voidpixies

[voidpixies]

system failure (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, spanking, fingering, physical violence, hacking, intimidation, stalking, angst

summary: people cope with heartbreak in different ways, but you never expected this from Roman-- is it heartbreak or possession, though?

word count: 9,479

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a/n: this gif was too fitting to not use it twice tihi (you'll see), and this chapter is so JUICYYYY OUFFFF one of my favs so far, hope u enjoy!!<33

The bell above the bakery door chimed softly as I left it, a gust of warm air laced with sugar and butter following me out onto the quiet Thursday morning, eleven days later. 

264 hours.

15,840 minutes.

Eleven fucking days without Roman Godfrey.

... I felt like I was on the brink of death.

The world felt muted ever since I left his office, like someone had turned the saturation down on everything but the pastry bag in my hand, warm and a bit sticky at the bottom from the fresh (last) croissant I had practically begged for. My coffee steamed in the other, my sunglasses perched high enough on my nose to hide the wreckage Roman Godfrey had left on my face-- puffy eyes, and a new hollowness in my body that no amount of sleep, time, or food could fix. 

I hadn't stopped crying. Not one day. This was torture.

It was over between us; I would never see Roman again. The man whom I had spent months pining for had discarded me like no one ever had before, and he had left me with the biggest emotional scar of my life-- no, emotional gushing wound. 

So... pastries. Pastries. Yes, pastries. I was going to eat my way through this, alone and isolated, until I somehow managed to dig myself out of this hole and get a new job with a normal boss. Wouldn't it be good to have a normal workplace-appropriate relationship with a new boss? Preferably someone who was a woman. That way, all of this could be avoided completely. I had to try to look at this positively-- now that Roman was gone, I was free to cross my legs and masturbate without permission. I didn't need anyone's permission anymore, and that was...

Horrible. 

Ugh.

I missed the nausea of waiting for him to come into work. I missed the burning feeling of his large palm striking my ass until I whined and squirmed in his lap. I missed the games-- our games. And worst of all, in the midst of all my grief and misery, I found myself taking comfort in the fact that I was the one going through it, and not some other woman. Me. He had hurt me. In the worst way possible, it made me feel special, like I had been chosen, and...

Holy mother of fuck, I needed a therapist. 

But I was yanked out of my misery for just a moment when I held the door open for a lovely elderly couple, braving a smile that didn't reach my covered eyes, and that was when I spotted something way too familiar when I closed the door-- no, someone. 

I squinted past the haze of steam rising from my coffee and felt my chest twist before I even registered who it was-- Peter Rumancek.

Oh my.

He was standing just outside the small health-food deli across the street, squinting down into a paper bag like he was trying to identify a sandwich he hadn't actually ordered. His tie was crooked, jacket open, a soft brown curl stuck to the side of his cheek like he had rushed out without checking a mirror. The sleeves of his blazer were pushed up to his forearms in that half-practical, half-hopelessly rumpled way he always wore them, like he was still getting used to life behind a desk. But even in a suit, Peter always looked like he belonged somewhere else-- like he'd be more at home barefoot in a greenhouse, or riding shotgun in some junked-out truck with the windows down.

I always wondered how Peter ended up a paralegal. In another universe, I bet he'd be some nomad werewolf type. 

He didn't see me at first when I approached-- he was just standing there, quietly trying to balance a sandwich and the awkward length of his limbs all at once, minding his own business. But when he looked up, like he felt me looking, his entire face changed and broke out into a trying smile as he started crossing the busy street. 

"Oh," Peter said at the sight of my sunglasses, soft as always, already piecing together why I wore them on this cloudy day. "Oh no. Hey, kid."

I never got space to pretend I was okay-- not with Peter. He was the kind of person who saw through everything, and that was the problem with kind people; they can always tell when you are about to fall apart, even when you don't want them to.

"Hey," I croaked, and I tried for a smile. 

"You resigned?" Peter asked, quiet and cautious, already drowning in sympathy. "I heard about it last week. Thought you were just off on sick leave or something, but then you didn't come in any of the days this week, so..."

I nodded, eyes burning all over again behind my sunglasses. "I'm so sorry, Peter. I should've called,"

"Oh, don't worry about it," Peter's brown gaze swept over me-- my glasses, the swollen silence in my face, and the way I gripped my paper bag like it was keeping me upright. He didn't push. He didn't prod. I loved that about Peter. Instead, he held out his deli bag with one hand; "I accidentally ordered two sandwiches."

