placed his hand flat on my lower abdomen, grounding and steady, pinning me there like I was something fragile that might float away. The weight of it made my thighs quake, and something about the placement of it made the pressure on my clit stronger-- how the fuck did that work?

Just the thought of Mr. Godfrey's mouth on me, between my legs, licking a flat stripe up my sex, circling my clit with his tongue, sucking me in, bringing me over the edge whilst pinning my thighs down to the table as I shook through my orgasm; the though was too much, too tempting. "Please," I whimpered, bucking my hips up as though that would make a difference. "Why not?-- Please--"

"Stay still," Mr. Godfrey trailed his fingers down my sex, over my vibrator, over the wetness, before he retreated his hand and straightened up. The other went to my thigh, pinning me down, but something told me he did it simply to touch the softness of my skin, for selfish reasons. Was he taking liberties or was I imagining things...? "You're allowed to cum whenever as long as you tell me right before you do, and as long as you stay very, very still. Can you do that for me?"

I had to do everything in my power to not reach for his hand-- that would've probably felt so, so good, to ground myself with his direct touch. "Yes, sir," I whimpered, staring up at Mr. Godfrey with glossy eyes, feeling my brain fog up from the pleasure of the vibrator buzzing against my clit.

Just as I let my head lull back against the table, melting under his gaze, I heard the sharp sound of a zipper. I didn't think much of it, wondering whether I had imagined it, until Mr. Godfrey's voice sounded through my fog-- "You like this, huh? You like taking my orders?"

"Yes, sir," I whimpered, my lashes fluttering.

Mr. Godfrey gave a small, choppy exhale through his nose. "Damn right you do," he muttered under his breath. "I knew who you were the second you walked into my office. Knew you'd like this shit, you sick freak."

My breath caught, and just as I tried to clamp my thighs together, he forced them apart again.

"Don't do that," he said, tone flat. "Don't make me stop this now. It was just starting to get fun."

I whimpered again, nodding, my whole body fighting itself-- one half trying to escape the intensity of the vibrator, and the other half begging for more. I wasn't even sure which side was winning anymore.

Mr. Godfrey's fingers dug into the insides of my knee, bruising and possessive. There was another sound-- a belt unhooking, fabric shifting. "You poor thing... Didn't even last a week when you started working for me," His breath caught in his throat, like saying it out loud set him on fire. "It was so stupid. Stupid little girl, thinking I wouldn't notice... You wanted me to find out so bad, hm?"

The pressure in my core intensified until it felt like I was falling apart, my legs twitching under the restraint of his grip. I couldn't even think anymore-- I was a mess on his table, unraveling with every humiliating word that struck me with the most delicious pleasure.

My eyes fluttered open, desperate to meet his beautiful green eyes, but that was when I saw it-- Mr. Godfrey's fingers were wrapped around his cock, breath catching in his throat as he stroked himself to the sight of me, wet, squirming, whimpering, and locked beneath him with a vibrator unrelenting against my clit.

I wanted to stare; I wanted to look at him like this forever, but I was almost scared to. Would he stop this if he caught me looking? God, he was gorgeous like this, lips parted, pleasured. I had dreamed of seeing him like this for way too long-- I'd definitely get in trouble if I kept staring at his dick, that was for sure.

But then, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes snapped to mine, inviting me in. "Look at you now," he went on, choked out. "You proud of yourself, you sick fuck? Like me seeing you like this?"

I whimpered again, ashamed and undone, but somehow still nodding. "Y-Yes, sir,"

"Oh, I bet you are," His thumb grazed over the head of his cock with a sigh, and he stared at me like I was something on display. "You get off on being treated like fucking crap... What do you think that makes you?"

I could only look up at him through hooded lids, too far gone to answer.

"Go ahead," he said, towering over me as he stroked himself faster, his other hand digging deeper into my thigh-- I so desperately hoped it would leave a mark. "Say it. What are you?"

I wanted to cry from the heat crawling up my throat, from the way his words seared into me and made something inside me twist into a helpless, building knot; "I'm... I'm your-- your secretary," I managed, nearly choking on it. "Your secretary, your-- your--"

That was it. My thighs quivered as my back arched off the table, toes curling inside my heels as the knot in my abdomen only tightened. "Sir, I'm gonna-- gonna--"

Mr. Godfrey's fist didn't slow around his cock, but his eyes sharpened, locking on mine. "Yeah?" he breathed. "You that close already?"

I whimpered, nodding furiously, barely able to speak. "Please, sir-- I need, please--"

He let out a rough, satisfied sound, like he was drinking this in; he leaned in over me, stroking himself faster, his other hand still firm on my thigh. "Be a good fucking secretary... Cum for me, cum for your boss,"

It hit like a wave crashing through me. My whole body snapped taut before unraveling all at once, back arching off the table, thighs quivering as I whimpered at the unrelenting stimulation. The vibrator ground against my clit like it had been waiting for this moment, dragging the orgasm out until I was shaking, choking, nearly convulsing beneath him.

My head lolled to the side, tears slipping down my temple as the aftershocks made my body jerk and flinch beneath him. I was floating, dripping, barely alive-- what the fuck had just happened?

And just before I managed to answer that question, I felt two hands on my underwear, pulling it down with urgency, and I had no control over my body as it was pulled over my thighs, my legs, and threaded past my shoes. It was a relief for the vibrator to leave my aching, overstimulated clit, yet now, I felt my slick hit the cold office air, and it almost made me hiss-- I had never been this wet before, and it was almost worrying.

My lashes fluttered open at the sound of hitched breath. Mr. Godfrey's green eyes scanned the way I glistened beneath him, took in the sight of me being exposed like this, and the fact that I was allowing him to expose me in such an obscene way in his private dining room.

"Fuck," Mr. Godfrey groaned. His cock twitched in his hand as he jacked himself even harder, face flushed, mouth open. "Such a pretty fucking pussy-- knew you'd be-- perfect--"

Then, hot and sudden, he spilled across my stomach in thick, endless streaks, groaning from the base of his chest like he'd never felt anything so good as the last drops dripped down on my sex, a warm droplet of cum landing perfectly on my clit. I could only whimper at the warmth and the heavenly sight of him-- undone and real.

Mr. Godfrey stayed there, breathing hard, his hand still wrapped around himself like he hadn't realized it was over. For a second, I thought he might say something cruel again, or tell me how pathetic I looked spread out like this (not that I'd protest).

But... he didn't.

Instead, Mr. Godfrey blinked, glanced down at the mess between us, and gave a quiet, almost sheepish exhale; "Jesus Christ," he muttered, but there wasn't any bite to it. He sounded... surprised? Like he couldn't believe what we'd just done either, like he hadn't planned that last part, and it made my heart jump; what was I witnessing? Had this happened with his other women as well, those that came before me?

Or... was he still seeing other women on the side? I didn't want to think about it, didn't want it to be real.

Then, after a beat, Mr. Godfrey shifted awkwardly, tucking himself away. "Alright, then... Ten minutes," he said under his breath, almost like he was reminding himself more than me.

Right-- I was promised ten minutes with him every time something like this happened between us. He was supposed to act normal and not bark orders at me as usual. I nodded faintly, still lying back on the table, completely dazed. The air was too quiet. The vibrator had stopped buzzing somewhere, and all that remained was the echo of our breathing and the low hum of the light overhead.

I felt sticky. Exposed. And then, I felt his fingers, gentle this time, as they peeled off my thigh with delicate precision, as if to make up for the improvisation at the end there. "That got out of hand," Mr. Godfrey mumbled, mostly to himself, as he reached for a napkin nearby.

I blinked; "Did it?"

Mr. Godfrey remained quiet for a beat or two, assessing how to answer. "Didn't plan it at least," he mumbled.

Something about the confession made a faint blush appear in my cheeks. "It was nice, though,"

"Yeah?" he said, absentminded, before he crouched and started cleaning me up without saying a word. No comments, no smug remarks-- just the press of warm fabric against my skin as he wiped his release from my stomach, from between my thighs, from the softest part of me that still pulsed in the aftermath.

Despite the fact that I had been exposed to him like this for a few minutes now, I still felt shy about Mr. Godfrey seeing me like this; I wanted to close my legs, hide, disappear, yet I couldn't with him between my thighs. But then, I remembered-- "So... you do think I'm pretty?" He'd said it enough times today to convince me, no matter what he answered. Perfect, too, for the first time.

With a sharp sigh, Mr. Godfrey rose up, smoothing down his sleeves even though they hadn't moved. The napkin was bunched in his fist before he put it down somewhere. "That's not a relevant conversation," he answered, reaching for my underwear, which had been messily tucked into his pocket in the heat of the moment. "I'm much more interested in how you're feeling. Was this alright?" His voice was steadier now, but it didn't match the faint twitch in his brow, or the way he kept his eyes down as he handed my underwear back like it was evidence.

Huffing, I sat up slowly, legs still trembling a little, and took the fabric from his hand; I handed him the vibrator that was tucked in it. "I'm okay," I said. "Just... a little wrecked."

That got a flicker of a smile from him, barely there; "Noted,"

I started to slide my underwear back on, glancing at him once, half-daring, half-curious. He turned his back to me before I could finish, which surprised me. Mr. Godfrey didn't usually give me modesty-- it felt deliberate.

With slow moves, I managed to get off the table without falling to my knees. Thank fuck. "What's freaking you out?" I called out, scanning him from top to toe. He was so tense now, like he hadn't cum all over me just minutes ago.

Mr. Godfrey turned to look back at me, brows drawn in offence. "I don't know what you're talking about,"

"Are you freaking out that I saw your dick?"

"That's not!--"

"At least I didn't touch you this time, right?"

