#reader x secondo

And there’s no real space for attachment in any of that. He’s never wanted it. It’s been fine, better than fine, without it.

None of those books on his shelves go beyond single issues (wonderful, decadent, Satan-honoring issues, to be sure) to volumes. Throughout the years, he’s had a handful of lovers who have been more devoted to him, and he to them, but it’s never been like this. 

It’s never been like you.

You hadn’t asked anything of him, and he’d found himself pursuing you, craving you, before he’d even realized what he’d been doing. Eyes searching for you during services. Lingering a little too long on your face, and your body. Noticing your laugh, the tone of your voice. Little things, perfectly explainable. 

Until they’d become bigger things. 

(But others have caught his eye before. He’s a man with an eye for beautiful, captivating things. This is no different. He simply appreciates what he sees, is all. It’s fine.)

Until he’d become distracted by your presence, then by the very thought of you. 

(But he fantasizes often. When he’s not busy with a partner, he indulges himself. He takes matters into his own hands, as it were. So what if you feature in more and more of his private fantasies?)

Until you’re in his arms, in his bed, on his tongue, in his heart so deep he can’t get you out, nor would he ever want to. It shouldn’t feel like this, it shouldn’t be like this, like something new and thrilling every time. It should be classifiable, a this or a that. 

There is no shelf onto which he can place you. 

And he doesn’t want to close the book, write the final sentence, file you away and move on, even though that’s what he’s always done. 

If this is madness, he’s never been more delighted by it. Nor more confused. 

Just another night, just another taste, just another moment stolen with you - not that he has to steal anything; he gets what he wants, he accepts what is offered, he indulges. But it feels like stealing, it feels hushed and hurried, it feels hungry. 

It feels - he feels - out of control. 

(But he can store it, he can work towards categorizing it; he can hold just enough of himself back so that at the end of the night, when you’re breathing deep and even, resting in his arms, he can catch his breath and remind himself of who he is and what he wants and what his purpose is meant to be, and all of the things that go along with that. He can. He has to. Because if he can’t - )

The shelf breaks one night. 

You’re riding him on his bed - what he’s come to think of as your bed, his and yours, because he hates to be alone in it these days, avoids it if at all possible - and he’s looking up with something deeper than carnal lust in his eyes as you take him so well. 

The usual encouragements are silent on his lips. 

It’s not that he doesn’t mean them, or want to say them; you are his good girl, his sweet one, his precious treasure. You are. It’s just that there’s a hand around his throat and it feels like the hand of fate, and it chokes him as he watches you fall apart, bringing tears to his eyes as he feels the horrible, twisting, gnawing, desperate rush of love fill his veins. 

He fills you not long after. Pounding up, holding your hips as he punches noises of bliss out of you, letting go at last with a whine that he’s never allowed himself to make. 

He’s losing control. 

He likes it. 

He’s terrified. 

And then you fall down beside him, sweaty skin sticky and warm and pressed close. 

Your hand brushes across his face, gathers the tears he doesn’t even realize he’s letting free. Happy tears, but he feels a sensation that twists in his gut and makes it impossible to meet your eyes. 

“Baby?” you say softly. “What is it? Are you okay?”

Baby. 

He gasps, hoping he can play it off like the regular exertions from fucking. But you’re here, and you’re so soft, and your hand is on his face, and no one’s ever cared to check in on him, no one’s ever wanted to. No one’s seen him, really seen him, and you’re you, and he’s - 

I’m perfectly fine, is what he wants to say. Don’t worry about me. Let me get you some water. Shall we take this to the shower, clean up together? Or: if you can still speak, I haven’t done my job. 

But he’s the one who is speechless. 

He’s the one who’s shaken and overwhelmed. 

And tears are still spilling out of his eyes, tracing down his temples. He can’t breathe. 

Is this what love feels like? It’s horrible. He never wants it to stop. 

Secondo can’t answer. The words will come, later, but for now, he rolls to his side and curls himself into you, catching his breath, holding tight to the first and only thing he knows fits on no shelf, and cannot be constrained to one book in his mind. 

“Baby,” you repeat, voice soft as a promise, and press kisses to the top of his head. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” 

“Amore mio it’s getting late, don’t you have early duties tomorrow?” Secondo murmured slowly.

You can only whine back, it’s been a long hard week without him when he was off for his duties in Italy. The first day you tell yourself that you would be fine, second day is agony but you hold yourself , by the third day you start calling him before bed.

“I just want to hear your voice” your mewl at him.

That always seems to melt him, you can hear him sigh trying to hold himself.

“Alright Amore, would you like me to tell you a story as you sleep?”