"... Oh?"

"Yeah. And one of them's sad and has sprouts, so obviously it's mine. The other one has pesto and cheese, and I'm lactose intolerant, so... take it?"

A small sound cracked out of me, similar to a laugh, and Peter smiled, soft and proud of himself, like he had been aiming for that.

"Come on, kid, walk with me," he murmured. "I have a meeting in fifteen. Which way are you going?"

I hesitated. The coffee was still warm in my hand. My croissant was falling apart in its wax paper sleeve. Roman was still lodged in my throat like a shard of glass I couldn't cough up. But Peter? Peter was warm and strange and impossibly gentle in a way that didn't ask anything of me.

I sniffed, then cleared my throat, trying to sound less like a disaster; "I'm going nowhere,"

"That's lucky," he murmured, a knowing glimmer in his eyes. "I'm a big fan of nowhere."

We walked in silence for a while, the kind that didn't press for answers-- something told me that Peter already knew why I had quit, and what had happened to me. How similar had the other secretaries' cases been to mine? I didn't dare to pry. A big part of me didn't want to know.

"I'll miss you. I've missed you," Peter mumbled, glancing up at the sky. "You were a breath of fresh air in the office."

Ow. "Oh, Peter..." A lump formed in my throat as I forced a breathy laugh; "Look on the bright side, though. I was always crying about something, and now you don't have to deal with it anymore."

Peter scoffed, shaking his head. "Stop that. You had all the reason to," He glanced down at me, sighing. "But I know this is about Roman. He's never been normal with a single one of his secretaries."

I didn't want to know. I didn't want to know. I was aware that Peter had been hinting at wanting to tell me for a while, but now that it was over, I didn't want to stir it. I didn't want to hear anything about Roman's previous and future affairs; it was time to separate. "I've missed you, too. Will keep doing so," I said, nudging Peter as I avoided the subject. "You made it bearable to work at that dreadful place. I would've been dead meat without you, y'know?"

Peter smiled at that, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. There was something heavier behind them, something he had carried with him for longer than I had probably noticed, tucked between quiet moments and the way he always checked in without making it too obvious. He looked at me now like he was turning over some decision in his mind, chewing on it quietly behind that soft mouth and tired gaze.

And then, like it was nothing, Peter said; "I always thought I'd get a chance to take you out after the banquet,"

My steps slowed, just enough to feel it. The street carried on around us-- the buses, distant shouting, and the morning rush of people going places, but everything inside me went still.

Peter shrugged a little, stuffing one hand into the pocket of his slacks, his other still clutching his sandwiches. "Not that I ever had the timing for it. And I knew you were..." His voice trailed, and for once, he didn't finish that sentence. "Nothing ever happened between us," he added after a beat, more gently. "But I wanted it to. So I'm just wondering whether it's really, really inappropriate to ask you out so soon after all your stuff with Roman, or whether it's best to call you up in a month or so."

I stopped. 

So did he.

Peter turned to me, his kind, brown eyes not seeking anything other than the truth. There was a faint smile across his lips, like he was proud of himself for finally saying it out loud, but bracing for the worst.

God, how my heart thudded. Would this pain ever leave me? How was I supposed to go out with anyone after what Roman had done to me? What I thought had been the best date in the world, had turned into... whatever this had turned into. And I also knew that if Roman found out about me actually having anything going on with Peter, he might... fuck, I wasn't even sure what he'd do, but I had a feeling it would be bad. Really, really bad. Unless, he wouldn't even care to go after me. Oh, that would be so much worse...

"Peter," I tried. "I'm... I'm really flattered, but I'm not the girl you probably think I am."

Peter slightly tilted his head, that quiet, perceptive calm never wavering. He didn't rush to fill the silence or save me from it, like other people might.

I swallowed hard, the weight of it all catching in my chest like a rock that refused to move. "I'm fucked up," I said quietly, finally, like a resignation. To some degree, Roman was right, and I knew it. "I am. I'm sick in the head. Pain, to me, is love. I chase that nausea you get when you're worried about something, instead of warmth. There's something wrong with me, and even the most twisted of the twisted, the most fucked up man I know, couldn't even stomach me, so how?--" 

My voice cracked.

"Whatever you feel for me, Peter... It'll pass,"

It'll pass. 

Whatever she's feeling, it'll pass.

Gosh, we were so alike, and every atom of my body burned with how romantic I found it. 