I watched him suck in a sharp breath like he wasn't sure whether to argue or walk out; but a rule is a rule, right? "You're getting too comfortable," he huffed, contained. "You and that fucking mouth of yours will be the death of me."

I grinned as I smoothed the hem of my skirt like it hadn't just been bunched around my waist. "You say that like it's a bad thing, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey shot me a look, but didn't take the bait. Instead, he walked around the table and sat back down in his chair. He put the vibrator back in its box before he reached for the neatly folded copy of The New York Times that still waited for him, as if none of this had happened.

"It is a bad thing," he said, not looking up at me. Was I imagining things, or was he sort of ashamed to have cum on me in such an obscene way? But then-- "You're distracting. Infuriating. Impractical. And quite frankly, a walking HR liability. It is a bad thing, because despite all of that, I thought more about this lunch with you than I thought about any of the important things I actually had to do today. You fog up my brain."

... What?

Mr. Godfrey looked up, too fast, too quickly, and for one suspended second, we just stared at each other. The air between us crackled, my breath caught in my throat, he didn’t blink, didn’t move, until his gaze flicked to my lips. And just like that, I knew-- he was thinking about it what it would feel like to kiss me, didn't he? Or was I imagining things again?

The corner of his mouth twitched like he might say something more, but he tore his gaze away and muttered, sharp and sudden, like it would erase everything he'd just said; "I'm going to Geneva tomorrow,"

I blinked; "...What?"

"Geneva," he repeated like I was hard of hearing, going back to The New York Times and flipping a page. "Flight leaves early. I'll be gone a week."

A week? A week?! A whole week without Mr. Godfrey? I felt my brain actively melt with shock-- how was I supposed to function in the meantime? That week was going to feel like a decade. I already knew that I was going to miss him. My voice came out lower than I expected, like I had just gotten scolded; "I didn't know that," I softly whined. "That's not on your schedule, sir."

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes darted up from the edge of the paper. "I was invited this morning. I'm speaking at a conference,"

"Shouldn't you have... told me?" I continued, breathy with hurt. "I'm your secretary, I should-- I need to know these things to add them to your calendar, and-- and now I just feel incompetent. You already think I'm incompetent, but you're not making my job any easier!--"

"I should've told you," he echoed. "But I didn't. Get over it." With a loud sigh, he removed one hand off the newspaper and motioned for me to come sit down in his lap.

I lingered on the edge of the offer like I needed permission to accept it. "I'm... sticky," Imagine I stood up from his lap and he had a fucking stain? Hell no.

But-- "I know," Mr. Godfrey said, his palm still out, waiting. "Sit."

Carefully, I lowered myself into his lap, feeling the brush of his trousers under my thighs and the quiet weight of his body beneath mine. He shifted just slightly to accommodate me, one arm curving around my waist as if it belonged there, the other folding the paper back with one hand like he didn't care that I was in his lap in a post-orgasmic sulk.

Still sulking, I decided to be crass; "Will you bring me something from Geneva?"

Mr. Godfrey didn't look up from his newspaper, flipping to the next page. "Brat," he mumbled under his breath. "I'm not so sure. Depends."

"On what?"

"On your behaviour when I'm gone,"

“What is that supposed to mean?” It came out fast, defensive, and a little too soft to sound convincing. "Seriously, I'm not incompetent, and I do a decent job! It's not like I crawl around the office on all fours and eat food off the floor! I behave just fine!"

With a hint of a quirk at the corner of his lips, Mr. Godfrey's thumb pressed slowly against my hip, a gesture so subtle it barely qualified as touch; it felt like a warning. “Right... that might be true on some level, but let’s not pretend you don’t crave consequences,”

I made a noise, part groan, part protest, but Mr. Godfrey just adjusted me more securely against him. I felt him rub slow circles into my hip with one hand, coaxing me into stillness. It was odd to feel him like this, almost affectionate-- was this maybe just part of aftercare? I had read about it on the web, heard that it was a vital part of a dom/sub dynamic, but it felt personal, and it was therefore deemed dangerous territory in my mind.

I shifted, reaching for the salad I never finished. Stabbing an innocent tomato, I tried to make casual conversation; "Who will be interim CEO? It better not be me,"

Mr. Godfrey almost laughed; "There will be no need for that, I'm sure," he said, skimming the next page of the New York Times. "I'll be available on email, but in case of a crisis, my uncle Norman will be instated. I'll still be in charge."

Norman Godfrey? I had met him several times while I shared a dorm room with Letha in college. That was going to be a really awkward conversation if he saw the way I dressed around the office-- you best believe I didn't look like this outside of these four walls. "And what counts as crisis, sir?"

Mr. Godfrey didn't even glance up from the paper. "If someone's bleeding out in reception, or even worse, painting it orange, then you'll know. And if a government agency shows up unannounced, or if you decide you can't go seven days without begging to be put in your place in one way or another, those would all qualify,"

I nearly choked on the tomato I'd just bitten into. "Excuse me?"

"I'm being thorough," he said smoothly, flipping the page with one hand while the other pressed more firmly around my waist, holding me in place like I was something that might run. "You asked."

"I was talking about company policy!"

He hummed, patronizing. "And I was talking about you,"

My whole body went still against Mr. Godfrey. It was unfair how calm he remained.

He finally folded the paper and looked down at me like I was something he might study for fun. "You want rules?" he asked. "Fine. No playing snake. No trying to access my calendar while I'm gone, which I know you do. And absolutely no short skirts, because you never know what perverts lurk in the office when I'm not around."

I blinked at him-- did he not hear the irony? "Sir," I breathed, biting down on a smirk. "I think all the perverts will be gone when you leave."

I knew I was testing the waters with that one, perhaps even treading on flaming charcoal, but Mr. Godfrey tilted his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with that dangerous flicker of interest he usually reserved for moments right before saying something that made me feel feral. "Funny you say that..." he said.

"Because I know about at least one that's gonna remain behind her desk all week."

(a/n: GAHHHH I WANT HIM SO BAD?? finally he whipped out his cock<3333 AHAHIFDJFI ILY IF YOU GOT THIS FAR, THANK YOU FOR ALL THE MOVE AND SWEET MESSAGES, I HAVE ENJOYED THEM ALL AHHHH MWAH MWAH!!<333)

← previous chapter |

lovely little taglist:

@likecherriesinthespring @muchwita @fish-eyes-png @voidpixies

@voidofsunlight @sn0wybowie-blog @scarledy @carmillavalentine

@succubustacy @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @ohperiodtpoohhh

@kikibit @prismozo @dreamxaboutxsomethingxnice @scarledy

@useyourwandbro @malenoradgn @veesenya @immernixia

@lunaskye999 @555-hya-kai @a-differentbrandof-beans @humongoussweetscowboy

@melpomenismask @babyslilbee @halexdowney

#roman godfrey #roman godfrey x reader #hemlock grove #bill skarsgård #fanfic #fanfiction #bill skarsgard #oneshot #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard fanfiction #hemlock grove fanfiction #hemlock grove season 2 #x reader #PURR I LOVED THIS #have been waiting to do a scene like this for SO LONG #rip reader when Roman's away #but he's yapped away this chapter....... you best believe he's gonna shut down oop #he's so damn clinical #I love it

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half-of-a-gay · 1 month ago

Note

Hello:) i hope its not too much of a bther to ask but could you do an modern au angst-comfort fic with Ambessa perchance? Maybe a scenario ambessa fucks up a little by kissing somebody while drunk and reader finds out, they go on an ambigious break and Ambessa is just doing all that she can to take reader back:( Pathetic ambessa is a spiritual need i fear

A/N: [Not a bother at all! In fact, this request is everything! I love a powerful woman on her knees!

If anyone has muscle mommy requests feel free, I'm very willing to write for any of them (Sevika, Ambessa, Vi, Grayson, Abby Anderson...)]

--------------

Ambessa Medarda was a name that opened every door. First Black woman on the cover of Forbes three years in a row. CEO of Medarda Holdings. Billionaire by 35. Voted "Most Intimidating Person in Tech & Finance" by Vanity Fair, twice. Her life was gold-dipped and diamond-cut. Every moment was a press statement, every movement was calculated.

Except you.

You weren’t calculated. You were a chaos she welcomed. Messy, mismatched socks left on her expensive rug. Your chipped mug next to her sleek, minimalist espresso machine. A toothbrush you "forgot" that had been sitting in her marble bathroom for months. You weren’t really together, you've never made it official. But you were something.

And Ambessa called you hers, in every way that didn’t involve saying it aloud.

Dating her was like trying to warm your hands on stone.

At first.

She didn’t flirt the way others did. She asked precise questions. Paid attention. Listened. And when she started showing up with coffee just the way you liked it, or rearranging meetings to catch an art show with you, it wasn’t flashy but it was intentional.

And intent with Ambessa meant more than flowers or poems ever could.

The first time she touched you - not sex, just touched you - was when she brushed your hair out of your face one night and said, almost like an afterthought, “You’re hard to stop thinking about.”

Your heart had leapt. Hers had clenched. Vulnerability was a battlefield she had no map for.

You kissed her that night. She kissed you back like she’d been starving.

That was the start.

She wasn’t good at being soft. But you never asked her to be anything she wasn’t. That was the thing. You just made space for her to be something else, if she wanted to be.

She wanted to be better. She just didn’t know how to ask for help doing it.

And when she kissed that stranger - stupid, meaningless - it was less about lust, more about cowardice. She had been afraid of how much she needed you. Of how much power you held over her simply by loving her.

And she broke it. Carelessly, like all things she touched. God, what a thing to throw away.

That night was supposed to be a boring gala. One of a dozen a year. Suits, speeches, too many cameras. She told you not to come: “It’ll be a room full of hedge fund parasites and social climbers. You’ll be bored.”

