#nswish

Sasha doesn’t realize how much being in the chair makes a difference until Jon comes back into his office and stops right on his track when he spots her. He blinks a few times, like he’s got a hard time processing what he’s seeing, and were it any other boss Sasha has ever had, she’d immediately feel a pang of anger, fear, and defiance. 

The pang in her stomach right now is absolutely none of those things. She has to resist the urge to cross her legs immediately. Instead, she grins. “Jonathan,” she says, with her best serious voice. 

“Yes,” says Jon, still frozen, eyes a little too wide, before seemingly coming back to himself. “Is... there... anything you needed?” he asks, and, god; it sounds so professional, coming off him. If she started to talk about a statement, right now, he’d go with it and not question this further at all. Head right back into work.

It’s almost six pm, however, and Sasha has no question about anything related to work. 

“Come here,” she says; commands. 

Jon does. Leaves the stack of papers he was holding on at the edge of his desk, and moves closer until their knees bump into each other. There he wavers on his feet, looking down at her as if waiting for further instructions, and the heat in her stomach grows almost unbearable. She tugs at his shirt, pulls him until he’s, slightly awkwardly, straddling her lap, and she let her fingers run over the back of his neck. He’s warm and flushed, which is quite rewarding.

“This is highly inappropriate,” he tells her. but his voice is fond and soft; almost shy.

“Feel free to fill the appropriate form next week then,” Sasha retorts, and when Jon snorts she suddenly grasps his hair, enjoying the small noise that comes off him, before guiding him down and kissing him properly.

*

“Will you stop hovering?” Jon asks.

“I’m not hovering, I’m making sure you’re actually eating.” 

“That’s literally what hovering is --”

“I swear to god, if you keep stalling I am actually going to feed you myself--”

Martin flushes the minute the words are out of his mouth, but it’s too late to go back on it. Jon’s expression is frozen into something sweet and startled, like he cannot believe Martin would go to such a length, like he cannot believe Martin would care, and just for that Martin is itching to forego any embarrassment and pick up the fork in front of Jon and make good on his threat. 

The best part is, he thinks, a little bit giddily, brain a little fried and heart beating way too fast, Jon might actually let him. Jon might frown, pretending to be exasperated and a little bit amused, but if Martin does it he’ll open his mouth obediently, and it’ll probably won’t take any more than a few bites for his expression to melt into something gentle and soft --

Jon sighs, cutting Martin’s fantasy out unwillingly, makes a show of taking his fork and mutters: “Fine, then; if this must be done --”

“You’re acting like i’m torturing you!” Martin protests. 

Jon doesn’t dignify that with an answer, swallowing his food instead, then stares at him with raised eyebrows. Martin feels an incredulous laughter bubble up his throat. 

“What?” he goes. “D’you expect a reward or something?” 

“As a matter of fact--” Jon starts primly, and he’s so impossible and adorable that Martin can’t help leaning sideway, grabbing Jon’s chin, and kissing him soundly on the lips.

“Good job,” he says, happy to realize it’s really all he needs to say to get Jon’s shoulders to drop a little, his eyes a little dazed and so, so very sweet. “Let’s keep going like that, alright?”

               Both opted for a movie the first evening they were alone, American Graffiti, of course that had been Jughead’s choice. About an hour into the movie, just as Mackenzie Phillips’ character decided to hop in a stranger’s car, she noticed the familiar sounds of her boyfriend’s slow and steady breathing; a sound that tipped her off that he was in fact asleep. She gazed up at his peaceful face, his beanie had fallen off and his hair was ruffled adorably; Betty smiled contently to herself before reaching for the remote and shutting the TV off before drifting off to sleep herself a few minutes later.

               Hours later Betty was jerked awake, the menu screen from the Netflix menu flashing her eye, but that wasn’t what woke her; it was the high strung motions of her boyfriend.

               “No, no, let her go,” he whined. “Please take me instead, I will do anything you want just don’t hurt her.”

               A frown creased Betty’s eyebrows; she reached up to stroke Jughead’s face. “Juggie,” she whispered, softly. “Juggie, please wake up.

               Jughead’s stormy eyes flew open, he was panting, and took a moment to get his bearings. “Betts, you’re here, you’re safe,” he swallowed, tears started flowing freely down his cheeks. “Thank god, you’re safe, I had a dream Malachai  kept his word, that he hurt you, oh god…”

               Betty was the only person that knew was truly transpired that night with the Ghoulies, he had been stomped and punched, yet his greatest fear had not been for the wellbeing of the Serpents or the Southside, but for her well-being. She pulled his head down against her chest, stroking his hair lightly. “Shhh, shhh, I’m right here,” she crooned. “I am not going anywhere, I’m right here.”

               When the sobs slowed and Jughead was composed enough, he looked up at her. “I’m sorry for waking you, I probably won’t be able to fall asleep and I don’t want to keep you up.”

               Betty shook head. “No, no, if you can’t sleep I will stay awake with you,” she reassured him, adamantly. “We can keep busy, play board games, watch another movie, maybe…have sex.”

               Jughead quirked an eyebrow. “Sex, my snotty meltdown has turned you on?” He laughed darkly.  “You’re a strange one, Coop.”

               Betty laced their fingers together. “I know sometimes when I am feeling a little on edge, an orgasm makes me feel calm, whether you’re there to help or not.” She explained with a blush. “If you can’t sleep…we could have sex.”