But I should've foreseen his reaction-- there was none. Peter blinked, his faint smile never faltering, his head tilting just slightly as if to get a better look at me. "You're still so young," he murmured. "You say one thing, and feel the opposite."

"What?--"

"You're clearly wrecked right now, and you're not enjoying it. You're in pain, and you're not enjoying it. You wouldn't be wearing those sunglasses if you were,"

I could only blink, my mouth opening and closing. "Peter," I tried. "You don't-- I don't expect you to understand--"

"No, it's simple," he cut off, shaking his head. "I understand you fully. You're in denial."

"What? I'm not!--"

"Okay, let's put it this way," Peter's voice got stern as he straightened up, and so did I. "You are hurt now, yes?"

"... Yes, but?--"

"Do you find pleasure in it?"

I stilled. Never had I ever thought I'd have this conversation with Peter, of all people. 

Peter stared at me, the sandwich wrapper making a crunching noise as his grip on it faltered, aware that he was clutching it too hard. "Do you believe that whatever has been inflicted upon you to hurt you is a blessing, because it has been inflicted upon you and only you?"

I swallowed.

Oh... God.

"Yes," I breathed, welling up with tears behind the sunglasses. "In a twisted way, I feel... chosen. Scorned, but chosen."

Peter's eyes widened a smidge at the revelation before he nodded, giving a defeated sigh. "Okay... Maybe I'm wrong, then," His shoulders slouched just slightly, the way they always did when he'd given too much of himself and knew it wouldn't change the outcome-- it twisted my heart. "But I'll say one more thing before I go to catch this meeting, alright?"

The sun caught in his tired brown gaze, round and kind. "You don't scare me, kid," he murmured, warm and honeyed. "And I don't want to fix you. I just want to be someone you don't have to heal from, for once."

My heart stuttered before it stopped-- I froze in my spot as the sun framed Peter's head, giving him a halo, just as he deserved. I felt myself smile, an unfamiliar warmth tingling in the tips of my fingers. "Thank you," I breathed, unsure what to say, flustered. What I wanted to say felt illegal, felt like it would have consequences, but that was until I remembered that my executioner had retired-- I wasn't Roman's anymore. I was free to ask, so I asked; "Maybe, like... when I've settled down a bit, I could give you a call?"

Peter smiled, wide and real, like I had only seen Roman do once or twice. This could be the better choice for me. Peter could be. Right? Or... 

"Yeah. Call me," he said, soft and sweet. "I'll be here."

He stepped forward and pulled me into a hug-- one of those long, grounding Peter-hugs that wrapped all the way around me and didn't care if I cried into his shirt. I sighed against his chest, and I felt his hand move gently up and down my back, like he knew I hadn't been held like this in a while. 

Before I could speak, before I could even think of how to thank him for not asking me to be anything more than I already was, Peter pressed a kiss to the top of my head-- tender and wordless. "Go eat your croissant before it turns to cardboard," he muttered, pulling away with that crooked smile I knew and loved, handing me his extra sandwich. "Enjoy the sandwich."

I watched as Peter stepped away and rounded the corner, leaving me stunned in the aftermath of his warmth, like someone had just pulled a blanket over my body. The paper bag in my hands was suddenly heavier with both meaning and the sandwich, and the kiss on the top of my head-- God. It lingered like a soft handprint across my skull, the kind of comfort no one had ever offered me without asking something in return.

I didn't want to move-- not yet. I just wanted to stand there for a second, in the wake of someone being kind to me without strings, without shame, and without it being Letha. 

But then, as I turned around, cheeks flushed with remnants of a somewhat happy outcome of my situation, I spotted someone familiar down the street. I had no idea what made my eyes squint through the darkness of my sunglasses, but I was sure I recognized this person from somewhere-- and when I did, my breath caught, and my spine shot straight.

Standing on the opposite side of the road in a long, black coat that somehow made him look even taller... was Roman. 

After 264 hours.

After 15,840 minutes.

He was beautiful as always-- black coat tailored perfectly to contradict his pale skin, dark hair slightly roughed up like he had run his hands through it too many times this morning, green eyes glinting like shards of glass under the weak sunlight.

My breath stalled, and my coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim of my cup, but my fingers couldn't seem to remember how to tighten their grip; I was just as big a mess with coffee in and out of the office. The warm, buttery smell of my food felt absurdly out of place against the sharp chill he carried with him, and more than ever, I wanted to disappear into the sidewalk and die. 