You didn’t argue. You trusted her. Trusted that she'd text when she got home, or maybe come back to your place tipsy and sleepy, mumbling into your neck about office gossip you only half-followed.

Before leaving she texted you a picture of herself in that deep green Armani suit you liked, with gold cufflinks. You sent back a “be good.”

She wasn’t.

She arrived at the gala alone. Perfect as always. The signature half-smile that never reached her eyes. Someone handed her a drink. Then another.

She didn’t mean to drink that much. She wasn’t even sure why she did. Something had been gnawing at her lately - a dull, aching edge of vulnerability she couldn’t name. The softness you’d brought into her life made her feel... fragile. And fragility scared her more than failure.

The woman who kissed her wasn’t special. She didn’t mean anything. Just someone laughing too loudly, standing too close. Saying all the wrong things that felt right for one drunk, stupid second. And Ambessa hadn’t pulled away fast enough. It all lasted three seconds. Maybe four. But someone took a photo.

And someone else sent it to you.

You didn’t scream or cry. You just texted her: “So that’s what we are, huh?”

Then: “I think I need space.” No “don’t call me.” No breakup, there had been no labels to begin with. Just space.

You expected her to reply with an excuse. You weren’t sure if you hoped for one. But it never came. All you saw were the three dots jumping up and down on your screen.

Typing. Deleting. Typing again. She sent nothing. It made you want to smash the device into the wall.

---

For the next few days you did anything to get your mind of the situation at hand. You deep-cleaned the whole house, answered emails and dodged your friend' questions. In fact you stopped checking your phone completely in hopes of saving yourself the disappointment over the vow of silence Ambessa decided on. It was easier to pretend her silence didn’t hurt more than the photo itself.

Then - as if the situation couldn't get more infuriating - a courier buzzed your door. He handed you a bouquet of white orchids- elegant, soulless. Arranged like a funeral display for a relationship that never got the dignity of a label. He also handed you a small pristine white bag, with a blue velvet box tucked inside. No note. Just the box itself.

Nestled inside the box was a blue sapphire, teardrop-cut. Framed by icy diamonds and impossibly delicate gold. The chain alone looked like it cost more than your rent.

You recognized it immediately. You’d admired it once, months ago, in the window of a boutique. You’d lingered in front of the glass and she remembered.

You slammed the box shut and tossed the bundle of wealth on the kitchen counter like it had burned you. Because accepting the necklace, even leaving it tucked away in a drawer, would’ve meant you were considering forgiveness. That you were even entertaining the idea of sweeping it all under the rug just because she threw something shiny at the problem. You were't letting this slide over this half assed non-apology.

You stared at the aesthetic perfection sitting before you and seethed.

Because she still didn’t get it. Still thought this was about damage control. Making up for betrayal like it had price tag.

You didn’t need diamonds. You needed her to bleed a little. To show up with her hands shaking and her voice uneven. To try - not with jewelry or the power of her last name, but with honesty.

Instead, she sent you something beautiful but safe. And it made you so angry. It wasn’t just the gesture - it was the message beneath it. The insult. That Ambessa Medarda thought she could kiss a stranger, buy an apology, and have crawling back without so much as a real conversation let alone a verbal apology.

Fine. If she wanted to play this game then so be it.

The next morning, you got dressed with intention. Clean lines without a trace of vulnerability.

You walked into Medarda Holdings with your jaw set and your head held high.

The receptionist glanced up, startled by the confidence in your stride. You placed the bouquet and the velvet box on the counter in front of her gently.

“These are for Ms. Medarda,” you said, calm and crisp.

“She’s not expecting anything,” the receptionist replied, blinking. “Do you want me to let her know you’re here?” the receptionist asked, reaching for the desk phone.

“No,” you said, sharper than necessary. Then: “I’ve already said everything I needed to... just make sure she gets them.”

You didn’t leave a note. Didn’t even glance tin the direction of her office. Just turned and walked out, heels echoing on marble, the kind of exit she might’ve made herself.

---

Ambessa was mid-email when her assistant knocked on her door. She stepped inside with a smirk, arms ful.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” she sang, placing them carefully on the desk. “These just came to reception. I put them in some water for you.”

Ambessa blinked, staring at the flowers like they might detonate.

Her pulse stuttered.

“I - what?” she asked, a beat too late.

The assistant placed them on her desk, clearly enjoying herself. “No card, but judging by the packaging? Someone’s trying real hard to impress you.”

The words hit like a slap.

The necklace in same box she’d sent you.The same goddamn flowers she’d ordered to make the gesture “softer” after googling which flowers represent regret.

Back. Returned. In front of her assistant, no less.

For a horrifying second, Ambessa said nothing. She stared at the items like they would tell her what to do now.

The assistant laughed, misreading the silence. “Okay, wow, you’re blushing. I’ll leave you to it.”

The moment the door clicked shut behind her assistant, Ambessa stood very still.

Ambessa opened the box slowly. The necklace glinted, untouched. Still flawless. She clenched her jaw, shut the necklace box - and hurled it across the office. It struck the wall with a thud, landing in the corner of the room.

She moved through her own office like a ghost. Her hands were shaking. She walked to her desk and gripped the edge, grounding herself in the cold marble.

She stared at the flowers for a moment, then tore them from the vase one stem at a time throwing them into the trash. Slowly. Almost methodically. Like she could dismantle the failure by undoing this arrangement.

Then she picked up the phone. Her voice cracked once when she spoke, and she had to swallow it back down before she could try again. “Cancel everything for the rest of the day,” she said. “All of it. Just - reschedule or... I don’t care.”

Her assistant paused. “Are you okay, Ms. Medarda?”

Ambessa said nothing. Just hung up. She sank into the chair behind her desk, back perfectly straight - shoulders drawn taut like wire.

Tears were building behind her eyes and she hated them for it. Hated how weak it felt. Hated how unfamiliar it all was. She had never cried over a mistake. Now she was crying because the one person who had seen her beneath the armor wanted nothing to do with her.

And she didn’t know how to get you back. Because the truth was this: She’d never known how to hold anything fragile. And you were the first fragile thing she ever wanted to keep safe.

Ambessa hadn’t been sleeping. Four nights in a row she'd laid in bed staring at the ceiling. Tried the pills her doctor prescribed once, years ago. Nothing worked. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the disappointed expression you might have made when you typed out that text: “So that’s what we are, huh?”

She had known how badly she fucked up. But not how thoroughly.

You weren’t even angry anymore. You were finished.

---

Ambessa Medarda stopped showing up to meetings.

At first, people thought she was traveling. Or closing some high-level deal no one was cleared to talk about. But then the excuses started sounding thinner. Her assistant began rescheduling things with vague apologies - “Something came up,” “She’ll circle back soon,” “Thanks for your patience.”

After a week, people started whispering.

“She looked like shit at the summit.” “Did you hear she walked out of her own board meeting?” “Hungover, probably.”

But she wasn’t drinking. Not anymore, not after that night.

The crystal decanter of scotch sat full and untouched on the cart by the window. She hadn’t poured a glass in days. The ice bucket hadn’t left the freezer. The sight of liquor made her stomach twist now from the memory of that one moment when she stopped thinking and let her fear dictate her actions.

The green Armani suit was still on the floor. Crumpled in a corner of her closet, a crumpled $10,000 ghost of a life she didn’t deserve. She didn’t have the heart to send it to dry cleaning. Couldn’t look at it without flinching. It was the last thing she wore when she still had you and it was one of your favorite on her.

She wandered blindly through her penthouse. The chipped mug you always used still sat in the sink. Dry coffee stains marking the last time you touched it. She couldn’t even bring herself to wash it. Couldn’t throw it out, either. It just sat there. Waiting.

Like she was.

The bed was untouched on one side. Her side. She slept curled on the left now, where you used to sleep, where your scent still clung to the sheets no matter how many times she told herself it didn’t.

She kissed someone to prove she wasn’t in love. And in doing so, proved exactly how deep she’d already fallen.

She hadn’t spoken to you in nearly two weeks, and the returned necklace had gutted her in ways she hadn’t even understood yet.

She hadn’t meant for it to come off the way it did. But she didn’t know how else to say I’m sorry without sounding like a boardroom talking point. So she picked a gesture. A beautiful thing. A quiet offering.

---

Ambessa sat on the floor of her penthouse, back against the cold tall glass window. She hadn’t moved in hours.

Her phone lay beside her, screen dark. There were fourteen unsent messages drafted in her notes. All of them seemed too crafted. Apologies written like press statements. Declarations of regret edited to death. None of them felt real. None of them sounded like her. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe she didn’t know who she was without the script.

She stared across the room. Her head dropped back against the glass. She closed her eyes.

This - this pathetic haze of regret and silence - wasn't her. She’d built empires. She’d been humiliated and underestimated and had clawed her way to the top of an industry that had never wanted her in the first place.

But this - losing you? This had wrecked her more thoroughly than anything else ever had.

Because for once in her life, she hadn’t been fighting for control. She’d just been trying to be held. And she’d ruined it.

She picked up her phone again and opened a blank message, before pausing.

Then closed it again and slowly stood up. Her joints ached from sitting too long, unmoving.

No more texts. No more gifts. No more hiding. If she was going to lose you, she was going to do it honestly. Scared, flawed but trying.

---

It was late. You weren’t doing anything important. Curled up on the couch, doom-scrolling through your phone, a show playing quietly in the background you hadn’t really followed for three episodes now.

You weren’t expecting anyone. But then you heard three soft knocks and your heart stopped. Your body already knew before your brain caught up. Knew who it would be.

You stood slowly and opened the door. And there she was.

Ambessa.

She looked… tired.

Hair pulled back sloppily, curls loosening at the edges. A faint shadows beneath her eyes, skin slightly pale under the soft yellow hallway light.

She was wearing a sweater that was too big, sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms and jeans that looked like they hadn’t been ironed, maybe not even washed, in a while. Nothing about her matched. Her expensive wool coat hung open.

But somehow? She still looked beautiful. Not in the way she looked on magazine covers. This was something else. Something wrecked and raw.

Her shoulders weren’t squared. Her spine wasn’t straight. She looked like someone who had been standing outside your door for twenty minutes working up the nerve to knock (she had).

Her eyes met yours. And she looked like she might break.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, her voice low and rasped. “I didn’t come here to make a scene. Or make excuses. Or to convince you. I just…”

She exhaled, shaky. “I don’t know what else to do but be honest.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away.

As her eyes bore into yours, she looked… afraid. Afraid of what she’d made you feel. Of what she might find in your face now.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, quietly. “And I didn’t come here to ask for anything.”

You said nothing.

She swallowed. “I came because... I’ve tried space. Silence. Gifts. Control. I’ve rewritten a dozen messages and never sent any of them because I wanted to give you space... and because none of them felt good enough.”

Her voice wavered. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to ask you to forgive me in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m trying to win.”

You opened the door wider, just slightly. She didn’t move. Her breath hitched like she was forcing the words out before she lost the courage.

Her eyes were wet. Not crying yet. Not quite.

“I miss you. All of it. Your socks on the floor. You drinking out of that chipped mug in the morning... the way you say my name.”

Her voice cracked, finally. “And if you tell me you don’t want me anymore - if you shut the door in my face - I’ll try to respect that. I swear I will. But I’m standing here because I need you to know: I want to be better. For you. I just-”

Her hand lifted slightly, like it might reach for yours, then dropped.

“I just don’t know how to do it without you.”

You were silent as you stared at her. For once, she didn’t look powerful, or composed, or terrifying.

She looked like someone who hadn’t slept. Someone who used to have the world at her feet and now couldn’t even keep herself upright. She looked like someone who had learned how to beg without saying the word.

Finally you stepped back enough to leave the doorway open.

She blinked - half expecting for the door to be slammed in her face - then walked in carefully, like the floor might fall out beneath her.

She stood in the middle of your living room awkwardly, arms at her sides, not touching anything.

You sat on the couch and waited.

She just turned toward you and finally said, soft and unguarded: “I think about you constantly.”

You didn’t interrupt.

Her eyes were wide, glassy, rimmed with exhaustion.

“I kissed that woman because I was drunk... and I was stupid. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”

She swallowed when she caught your glare. You shifted, arms crossed. “Then why did you do it?... Truly?” you asked, quiet but firm.

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. Her jaw worked, searching for something to give you - some answer that would make any of this make sense.

“I don’t know,” she said, finally. “I’ve asked myself that over and over.”

She sat down, but not next to you. Across. She shifted on the couch, wringing her hands - a gesture you’d never seen from her before. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t go looking for it. I just… let it happen. Like an idiot.”

She took a long breath. “I was stupid. And I couldn’t face what I had- what you were. It was like I looked at you, and it was too good. Too… undeserved. I felt myself needing you so deeply I didn’t know where I ended and you began. And instead of holding on, I ruined it.”

Her voice cracked there, just slightly. “And I wanted to need you less. But I didn’t. I still don’t... I didn’t know how to look at something that real and not break it.”

You looked at her. Really looked. All the cracks were showing now. The frayed threads. The sadness she didn’t know how to wear properly.

You let the silence stretch a little longer.

Then, finally: “I think... I needed to see if you cared.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours, startled.

“Not if you remembered my favorite flowers. Or sent me some luxury apology like a contract negotiation... I needed to know if you actually gave a damn. About me. Not about fixing your image. Or owning me like I’m some accessory to your success.”

Ambessa’s breath caught.

“I needed to see if you’d show up for me,” you said.

You paused. Watched the words hit her. “It took you a while but you did.”

She blinked fast. Her shoulders curled in slightly, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I acted like being affectionate was a problem. Like you were… replaceable. But that's not true. You never were. You never will be.”

You didn’t say anything. But your hand moved - just slightly - toward her. And that was all it took.

She slid from the couch to the floor in front of you, knees meeting the rug with a soft thud. Like her body had been waiting to collapse for days.

She looked up at you - eyes shining, lips pressed together like she didn’t trust them to stay steady. Her head bowed for a second.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward. Wrapped her arms around your waist. Pressed her face into your stomach, like she was trying to hide the tears beginning to fall.

And finally -

Ambessa Medarda let herself cry. Just a few trembling tears that slipped past her control, pressed into the fabric of your shirt.

You held her not saying a word. Not because everything was okay, but because she'd finally given you something real to hold.

And that had to mean something.

---------------------------------------

#arcane x reader #arcane #ambessa medarda #arcane ambessa #ambessa x reader #ambessa league of legends #ambessa x you

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anyarose011 · 6 days ago

Text

Born Too Late II: "None of This will Matter in an Hour"

Pairing: DBF!Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch X Reader

Summary: You only have two more hours in your shift, and two of the worst people show up; your roommate and her ex-boyfriend. As you navigate their problems like you were a couple's therapist, you deal with your own. This includes: A little girl with a bee sting, an unexpected baby, making "friends" with people your age, a physical altercation with a patient, and trying not to feel anything for your supervisor (did you know that you slept with him just the weekend prior and neither of you knew about both of your connections to Jack Abbott? I.e. your stepfather and his close friend?)

Part 2 of 3 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Mention of Past Smut, Physical Assault, Emotional Abuse, Mention of Physical Abuse, Possible Controversial Takes on Giving Birth to Kids, Jokes about being Conservative (come on guys…did we even watch the same show if I have to say this??),

Hey besties! Here we are, close to the end! So I just wanted to be open and say that I myself am not a licensed social worker. I specialize in criminology and sociology, so I did my best to adapt with what I know. If anyone here knows a thing or two about actual social work, let me know if I did something wrong. I also did my best to write everyone as in character as I could, but that's also the beauty of the show: Everyone seems so real with their own positives and negatives. Let me be clear too with minor, out of context spoilers: Kiara is in the right. Reader's reactions are justified, but also unprofessional. This is me trying to give more narrative to a story instead of it just be pure romance. Also, this one focuses on more of the Santos/Melissa x Reader, but Whitaker will get justice I swear. Happy Pride everyone, bisexual people exist, and they don't "need to pick a side".

Word Count: 8.7k (Holy difference from the word count in the first chapter, Batman!!)

“It’s the worst letter of the alphabet.” You thought aloud as you watched Kimi and Trent ushered into a room.

Santos furrowed her brow. “What?”

“The ex.” You rushed towards the room, peeking in to watch as the paramedics moved Kimi onto the bed, her still asking about ‘That bitch who hit us’. Trent, with the two braincells he had, responded in sound:

“I don’t know, baby; she just came out of nowhere.”

You pushed into the room, staying out of the way until all seemed normal; as normal it could be for your roommate and her shitty ex-boyfriend to be in the hospital. You rushed to Kimi’s side and she immediately embraced you.

“Hey girly,” she cooed. “I missed you.”

You rubbed her back, mindful of whatever injuries she had. “Me too, Kim. What happened?”

“Has everyone been nice to you?”

“Yes-.”

“-Because you all know I’d kick all of your asses if any of you talked shit about her!” She shouted out into the hall and to the poor nurses (one being Princess).

You shushed her, pulling away. “Let’s not yell, we got people doing worse than you.”

She laughed. “Okay, bestie.”

“What do we have here?” A deep voice came from behind you.

God, you decided to speak to a higher power than you for the first time in a while. I know You didn’t just send my roommate and her ex-boyfriend to this specific hospital only to then be treated by this specific doctor whom You know I have a complicated history with. And after also telling my roommate about how he fucked me so hard I almost broke his back instead of him breaking mine?

Like a guest actor appearing in a sitcom, Michael Robinavitch came into the room and immediately took charge. Kimi took the opportunity to clearly state what happened to her.

“We were driving down on Forbes, right? We were gonna go see that new movie, the one where Hailee Steinfeld gets absolutely fucked by a vampire or something, and then this cunt T-bones us-!”

“-Okay,” you intervened, smiling and presenting Robby. “this is Dr. Robby, Senior Attending and also one of my supervisors. So, let’s try and keep swearing to a minimum if we can. He’s probably seen and heard worse, but let’s not add to it. I gotta run and check on some other people, but I’ll be back soon, love you.”

Kimi responded with ‘Love you too, bitch’, and just as you were about to leave, you heard a voice belonging to Trent who just figured out how to speak to you.

“Hey, what about me?”

Turning over your shoulder with a tight smile, you said. “It’s always a blessing in disguise to see you, Trent.”

Then you finally left. Out of all the things you did on your shifts at the ER, that was by far the most unprofessional (the first one at least). You leaned against the wall, taking a moment just to breathe. Frankly, it was hard to ground yourself over the sound of machines hooked into patients, wheels screeching along the floor, and the endless talking and conversing between patients and doctors, doctors to residents, residents to nurses-.

“-Are you okay?”

Your eyes snapped open and was greeted to a woman with blonde hair in a ponytail, and glasses that fit her face perfectly. You flinched as your eyes shot open but quickly relaxed. You nodded.

“Yeah, sorry; it’s just been a long day.”

“No, I get it.” She related. “It’s still been technically a ‘good day’ for me, but it’s stressful.”

You furrowed your brow; her voice sounded familiar. Then, like lightning, it hit you and your face beamed. “Wait, did you give me a pad in the bathroom this morning?”

She giggled. “Yeah, I think I did.” She asked you your name.