However, it wasn't just his looks that had my stomach bottoming out-- it was the look he was giving me. Roman's big, green eyes were stunned, his lips parted slightly, like he couldn't quite piece together what he had just seen, like it broke him a hundred times over. He caught onto the way I was looking at him back, the slight tremble of my fingers around my bag, and he avoided my gaze to now glare at the spot where Peter had just stood, and--

Roman looked... devastated.

Oh God.

Had he just...?

He had seen everything.

Every ounce of comfort I had scraped together from my meeting with Peter vanished. Now, I was left with dread, and only dread. I was aware that I had told Roman that I never wanted to see him again, but now that he was here... God, how I burned for him. Divided by a road, just as we were separated by life, Roman and I stared at each other-- a part of me hoped he'd cross the street, that he'd fight for me, that he'd apologize and beg me to give him one last chance. 

But Roman only knew anger. He only knew the pain I loved so dearly. How was he supposed to know that love was worth chasing?

However... he was here. 

Why was he here? Roman never walked around aimlessly outside. He had his driver. If he wanted something from the bakery, he'd call upon someone to get it for him. 

My eyes rounded out-- he had come looking for me, hadn't he? He somehow knew where I was. How? Had he coded his way into my phone and tracked me down? Had he gotten a private investigator? Or was this perhaps just a chance of fate? Something told me it wasn't.

Roman had come looking for me and seen me with Peter, whom he had begged me not to get with.

Roman... went out looking for me. 

Roman hadn't let me go. I was still on his mind. He was bothered enough to come looking for me. He went out looking for me. How many times had he followed me? How many times hadn't I noticed? Roman was sick. Sick like me. Fucked up. Roman wasn't over it. It hadn't passed. It wouldn't pass. It wouldn't. It wouldn't. 

It would never pass.

I froze where I stood, pastry bag cutting into my palm, heart battering at my ribs. Could this really be?

But just as my mind started catching up, Roman's head turned sharply over his shoulder, that beautiful profile sharpening into something lethal. His gaze flicked to me for half a second, green, wild, and searing, before it snapped toward the direction Peter had disappeared.

And that was when his face changed.

I knew Roman Godfrey in every mood; smug, cruel, sweet, and untouchable. But this? This was something else entirely. A raw, twisted fury carved across his features, like the sight of Peter walking away after having kissed me like that had finally struck his last nerve. Roman's lips curled just slightly, his jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jump from across the street, and I saw every evil nerve in him flare up in his green eyes.

My stomach plummeted.

Oh no. 

And just as I expected, Roman moved-- coat flaring, long legs carrying him in a reckless dash down the sidewalk, straight in Peter's direction.

Panic shot straight through my system; "Roman, wait!" His name tore out of me before I could stop it, cracked and useless across the street noise. I took a quick step forward, my coffee immediately sloshing, my croissant and sandwich now nothing but limp, butter-soaked weight in my hand, and I could only groan at my added baggage. People turned their heads at the sudden blur of Roman rushing past them across the street, the elegant young man in black barreling forward with the look of someone who had finally lost control.

Oh God. This was not good. This was so not good. I had to do something, didn't I?

By the time I managed to give my coffee and pastries to the nearby homeless person (they needed it more than me anyway), I almost lost track of Roman-- thankfully, I saw the edge of his coat swishing past a street corner, and I dashed after him without a second thought. 

"Roman!" I called again, but it was swallowed instantly by traffic and the grind of morning rush.

He was too far ahead, too fast-- his long strides cut through the crowd like a knife, his black coat flaring at every turn. People parted instinctively for him, startled by the sheer force of his movement, or probably because they also recognized him from TV interviews and magazine covers; me, on the other hand, stumbled after, with my breath burning in my throat and sweat breaking cold at the base of my spine.

Don't do it, don't do it, please, please, don't do it!

I pushed harder, nearly slipping as I skidded past a fruit stand, my heart hammering in my ribs. I couldn't lose track of him, I couldn't let him get to Peter first, couldn't let him unleash whatever it was that I knew he could unleash--

But I was too late, too slow, too small.

Because up ahead, Roman reached Peter. He didn't slow, didn't hesitate, just grabbed him-- a violent snatch of his fist in Peter's jacket lapel, a twist of his body, and then with one brutal yank, Roman dragged him sideways into the dark cut of an alley.