“Yeah, and you’re Melissa?”

“Call me Mel.”

“Okay Mel,” you grinned from ear to ear. “I can’t tonight, but I owe you food. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Mel looked down at her feet smiling before reaching your eyes. “You’re too nice.”

“And again, you literally saved my life.”

“Hey,” Whitaker walked by, inserting himself into the conversation. “I just heard your roommate’s here, are you okay?”

Your jaw dropped. “And who’d you hear it from?”

“Perlah.”

Tossing your head back, you sighed. “She and Princess need to quit and become journalists.”

“Why?” Mel asked.

“Because they know everything three seconds after it happened!” You spoke with a perfect mix of humor and genuine astonishment.

Whitaker pursed his lips. “Do you need anything?”

“A nice, cold cigarette.” Both his and Mel’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “It was a bad joke.”

Where your joke fell flat on its face, their synchronized ‘Oh’s was pique comedy, bringing a smile to your face. The three of you had to duck back into your tasks; yours being finding Kiara. It was easier than you thought, and she luckily left the room of the family with the teenage gunshot victim.

“Hey, you doing alright?” She asked.

You tensed. “My roommate and her ex-boyfriend got into a car accident.”

Kiara’s face dropped. “Oh my, are they okay?”

“Yeah.” You sighed. “I mean, I don’t know the extent of their injuries, but the guy’s walking, Kimi’s swearing the house down, so that means she’s normal.”

She nodded. “If it’s too personal, I can go check on them until they’re discharged.”

“No.” You immediately said. “It’s alright, I know them both pretty well; all their habits and stuff.”

You knew Kimi’s. Trent’s? You knew you hated him, but you’d do your best to put that aside.

“Okay.” Kiara didn’t sound thoroughly convinced but knew she couldn’t change your mind. “You take the easier cases for now; I’ll come get you if there’s anything else.”

“You are my favorite person.” You said, meaning it.

She smiled. “Let me know if you ever want me to step in.”

“Sure.” You did as she instructed, going to check on a simpler case. Said case being a seven-year-old girl who had recently been stung by a bee, discovering she was allergic and nearly died.

Oh, and as you were talking to her, you discovered that her mom and dad left her home alone that morning to drive all the way to Philadelphia to see an old friend. She didn’t know either of their phone numbers, but the cherry on top was that this was her first time ever being to a hospital…

So yeah, you got the easy one.

This all happened in only thirty minutes, and when you informed Kiara of the severity of it, she bumped you to go check back on Kimi. Sighing as you walked to Kimi’s room, Robby called your name.

Turning over your shoulder, he asked. “How’s everything going?”

“Good.” You said, like a liar. “I have an hour and a half left. How’s Kimi?”

“Well,” he crossed his arms. “her boyfriend only got a few scrapes and bruises scattered across his body, mainly on his torso, but is fine. Kimi bruised her side and has moderate whiplash, but she’s responding pretty well. The fetus wasn’t damaged miraculously, but we may want to get her-.”

“-Fetus?” Your heart stopped bumping blood. “Like-like a baby?”

Robby made a face. “Yeah, a baby. Six weeks, she found out this morning.”

No words left your mouth as the ones he spoke sunk into you. Your roommate was pregnant…she broke up with Trent a month ago, and it was a record for her to have stayed away from him for that long…and he came in with her…

“Are you alright?” He lowered his voice.

“No,” you said without thinking. “but thanks for asking.”

“I know it’s a lot,” he soothed. “I can get Kiara or Collins maybe to-.”

“-What was she like?” You interrupted. “When she talked about the baby? Was she happy? Upset?”

“She looked pretty happy.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “She probably wants to surprise me. I-I can go talk to her, but thanks.”

“Yeah.” He answered, but it was obvious he was hesitant. “Do you need anything?”

Your first inclination was ‘no’, but you couldn’t afford to be totally prideful. “How’re you with kids?”

“I like to think I’d give Mr. Rogers a run for his money.”

A genuine laugh escaped your throat; both from exhaustion, the situation, and the joke. “Okay Fred, I got a seven-year-old girl who found out she was allergic to bees, and her parents basically abandoned her this morning to go to Philly.”

His face dropped. “Christ.”

“Bonus points: they’ve never taken her to a hospital before.”

“Great.” His smiled leaked with sarcasm. “My favorite.”

“Kiara’s sitting with her now, but I know she’s got dozens of others.”

“I got it.” He nodded.

You sighed gratefully, squeezing the upper arm of his sweatshirt without thinking. “Thank you.”

Turning on your heel back to Kimi’s room it was only then you realized what you had just done; in the middle of the ER. What more, Robby being the one to treat Kimi caused a terrible thought to creep into your mind.

What if she figured out he was the guy you slept with? You mentioned that he was a doctor, but that was about it. Kimi wasn’t exactly smart though. You loved her, but you were also honest and knew that she couldn’t really pick up on certain social cues. You just had to do your best not to act awkwardly around him

Still, you knew that things were only awkward if you made it that way (or Princess, Perlah, Santos, or anyone else in the whole place saw it). Noticing that you had worse things going on helped pull you out of those thoughts once you entered Kimi’s room.

“There she is!” She opened her arms wide as she laid on the bed. Trent was in his usual habitat you assumed whenever he came to the hospital with a woman: in the corner, playing on his phone.

You embraced Kimi, and she said into your chest. “I have something to tell you.”

“Like, who was driving the car?” You joked.

She scoffed, pulling away. “Please, we already had to tell the cops that like ten times.”

“The police were here?”

“Uh huh.” She groaned, laying back. “Had to talk to them while your boss and some old ladies poked and prodded me. It was Trent’s car too.”

“Yeah.” he spoke up once his name was called, like how a dog would. “Bitch was day drinking and came out of nowhere and totaled my car.”

“Shit.” You gasped. “I’m sorry.”

“Why’re you sorry?” He scowled. “You didn’t cause it.”

You blinked. “It’s call empathy, Trent. I’m putting myself in your position and-.”

“-I know what empathy is, shrink.” He rolled his eyes.

“Okay girlies,” Kimi intercepted before you could tackle him. “let’s not fight.”

Sighing, you decided not to resist, lowering your mouth to her ear. “Sorry. I just started my period, and it’s been a long day.”

“Well,” she grinned from ear to ear. “at least we know you’re not pregnant.”

You pulled away, trying to feign confusion. “Why’d you say it like that?”

Kimi took your hands, squeezing them. “I’m gonna have a baby!”

“Wow!” You forced yourself to be excited. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a car even before I did.” She still smiled.

Looking over at Trent, a tight smile upon your lips. “How’s it feel to be a dad, Trent?”

“Like usual.” He surprised you by returning your grin; almost as if he had the braincells to understand that you were making fun of him but knew how to react accordingly. “I hope it’s a boy this time. Pass on my legacy.”

Kimi giggled. “I’m sure it will be.”

Humming, you asked her. “So…what’s the plan?”

“What do you mean?” She tilted her head.

“Well,” with just one word, you realized how difficult this conversation would be. “Trent, could you give us some space?”

He glared. “I’m the one injured; you move.”

“The mother of your child is the one on a bed.” You stated, not even meaning to sound snarky.

“Okay, hey,” Kimi, once again, stepped in. “I don’t mind if he’s here. If you have anything to say, you can say it to both of us.”

You say that as if he’s actually committed to you. Your mind snipped at her.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to let it all out (as diplomatically as you could). “Since this is what you want, I’m genuinely happy for you. I’m just wondering how the living situation is going to be.”

Kimi giggled. “What’re you talking about? The baby’s gonna live with me.”

“And I figured, but do you have a plan for childcare when you go off maternity leave?”

“That’s not for a long time-.”

“-I know,” you nodded. “but I want to at least get this out of the way because if the baby’s going to be living with you, then they’ll be living with me too. There’s only two of us on the lease, so Trent can’t move in.”

Kimi nodded. “Well, then maybe he and I can find a place-.”

“-I’m kind of in between jobs now.” He said it as if it was in his back pocket. “My place is small as it is.”

“Okay.” You nodded. “I get it; you got plenty of time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What it sounds like.” You ripped the band aid off. “You have plenty of time to provide for your child and girlfriend.”

“It’s not that easy finding work.”

Motherfucker, are you even looking?! But you couldn’t say that, so instead, you went with. “Believe me, I get it. Still, you have to have a legacy first before you pass it onto your kid.”

“Hey,” he scoffed. “not all of us have a daddy in our back pocket who can give us a job.”

You snapped your gaze at Kimi, who shrunk under your stare. It’s not as if you told her to never tell anyone about your circumstance, but you felt that, as a grown woman, she didn’t need to be told that. You felt your skin prickling from everything, so you changed the subject.

“You guys are back together?”

They answered at the same time.

“Yes.”

“I mean…”

Kimi, who seemed so confident, snapped her gaze towards Trent. “What?”

He backpaddled. “I mean that we didn’t really talk about it.”

“Yeah, we didn’t talk, but I thought you sticking your tongue down my throat and saying, ‘I love you’ spoke for itself.”

You whistled. “Alright, let me give you guys some space-.”

“-No,” Kimi stopped you. “from the sound of it, you’re gonna be in my kid’s life since the dad wants to be a deadbeat.”

His three kids and two baby mamas before you weren’t red flags? Shaking your head, you opened your mouth, but Trent spoke for you.

“No, screw her and all the shit she’s trying to say! It’s not even her kid.”

You pointed at him. “Exactly. When the baby comes, and if I’m free, I’ll watch them. But I won’t drop everything to babysit; whether it’s a shift, or even just going out with friends. It’s not my kid.”

Kimi softened her gaze. “…Let me talk to him.”

You squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “I’ll check back in ten. You guys need anything?”

“Yeah,” Trent spoke up. “my car’s obviously gone to shit, could we ride back to your place after your shift?”

A year ago, you would’ve called yourself overdramatic for how you felt; but, you were setting boundaries. “I’ve kinda had a really rough shift. If…if you guys are gonna talk or do anything, could it be your place?”

A nice way of saying, ‘I don’t want you anywhere near me, Trent’.

“I can’t talk to Kimi in her own home?” He rolled his eyes.

“It’s my home too.” You tried to keep calm. “You or Kimi can call someone to take you anywhere else. I still have an hour and a half left.”

Kimi sighed. “I could call my mom.”

“No,” Trent shook his head. “we can stay. The Robby guy said to stay for another hour anyway for observation.

You pursed your lips. “How about you both talk it out and come to an agreement? I have to get back to work.”

Turning on your heel and out of the room, you left before either of them could stop you. Taking a deep breath, you checked back on the little girl with a bee sting, letting Robby off duty.

“How’d it go?” He asked, stepping outside.

Knowing Kimi, I may have to be a single mother before thirty, and I’ll be getting fucked over by a baby that wasn’t even fucked into me. Was what you wanted to say, but not only were you at work and many people were rushing past you, but it probably wouldn’t be an appropriate thing to say to your supervisor.

“Okay.” You settled on.

Michael Robinavitch had been a healthcare worker for almost thirty years (you estimated); of course he smelled bullshit.

“Trent seems like a Prince Charming.” He teased.

You knew he was being sarcastic, so you tried to respond in kind. “Right? Like, I know for certain that if Kimi was on life support right now, he’d pull the plug just to charge his phone.”

Robby cringed. “That bad?”

A part of you knew you should’ve just laughed it off and said ‘Of course not’; but both you as Kimi’s friend and you as a social worker battled each other. So, what came out was.

“Thanks for checking on my bee sting girl.” You smiled, moving back to the door.

“Hey,” he said your name. “is there anything I should know?”

You shrugged. “They’re just annoying. I mean, he’s low key controlling and just a bad person in general, but it’s not my decision what Kimi does about that.”

Shutting the door, that was the end of the conversation for you and Robby. The little girl was in higher spirits, and Kiara finally got through to her parents, who were then just making their way back from Philly. Meaning they’d be at the hospital around ten at night.

Kiara traded with you another ten minutes later, leaving you to do a quick sweep of new patients, and the very few who were still there from that morning. You didn’t touch Kimi and Trent’s room.

Peeked into it to see how it was going? You did once and saw that they were nowhere near done with talking. So, you finished your rounds, and had a single hour left before your shift was over. Selfishly, you wondered if you could just avoid their room and say you accidentally forgot to check on them, leaving them on their own to get a ride.

Then, you realized they’d probably come back to your place and kill you. So, instead, you’d give them another few minutes.

On your second night shift, you asked three doctors where their favorite places were to go to have a mental breakdown.

Your stepdad’s was ‘The Crashout Alleyway’ (a space that led to nowhere by the ambulance center. You were astonished but also worried how he knew that word; he chalked it up to treating a lot of teenagers), Shen’s was ‘Secret but Sketchy Downstairs Bathroom’ (take the stairs in the lobby and go down to the basement, also accessible via elevator), and Ellis showed you ‘The Locker Hallway’ (literally how it sounds).

You hoped you only had to use one that day.

Deciding that the Locker Hallway was for only needing a moment to breathe, you headed there. Yet, just as soon as you leaned against the wall and closed your eyes, someone said your name. You opened them and saw Melissa in front of you, carrying two water bottles and holding one out to you.

“Oh,” you smiled, taking the bottle. “thanks.”

She nodded. “I saw you running around and you looked a little flustered.”

“Ah,” you hummed. “you were watching me?”

“Not in a weird way!” She quickly defended. “And I didn’t mean that you were stressed and couldn’t handle anything. I-.”

“-Mel,” you reassured. “thank you.”

She grinned, opening her water. “You’re welcome.”

Both of you stood there, just silently grounding yourselves and drinking water. It must’ve been hella slow if she managed to have time to check on you. You knew how busy it could get, so you were happy that the cases weren’t as stressful for them as they were for you.

Two patients named Kimi and Trent lingered in your mind.

“So, what’s your story?” You turned to Mel.

“Mine?” She asked. “I mean, my sister and I grew up in Chicago, our mom died last year, and we moved out here seven months ago.”

You nodded. “How do you like Pittsburgh?”

“It’s nice; not as crazy as home.”

“How old’s your sister?”

“Two minutes older than me.” She smiled. “Her name’s Becca.”

“Aw,” you took a drink. “you guys close?”

“Very. Do you have any siblings?”

“Not any that I know of.” You chuckled. “I was the result of spring break in New York. All I know of my dad is his first name and what he majored in.”

She chuckled. “All I remember about my dad is that he laughed really loud. He and my mom got divorced when Becca and I were three.”

“Ah,” you smiled. “we’re a part of the ‘Dead Mom and Unknown Dads’ club.”

“Your mom passed away?”

You nodded. “When I was twenty-two.”

She hummed, holding up her water bottle. “To Dead Moms and Unknown Dads.”

You clinked your bottle with hers, and you both drank. Then, you admitted. “I mean, my mom married a guy a few years before she died. He’s nice and all but I’m…not really super close to him. So not completely unknown but still.”

“What’s he like?”

“He actually works the night shift. You wanna take a guess?”

You didn’t know why you were doing this. Maybe you related to her even though you just knew her for a collective ten minutes, or maybe there was something about Melissa King that just made you feel safe enough to tell her anything.

Good lord, she was like you when you were in your social worker element.

“I don’t know a lot of the night shift staff.” She admitted.

“Guess. Maybe you know him.”

She stared ahead for a moment, thinking. Before you could wonder if she was going to answer or not, Kiara entered the hallway and approached you, a rattled look in her eyes.

“You need to come with me.”

Without another word, you followed her. You thought it would be something bad; an elderly man who fell and couldn’t get up, a kid who cut off his finger from playing with a knife because his parents were neglectful, or even something as horrible as comforting a family from a housefire.

“Whenever your roommate and her boyfriend fight, how would you rate the aggression on a scale from one to ten?” Kiara asked.

Shit. You huffed. “Maybe a six?”

“They’re at an eight in my opinion.” She sighed. “Let’s try and deescalate the situation.”

“Heard.”

You both made it to the room and saw two other patients outside, watching Trent and Kimi standing and fighting as if it was the newest episode of Love is Blind. Both you and Kiara went in and were welcomed to yelling.

“-all of this is just a mistake!” Trent shouted.

“A mistake?!” Kimi scoffed. “A mistake is stepping in dogshit, a mistake is running into someone on the street, a mistake is your father deciding to cum in your mother!”

If you weren’t at work, you would’ve laughed. Hell, besides that, the other reason was because you were just beyond horrified Kiara had to witness this.

Trent soured his face. “Real fucking mature, cunt.”

“Hey,” Kiara jumped in before you could. “let’s not use language, please. Let’s just take a step back from all this for a second.”

“I’ll take a step back when she,” Trent sneered at Kimi. “stops being overdramatic.”

She laughed. “Oh, I’m overdramatic?!”

“Hey, okay.” you finally stepped in. “Guys, we can’t help if we don’t know what’s going on, and we can’t really know what’s going on if you keep yelling and accusing each other.”

Kimi took a deep breath, but her voice still shook. “I��ve tried to tell him I’m not doing any of this without him. I want him to be in the baby’s life, but he doesn’t.”

“I never said that!” He rebutted. “I said that I don’t know if I’d be good enough.”

Come on, Trent. You mocked him. Fourth time’s a charm. But instead, you said aloud. “Why do you think that?”

He didn’t have an answer, and you knew he wouldn’t. Because he’s a fucking liar.

“I just don’t know if I want it.” He finally said.

Kimi’s face dropped. “Well, I do!”

“Good for you, Kimberly.”

“Okay, okay,” Kiara jumped back in. “this is a very challenging topic to talk about, but it needs to be done. It doesn’t have to be now, especially if you can’t do it without getting angry at each other.”

“I wanna talk now.” Kimi stated.

Trent rolled his eyes, sitting on a chair. “I can talk.”

“You have to want to.” Kiara said.

“I want to talk to her.” He responded like a twelve-year-old boy who got caught being horrible to a girl and acting as if it wasn’t his fault; you know the one.

“Okay.” Kiara took it in stride, then glanced over at you, saying your name softly. “You know Trent and Kimi personally, would you feel comfortable leading a discussion?”

What choice did you have? You nodded. “Of course. So…we already know an underlining concern is commitment; both towards each other and to the baby.”

“I’ll pay child support.” Trent immediately said.

“Okay.” You sighed. “Kimi, how does that make you feel?”

She glared at you. “Can you please talk to us like you’re you? You’d never say this stuff if you weren’t at work.”

“But I am.” You stated. “Besides, this is genuinely a better way to talk. So, how do you feel about what Trent said?”

Kimi sighed, sitting on the bed. “I feel ignored, and that he doesn’t even really want to try for me, and-.”

He scoffed. “Come on-.”

“-Trent,” you stopped him, patience running thin. “please let Kimi continue.”

“When am I gonna talk?”

“When she’s finished.” You hardened your tone. “Kimi?”

She sighed. “I know I can’t force him to stay the whole time, and that’s fine. This morning I…I just thought the baby was making him happy; making us happy. I don’t know where this all came from. I don’t know how I’ll raise a baby on my own. Now, if I had help from my roommate then that’d be different-.”

“-Woah!” Was all you could say upon her accusation.

Kiara stepped in. “Kimi, this isn’t about her, it’s about you and Trent.”