It happened so fast my stomach dropped out of me, my pulse roaring in my ears. 

I dashed after them, lungs searing, until I reached the mouth of the alley-- and then, I froze.

Roman had Peter pinned.

His tall frame towered over the latter, black coat flaring out behind him like black wings, one hand fisted brutally in Peter's jacket while the other shoved him hard against the graffiti-scrawled wall. His body radiated raw, vibrating anger, every muscle coiled tight, green eyes blazing like they could set Peter alight right there against the bricks.

They were both yelling-- Roman's voice sharp and furious, and Peter's rising in defiance, but the words tangled and broke against the walls, loud without being clear. I couldn't make out what they were saying, and I didn't need to-- the violence in Roman's stance said enough. The rage carved into his jawline, the curve of his lip when he shouted something into Peter's face, and it was both terrifying and beautiful-- God, Roman was so beautiful. Even now. Especially now. I had almost forgotten what it was like to see him in person and how it stunned me every time.

But I snapped out of it when Peter shoved back, his hands braced to Roman's chest, but Roman only pressed in harder, shoving him flat against the wall with the force of his body. His height eclipsed Peter completely, dark hair falling over his forehead-- they were inches from each other, teeth bared, shouting over each other like dogs fighting over bones, and I couldn't look at it anymore.

"Hey!" I yelled. 

Both their heads snapped toward me instantly.

And just like that, Roman let go.

His fist released Peter's jacket in a sharp, almost dismissive flick, as though the fabric itself had burned him. Roman staggered a step back, coat swinging with the movement, his hands falling to his sides like he could erase the last thirty seconds if he just stood still enough. His chest heaved, the sharp rise and fall of it straining against his shirt, but he made no sound now-- no barking, no fury, just silence and the green fire of his eyes locked on mine.

Peter coughed once, adjusting his collar where Roman's grip had wrinkled it, his back still to the wall, but Roman... Roman straightened, smoothed down the lapel of his coat in one slow, deliberate movement, and it was almost laughable-- the pretence that nothing had happened, like he could stand there in the dim light, immaculate, beautiful, untouchable, and pretend he hadn't just dragged Peter into an alley like some feral, gorgeous demon. 

But the tremor in Roman's jaw gave him away-- the quiver in his hands, just barely hidden by the way he flexed his fingers, betrayed him.

He was rattled.

He wanted me to believe otherwise, but I had seen him. I had caught him.

Peter finally shoved off the wall, his breath still uneven, his sandwich long forgotten on the filthy ground. His eyes narrowed, shoulders squared; "What the fuck is your problem, man?" he snapped, his tone echoing sharp off the bricks. "Did you not have enough with lunging that coffee at Arnault? Gotta assault your employees now, too?!"

Roman's head turned toward him in one slow, lethal swivel, green eyes glittering with the kind of fury that looked sharp enough to cut. "It wasn't assault," he huffed. "I barely fucking touched you."

Peter groaned, rubbing at the crease Roman's fist had left in his jacket. "Right. Because shoving someone into a wall and screaming in their face is just... what? Foreplay to you? You're out of control! I could have you charged before you even make it back to the office!"

Roman's mouth curved-- not into a smile, but into something crueler, thinner. "Charged?" he echoed, his voice dripping with disdain. His gaze sliced across Peter like he was nothing, already dismissed. "You won't do a fucking thing."

And then, suddenly, his green eyes snapped to me.

To say I was horrified was to put it mildly, but to say I wasn't turned on by this whole ordeal would be... a blatant lie. Fuck. 

Roman's jaw flexed once, hard, like he was swallowing down the last of his rage before it could detonate again. And then, God help me, his expression shifted-- the cruel curl of his mouth softened, the blaze in his eyes dimming just enough to look almost human again. I knew he had practiced this; it was obvious, unnatural. 

"Hey," Roman said, low and steady, like we were the only two people in the alley. "I didn't mean for you to see that." His voice dropped, almost gentle, his shoulders eased like he remembered he had to stop looking so threatening to seem believable. "You caught me at a bad moment, that's all."

A flicker of something (regret? longing?) crossed Roman's face when I remained too stunned to answer, and then he tried it; the faintest hint of a smile, small and crooked, like he thought it could smooth over the crack in the earth he had just opened. "It's been a while. You look..." He faltered, his throat working before he finished, softer now. "God, you look good."

... What?