“If the baby’s gonna stay with me, then it will be about her.” She huffed. “I have a job, I pay my bills, I’ve done shit for her, she could help me out.”

“I won’t be a second mother.” You stated, crossing your arms and sinking your nails into your skin.

Kiara said your name. “It’s okay. Alright, we cannot keep having this conversation if we lose focus. We can take a break-.”

“-No, we’re doing this now.” Kimi interrupted, staring at Trent. “What’re you so afraid of?”

He didn’t look at her. “That my son will be just like me.”

“Bullshit. If you weren’t gonna man up and at least be in my life after this, then you shouldn’t have begged me to do it raw!”

“What do you want me to do?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Get you a promise ring? Move in with you? Marry you and have a white picket fence house? Fuck’s sake, marriage is just a piece of paper.”

“So are your three kids’ birth certificates.” You mumbled, unable to hold your tongue.

Trent drew his gaze at you. “What was that?”

You backtracked. “Nothing.”

“No,” he glared. “say it with your fucking chest.”

Kiara said your name gently. “Don’t. Trent, this isn’t a productive way of-.”

“-Come on, say it, pussy!”

You did. “Your three kids’ birth certificates are also pieces of paper.”

He laughed. He fucking laughed. “You’re a piece of shit.”

“Trent,” Kiara gritted her teeth. “please do not use that kind of language.” She said your name. “Stand down.”

He huffed. “You know what? Fuck this.” He smirked at Kimi. “Have fun giving birth and looking ugly as fuck with a lot of stretch marks-.”

You had it. “-Let’s call your mom right now and tell her that every single one she got from birthing you was a mistake.”

Kiara and Kimi said your name in a way you never heard either of them say it before; with such a mix of shock and disgust you couldn’t even fathom. Again, to your utter surprise, all Trent did was laugh. Albeit, without insult.

“And I bet your mom never thought that about you.”

Before his words could even register within you, Kiara gently wrapped her arm around your shoulders. “Okay, we’re gonna take a break. If you can’t be around each other, then one of you can stay and the other can step into one of the free rooms. We have one located right by the gender-neutral bathroom.”

“Whatever.” Was Trent’s response. Kimi said nothing, not even looking at you.

Kiara led you out of the room, and into a (mostly) empty hallway. It was as if your ribcage was clutching your heart as you could feel just the word ‘anger’ pulse throughout your body.

“That was not okay.” Even something that sounded like she was attacking you sounded so soft coming from her.

“Which part?” You asked.

“A lot of it, but especially what came from you.”

Your jaw dropped. “Did you not just hear-?”

“-I did, and I’m sorry I let you get involved in the first place.” She said. “I had no idea the situation would be so delicate, but it was going to be personal no matter what. I accept that I shouldn’t have let you intervene, but I will not accept how you responded to Trent and Kimi. I want you to go to the break room, take a few minutes, then come back and apologize.”

You bit your tongue; not to stop yourself from saying something, but to not laugh. Maybe Trent was cooking with only being able to laugh at what he personally thought was bullshit. “Kiara, I can’t just-.”

“I cannot guarantee you that you will feel worse than you do now, but that is because of your prior relationships with the patients.” She stated. “What I can guarantee is that you will hear worse things said to you; they’ll be from impatient women who feel entitled, and they’ll be from fathers who are holding their dead child. I know it’s hard to keep a level head with people you have history with, but that’s what we’re here for. In here, Kimi is not your roommate, and Trent is not her boyfriend you have gripes with; they are patients.”

You could have told her everything about Trent. How he threw a cup at you just for making a small comment, how he’d belittle Kimi when it didn’t seem like he was, hell, how (at least you heard from Kimi) there were times he’d punch the nearest thing to her.

But, you couldn’t; it would just send you both down an endless rabbit hole of ‘what ifs’. And you were too exhausted for that.

So, you said. “Okay.”

She squeezed your shoulder. “I’m proud of you for all that you’ve done today. It might’ve been easier on the rest of the staff, but I won’t lie, it was kinda hell for both of us.”

You hummed, and you were sad you didn’t have the strength to even smile. You made your way into the break room, glancing through the window on the door to see if anyone was there. When you saw no one, you entered and leaned against the shut door, inhaling deeply and shutting your eyes.

You’re not gonna cry. You told yourself. You’re not gonna cry because you have half an hour of your shift left, and yeah you gotta do one tomorrow-.

“Hey.” You never knew one word could sound so tender.

Opening your eyes, you saw Heather Collins sitting on a couch that was out of complete eyesight from the window. You swallowed thickly. Out of all the people to be in the breakroom, why her?

“Rough day?” She asked, moving over for you to sit down.

Yeah, I’ve had to talk to so many people I have to identify them by tragedy, my roommate is delusional about her boyfriend, said boyfriend is toxic at best, abusive at worst, and I fucked your boyfriend…or I don’t know who he is to you.

But again, you couldn’t say all of that, so you went with half of it.

“My roommate and her boyfriend got in a car accident, I just found out she’s pregnant with his kid, and I was completely unprofessional.”

“Damn,” she seethed. “that’s a great first day.”

“Yeah…” You sat beside her.

“Do you want me to lie and say it gets better?”

You chuckled. “No, I know it gets worse.”

“Yeah, but you get better at handling all the stuff that goes on here.”

“I guess.” You found yourself smiling. “Was your day crap?”

“Eh,” she sighed. “it’s not the worst. I had to remove a pencil from a guy’s calf.”

“How’d that get in there?” You laughed.

“Says he fell on it. Robby thinks his coworker stabbed him, but what does he know?”

You nodded. “Yeah…”

She eyed you. “Did you know him before you got here?”

“The guy who fell on a pencil, or Robby?”

“Robby.” She elaborated. “I mean, him and Jack are close, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

You shrugged. “Probably. Like, maybe at my mom’s wedding or…I don’t know, maybe her funeral?”

How horrible was it that you didn’t even know how long Jack worked at the ER? How horrible would it have been if you actually met or even saw Robby at a wedding or a funeral and you couldn’t even remember?

“How’d they meet?” She smiled. “Your mom and Jack?”

It was a good story, one where it was probably the only thing that made you believe in love. “She was in a CVS at like ten at night, and this one girl attacked her when she was going to her car. The girl landed a punch on her, but my mom did everything; kick, claw, even nearly bit a chunk of her hand off. Jack stepped in to pull my mom off, but only after the other woman was completely down and not getting up. He checked my mom’s injuries, called the police, then showed her some ways to take down someone he learned in the military. Got her number before he left.”

Collins laughed. “That sounds like him. You got a good dad.”

All you could do was awkwardly smile like that one photo of Anthony Mackie you saw going around on the internet. As Collins was about to say something, the door opened, and in came Trinity Santos.

“What’s up, party people?” She snorted, going over to the fridge.

Collins tilted her head towards you. “She came in two minutes ago, I came in four. We’re almost done.”

“Yeah, same.” She pulled out a lunch bag. “I ate three M&M’s today. Starshine, how’s your batshit insane roommate and her boyfriend?”

Something within you snapped. Not enough for you to go full on crazy, but enough for Collins and Santos to immediately know something was wrong.

“Okay,” Santos whistled, taking a bite of a sandwich she pulled out. “I won’t mention it.”

“You got half an hour left.” Collins comforted. “It’ll be over.”

You shook your head. “No, it won’t. Because she lives with me, and she thinks that he’ll stay with her.”

Santos furrowed her brow. “Like stay with her as her boyfriend, or stay with her at your place?”

“Probably both at this rate.”

“You feel comfortable around him?”

“He threw a cup at me once and joked about throwing a fork at me twice.”

“Say the word and I’ll beat the shit out of him.”

Collins shook her head. “Trinity.”

She looked at her as if it was strange she didn’t make a threat. “God forbid I’m preventing violence against women!”

“No,” you stood up, gathering yourself. “I get it but…but…”

But why is she still with him? Why, after all the shit he did to her and has done to me, does she still go back? Fuck all, I should know this! I’ve tried talking to her about all the signs, about how I’d completely support and help her when she’d leave him for good. And why is she not the first fucking woman I’ve ever met to be okay with bringing a kid into this world without any safety net of commitment from the dad?!

“Oh god…” you said with horror. “maybe I am a Conservative?”

“Woah!” Came from Collins.

“Take that back right now!” Santos joined.

Collins said your name, standing. “Let’s not talk like that.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s smart to get pregnant by a guy who already has two baby mamas!” You squealed. “No, Kimberly, I don’t care if you’re giving him his first son. What legacy is he going to carry on, being a prick?”

Santos put her hand on your shoulder. “Okay, maybe you should just sit down.”

“And I get it,” you kept going. “shit happens. But holy hell, at least to me, if I’m getting pregnant and I want it and the guy, he better nut up and buy me a ring or I’ll kill him. I’ll actually kill him, Trinity.”

“Yes,” she sat you down on the couch. “I’ll help you.”

“I just…” you took a deep breath. “she actually talked like I’d be responsible for taking care of her kid if Trent leaves. I would no matter what because I can’t let it die, but it isn’t mine. She’s having the baby like it’s a fucking hobby and not a human and…and…”

And you let it get to you. Many would say it was reasonable, and a part of you gave yourself the grace to feel anger. Still, the moment you declared yourself a social worker through your major in undergrad, you vowed to yourself you would remain as professional and understanding as you could.

And this was the first time you reacted so horribly.

“I just dumped all of this on you,” you rubbed your face. “I’m so sorry.”

Santos squeezed your shoulder. “Don’t be.”

Collins nodded. “We’ve all been there. You’re doing good.”

You wanted to shake your head and say that you weren’t, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Instead, you gave a trembling smile.

“Thanks.” Sighing heavily, you stood up. “I gotta go apologize.”

“You wanna take another minute or two?” Collins asked.

“No, I got it.” You turned back before leaving. “You guys here tomorrow?”

“I am.” Santos said. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, that sucks.” She snickered. “Give me your number before you leave. We’ll go get coffee.”

That made you feel a little better. “Okay. See you guys.”

They wished you goodbye as you left. Taking perhaps your hundredth deep breath of the day, you glanced into the spare room by the gender-neutral bathroom; praying that if Kimi and Trent did have to separate, you hoped you’d find Kimi first.

Of course you didn’t. It was Trent, still on his phone, sitting in there.

You quickly rehearsed a basic, yet hopefully touching, apology in your head, before knocking on the door and entering.

“Hey.” You greeted.

He took one look at you and rolled his eyes before returning to his phone. You sighed.

“I’m sorry about how I reacted.” You began. “I wasn’t professional at all. You and Kimi deserve my entire attention and care.”

Trent didn’t even look up.

Breathing through your nose, you continued, deciding to add a bit of your own, personal taste to it. “I know I’m not your favorite person, and that’s okay. I assume that we equally care about Kimi and want what is best for her. Neither of us can stop you from doing what you want, and that’s fine. Still, a baby is a big deal. Whatever Kimi decides to do is her choice. I…I honestly don’t know what else to say to you.”

You saw him press his lips together, and his eyes grew as he stared down at the screen. It was almost as if your mere presence just disgusted him. You decided to take your leave. Giving him a nod, you turned and reached for the door.

“Will I get in trouble if I call you a fucking bitch?”

‘Straw that broke the camel’s back’: Idiom. Meaning: “A minor or routine action that causes an unpredictably large and sudden reaction due to cumulative effect of previous small actions.”

And boy, did it surely break when Trent said that.

You exited the room without saying another word, the tightness in your chest becoming suffocating.

Of course, when you looked up as soon as you left, that had to have been the moment you made eye contact with Dr. Robby; Michael to you.

The only breath coming into your lungs was by borderline hyperventilating as you immediately booked it down the hallway. Yet, you didn’t look like you were having a panic attack (in your eyes anyway). It was a talent you practically perfected; looking as if you were walking with a purpose instead of on the brink of a breakdown.

Yet, Robby had seen that look of shame in your eyes before you could mask it, and he was already on your tail.

“Where are you going?” He asked, catching up to your side.

“Basement.” Was all you said.

“Why?” He demanded. You shook your head, pushing the doors to the lobby open. He said your name. “Why?”

You swallowed thickly, still booking it through the crowded room, pushing past all kinds of people. “Tired.”

“You gotta give me more than one word.” He grunted, following close behind.

Making it through the crowd, you opened the stairwell and began your descent. Robby, of course, still calling for you. It wasn’t until you were two flights down from the bottom, did he say your name loudly. You finally turned.

“What happened?” He asked, using a strict tone that would’ve fit if you had met him as your supervisor first.

You glanced to the side, lip trembling. “Nothing.”

Robby scoffed, and it almost sounded like a laugh. “You come out of a room almost crying, run through Chairs and down the stairs, and it’s nothing. I’m not buying it.”

“It’s been a long day, and I couldn’t keep it together and have a panic attack in my car like a normal person.” You spat. “Big fucking deal.”

He sighed heavily, placing his head inside his hands. Then, pulling them away, he said. “You’re right. It’s been a long day, and it’s been weird. I probably didn’t treat you how I should’ve at all today, and I’m sorry. Look…I’m just gonna assume that something bad in that room happened to cause you to leave like this. Whatever that is, I just want you to know I’m on your side.”

Your heart stammered, the words sounding almost foreign in your ears. You blinked. “What?”

Robby took a step forward, putting his hands on your upper arms. “I’m on your side.”

He didn’t force anything out of you. He saw you in distress, didn’t ask any other questions, but he was with you.

Your body trembled slightly beneath his hands, a quivering breath escaping your lungs as your eyes trailed down to his mouth. There were a few grey hairs within his beard that you hadn’t noticed before, but his lips were what occupied your mind. You didn’t want to look at him; you didn’t want to know if he was going to push you away or pull you in.

Shutting your eyes, you pressed your lips against his. It came back to you, that one night you shared with him. It must have been the same for Robby, as his hands, once frozen, moved down to wrap around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. You enveloped your arms around his shoulders, still feeling only the thick air and him all around you.

Chest to chest, you completely lost yourself in him. Never in all your life have you been kissed like this. Never with such a primal desperation that somehow had nothing to do with sex, but just with pure unadulterated passion.

Just as you had to come up for breath, he pulled away first, stilling you.

Opening your eyes, you saw what you always knew was going to be there. The look in his own gaze, saying: ‘We shouldn’t have done that.’

When you didn’t see it the first time you kissed him that night, or when he took off your clothes and kneeled between your legs, bowing his head like you were something holy to him, you thought you were out of the woods.

But, in that cramped, stairwell with only one, blaring light source above you, you saw it clear as day.

You both pulled away at the same time, and all you could think of doing was fix your shirt.

He said your name so softly, you couldn’t take it anymore. Turning back on your heel, you rushed down the stairs, making it to the basement door and throwing it open.

Robby didn’t follow you.

There wasn’t a lot down there; some scattered old medical supplies probably from the 90s, the elevator, and doors that led into abandoned conference rooms. It was safe to assume that it was only medical staff who knew about this, and even then, you weren’t sure how many did.

You went into the bathroom Shen showed you last week and slammed the door. The light was fading, but still working, the entire wall and floor were tiled an ugly brown, and there was only one sink and one stall. You wondered why bothering putting up a stall if it was the only toilet, but you guess that just gave the room personality.

Entering the stall, you released a sob, yet no tears fell. Sobbing turned to a rough intake of breaths, holding your head in your hands as you sat on the floor. You thought you’d got better over the years of how to handle moments like these.

But, just as how it was in high school and college, once you were in a state of distress, you felt everything.

Your roommate probably hated you, and she would forever choose her boyfriend over you.

You had really no other friends outside of her, most of them moving away or getting married and having kids.

You basically failed your first day shift; both having a mental breakdown at the end of it and snapping at two of the patients.

You were a stranger in your childhood house; your mother was gone, but Jack still lived there. He lived in a place where you had created the most memories with your mom, how could he possibly know what that felt like?

And you were a screw up. You slept with someone so much older than you, and of course, it didn’t matter to him, and he was your superior.

Then…just as it crescendo into a cacophony of noise…all fell silent.

You were left alone with yourself, and your heaving breaths; your thoughts turning to static. At the end of it all, you only shed two single tears. Perhaps you were healing if that was the worst of it? Pinching the bridge of your nose, you looked down at your watch.

6:45.

You didn’t know if you were down there for five minutes or fifteen. Still, only then remembering the other patients you needed to check on and feeling the shame of leaving Kiara high and dry, you picked yourself up.

At the same time, the bathroom door opened.

“Sorry,” you wiped your eyes. “I’ll be out soon.” Straightening yourself up, you opened the stall door, almost dreading to see who it was.

You couldn’t even make a sound before two hands pulled you by the shirt, throwing you into the tiled wall. Your head collided with it first, sending you toppling over your feet and onto the floor.

Groaning, you cradled your head and looked up, seeing Trent stand above you. Fear hit you like a bullet, trying to scramble to your feet.

He kicked you in the ribs, making you fall again. A cry broke through your lips, the pain sinking in like a rusty nail. Trent said nothing as he kneeled beside you, using one hand to angle your face, and the other to raise his fist in the air before punching you.

You had never been hit before. It didn’t feel like you thought it would. Your nose was burning and heavy all at the same time, and there were two Trent’s for a second before you blinked and you saw his face clearer.

He didn’t look angry; not how you knew him to be. His face wasn’t in an exaggerated frown that he always used when Kimi said something with harmless fun. His eyes weren’t heated with the same, burning rage you saw when you’d call him out on his behavior.

His face was like a mask with nothing behind it.

“Stop!” You begged, heaving.

Trent said nothing, raising his fist again.

You dug your heel into the space just above his left knee, sending him down onto the ground.

“Fuck!” He grunted, cradling where you hit.

Getting onto your feet, you didn’t make it far as Trent grabbed your pants, yanking you back down.

He grabbed your shirt, pulling you underneath him once again, and wrapping his hands around your neck.

Barely any air left your lungs as you tried to fight him off. Your hand went into his hair, pulling on it with all your might until you thought you’d pull it out of his scalp. He cried, letting go of you, and you did as well.

You don’t know what possessed you then. When you were free, you dug your other hand into your underwear, pulling out your sanitary pad, and smacking it in his face.

Trent groaned, falling completely onto the floor, deep red blood now coating his nose and chin. You jumped up, running out the door. Quickly finding the stairway, you ran up the steps, trying your best not to trip. You thought you were at the floor of the parking lot, yet when you pushed through it, you were back in the lobby.

It was only then you remembered how you put your purse, and your keys, in a locker with Kiara…shit.

Trying to make yourself presentable on the fly, you walked through the lobby. Your nose and ribs ached, and your throat was sore. Luckily, the only person you recognized was Perlah, but she was too busy taking a patient’s vitals.

Still having your employee ID on you, you scanned it to get into the ER. Everything seemed to have died down when you came in, but that didn’t mean people weren’t still running around from room to room.

You were being irresponsible. You probably had ten more minutes before your shift was officially over, and you didn’t know who your replacement would be, yet you were going to leave anyway.

Swallowing thickly, your eyes burned as you looked around. You wanted to move, but it seemed easier to just stick to the wall, watching everything pass you by.

"Are you okay?"

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