Behind him, Peter scoffed, muttering under his breath, but Roman didn't so much as bat an eyelash his way. Every ounce of his energy was locked on me, like he could drag me back into his orbit just by standing there, softening the edges of his cruelty with charisma.

My throat tightened. I hated how my chest ached, how every part of me wanted to melt at the sound of his voice, but another part, the clever part, spoke instead. "Roman," I croaked, my voice cracking under the weight of my pulse. "Did you... follow me?"

For the first time, Roman's smile wavered. A muscle jumped in his cheek, and then, smooth and practiced, he shook his head, like a true American psycho. "No? Of course not. What do you take me for?" His tone was easy, dismissive, like the thought itself was ridiculous, but his gaze flickered too quickly, betraying him.

Peter snorted, rolling his eyes. "For the record, stalking is a chargeable offence. You want me to list the penalties for harassment, or should I go straight to calling the cops?"

That was it-- Roman's entire body shifted in an instant. The softness was gone the second his head snapped toward Peter, and he was back to the scary version of himself I had just witnessed.

"Call them," Roman hissed, green eyes blazing murder, his voice a vicious snarl that rattled down the alley walls. He took a step forward, predatory, his coat snapping around his legs. "You'll have a really fun time trying to lawyer up against Shapiro when I call him, and even more fun when you're in jail dropping the soap in the showers tomorrow."

Oh, of course Roman had access to the most notorious defence lawyer in American history. 

Peter's jaw locked before he steadied himself, but Roman only pressed harder, advancing another step, his height and fury swallowing the space; "Say her name in your statement when you call, too," Roman spat, pointing one long finger back at me without breaking his glare from Peter. "See how fast the cops start asking why you were running into her during the meeting you were supposed to be conducting forty minutes ago. See how fast they dig."

Peter practically gasped; "What the fuck?! You're such a liar, my meeting starts in ten minutes, you're just saying that to make yourself look good in front of!--"

"Enough!" My voice cracked down the alley, louder than I intended, the word ricocheting off the walls like a gunshot. With trembling hands, my pulse battering through my throat, I forced the words out; "Both of you, just-- just drop it! Roman, leave him alone!"

Roman froze at the betrayal where he stood, his hand still half-raised like he wanted to drive his threats into Peter's skull. 

But Peter, in turn, exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering a curse as he bent down to snatch his discarded bag off the ground. The air between them was a live electric wire, thrumming with all the things they hadn't said and wouldn't say in front of me, but my words had cut just deep enough to stall them.

Peter straightened, his brown eyes finding mine, softer now, urgent, as he stepped toward me. "Come on, kid," he said, voice low but firm. "Let's get you out of here and away from this psycho." His hand reached for my arm, gentle but insistent, tugging me like he thought he could simply peel me out of Roman's orbit and force me into safety.

I swayed toward him for half a second, the sanity of Peter, the steadiness-- but then my eyes snapped to Roman.

My heart bled for him.

He stood there with his coat still flaring around his long legs, his chest heaving, and his jaw set in that terrifying, beautiful angle that made every cell in my body burn. His green eyes locked on me like nothing else in the world existed, raw and furious and desperate, like he would never forgive me if I let Peter walk me away.

I froze between them, Peter's hand warm on my wrist, Roman's gaze searing into my skin without even touching me.

My stomach dropped, my throat went dry-- I couldn't move.

Peter's fingers tightened gently around my wrist, urging, coaxing. "Let's go," he murmured, tugging me a half-step closer to him, away from Roman, away from the danger still vibrating in the air.

But then, seeing that I was about to be swayed-- Roman took a desperate step forward, dropping every act in the book, his true feelings cracking through the sentence that seemed to roll off his tongue without a second thought; "It's been eleven days,"

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried, low and raw and reverent, cutting through the noise of the street and the clutter in my head until it was the only thing I could hear.

Peter stilled, and so did I.

He... kept count, too?

Roman's chest rose once, sharp, before he pressed on, eyes never leaving mine. "I can't do this. I can't think, I can't sleep, I... I'm going nuts. Can we talk?"

Oh my God.

The words tore straight through me, my lungs stuttered, my knees nearly gave-- this was it, wasn't it? This was what I had prayed for every night I had cried into my pillow, what I had whispered into the dying bouquet of roses he gave me like a secret spell; that Roman would miss me, that he'd break, and that he'd finally say it.

And now, here it was.

Hot, stinging tears blurred my vision behind my sunglasses. Every cell in my body screamed to go to him, to cross the space and bury myself in his chest and let him say it again and again until it stuck, until it made sense, but--

Peter's grip on my wrist tightened, yanking me back into reality. "Don't," he said, his voice low but fierce, the edge of steel I rarely heard from him cutting through. "Don't fall for it. He's an obsessed freak, kid. He'll destroy you."

"No, I--" I breathed, torn, shaking my head. "He--"

"He what?" Peter snapped, his voice breaking like he had already lost me. "He follows you around the city like some deranged stalker? That's not romantic, that's a nightmare. You deserve better."

My chest caved in on itself. Roman's eyes, green, glassy, and furious, burned into me, his lips parting like he wanted to shout but couldn't find the words. "Please," he tried instead, the quietest sound I had ever heard from him. "I'm not looking for trouble. I just want to talk."

That was it-- that broke me. 

A sob clawed up my throat, but Peter tugged harder, pulling me out of the alley, step by step, until I stumbled after him, too weak to resist, too shattered to choose.

And... Roman didn't follow.

He just stood there, watching me leave, vibrating with the fury and ache of someone who'd been gutted alive, just like he had gutted me. When the alley finally curved and I could no longer see him, the sharp crack of his boot slamming into a metal trash can rang out behind me-- violent, desperate, the sound of him breaking.

And then... silence.

Roman Godfrey, left alone in the wreckage of his own actions, while I was dragged away in tears.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it truly was. I shouldn't be with a man who stalks me, right? Somebody who attacks my ex-coworkers for being in my vicinity?

But... my heart hadn't stopped racing since I left Roman in that alley a few hours ago.

I decided to put the nauseating adrenaline to good use. I couldn't think, but I had to. I couldn't breathe, but I had to. And now that I was out of a job, and probably soon-to-be broke, I told myself I'd do something practical tonight, which was job hunt-- anything that proved I could exist without him. If I could get myself a job at another place, I'd forget Roman faster, right?

Maybe then, it'd pass.

Maybe then, I'd forget his quiet little please.

I sat hunched over the glow of my laptop, pretending the pale light on my face was enough to bleach out the memory of Roman's green eyes across the street, and the fury in them as they pushed Peter up against that wall. God, I wish I had that croissant right now, next to my mug of sweet Earl Grey tea that had gone cold hours ago. Still, I was sure that the homeless person would enjoy it more than I ever would. 

Still, me being the procrastinator I was, I had opened a few tabs I definitely didn't need; one of them being one of my favourite porn videos with a suit-clad man that I had just started putting on in the background when I did random things. Was this unhealthy? Definitely. Did it give me some sort of odd comfort to see him spanking the tiny woman in his lap in some fake office setting? Sadly, yes. Did I need this after the mess in the alleyway earlier? Yes, a hundred times yes. No matter how far I distanced myself from Roman, I was afraid this part of me would stick to me forever. 

The message app with Letha was also open in the corner, right next to the separate window I had created to read through Roman's latest interview with Fortune (with tears in my eyes, of course), and look at his new model campaign with Yves Saint Laurent.

My lazy job hunt didn't seem to bring me any fruition. I couldn't detach from Roman.

With a sigh, rubbing my glossy eyes, I opened my mail inbox, clicking through my old email back-and-forths with Roman. I read them sometimes before I went to bed, simply to remember an easier time, and this time was no different-- however, a new email caught my eye this time at the top of the page: NEW from Dior: Fall Limited Lipstick Collection!

I didn't even think-- I saw the word Dior and clicked like an idiot.

From: Dior Beauty <dior-news@exclusivepromos.no>  

Subject: Exclusive Preview – Fall Limited Lipstick Collection  

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Dior Beauty Newsletter | August 27, 2025  

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Introducing the new **Rouge Dior Fall Collection** — a limited release of bold, satin-finish lipsticks inspired by the season's Paris runway shows.  

Shades include:  

• *Nocturne Rouge* – deep wine red  

• *Ambre Satin* – golden amber nude  

• *Vertige* – daring forest green  

Be the first to experience the collection before it officially launches in stores worldwide! Available for 24 hours only.  

[ ► Click here to unlock your exclusive preview! ]  

Your personal code: **DIOR264HRS**  

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Why the fuck would Dior be making a... what was it, daring forest green lipstick? 

Oh, well. Seemed legit enough, right?

With a shrug, I clicked on the link, deciding I could at least gift myself some new makeup for all my troubles before my money ran out. For a second, nothing happened-- just a white page loading, loading, loading. 

I was about to close the tab until my cursor suddenly twitched... without me moving it.

Horrified, I could only watch as a small, white box opened in the right upper corner of my screen, and a line of code appeared at unmatched speed until it all culminated into a sentence.

Cute. That was easy.

"Fuck!" I gasped, slamming my mouse into the trackpad. The cursor wouldn't obey me-- it just sat there, frozen, while I jabbed at it with my finger like an idiot. I tried the keyboard, every command I could remember; escape, control-alt-delete, force quit, anything. Nothing worked.

Oh my God. Oh my God. I had finally done it. I had given my poor, battered laptop a virus because of Dior, of all things. Fucking Dior lipstick. This was what I got for being a materialistic idiot.

"Shit... Shit-- shit--" I muttered, practically stabbing the keys now, panic rising so fast I could feel it in my throat. My computer whirred, the fan going haywire like it was choking.

And then, more words appeared.

Oh, what do we have here?

The cursor twitched, and my browser tabs were shuffled around. The window with Letha's chat snapped shut, the porn video was thankfully still hidden behind tons of other open tabs, and the Fortune interview I had been reading earlier slid into the center of the screen.

The text box popped again, letters spilling out in a measured rhythm.

You were quick to quit the job, but this?

A pause-- the words erased themselves, and the cursor did a slow circle around Roman's face before the words got replaced with ones that made my blood run cold.

You're not so quick to quit me.

Without a second thought, I slammed my laptop shut. 

The impact rattled the desk, my mug sloshing cold tea across the wood. My breath came in ragged gasps, palms pressed flat to the laptop lid as though I could keep him trapped inside. What the fuck?! Was I dreaming? Could this seriously be real?

Hot tears blurred my vision. I couldn't breathe. It wasn't malware, it wasn't some faceless virus-- it was Roman. How was this possible? I knew that he knew how to code and hack, but that he'd go this far? Was this him getting back at me for what happened earlier with Peter? I had no idea. I didn't know what he wanted, but I knew there was only one way to find out.

Slowly, with trembling hands, I reopened my computer, sinking into my chair with a shaky exhale, hating the way my heart raced with excitement at realizing... he was here. I had no idea what came over me when I reached forward and traced the cursor with the pad of my finger, holding my breath as I drew a faint heart around it.

But it didn't take long before it moved again, and I flinched back into my seat, watching as the last words got erased in that small white box in the corner, and replaced by new ones. 

Sorry, did I scare you? Didn't mean to. Just not in the best mood after letting you go with Rumancek earlier, that's all. Didn't I tell you not to see him? 

Why was he here? Why was he hacking into my laptop and telling me what to do when he wanted me gone? I couldn't piece anything together. I pressed a shaking hand over my mouth as the cursor twitched again, sliding across the screen like an invisible fingertip, and my folders flickered open one by one, everything from documents to downloads to photos.

"No, no, no-- don't--" I whispered, my breath catching. 

Against my will, my photo album bloomed across the screen. There it was; rows of my own face, my life, moments I had meant to keep private, splayed out for Roman to see. My stomach clenched as the cursor drifted over them, slow and deliberate, like he was leafing through them with a lover's care.

The box typed again.

I've missed this. You.

What? My throat closed as the cursor tapped a photo taken by Letha in college-- it was me in the sun, laughing at something stupid, wearing my varsity jacket. That was a version of myself I barely remembered being. My cheeks burned as the image expanded, filling the screen.

Pretty. Mine. 

And then, before I could even move or react, a small email window popped open. My photo was dragged into the message body, addressed to a long string of letters and numbers-- a ghost address. His.

"Don't-- Roman, don't!--" I whispered, useless as ever.

The subject line blinked once, then filled in as 'souvenir'.

And then it was sent.

I slammed my hands against my desk, frustration taking hold of my emotions. "Fuck!" I yelled, but the cursor kept moving toward the hidden folder, clicking it and opening the password input tab. 

In his window, Roman wrote a '?' before a pop-up notification opened up on my computer, saying I now had dual control over my computer.

What? My cursor twitched under my hand, but this time, when I dragged it, it obeyed. Finally, I could move again. My breath came hard and shallow, adrenaline spiking as though I had just been released from handcuffs.

The white box pulsed.

Well?

Oh, that fucker. Did he really think I'd give him access? Or was he just giving me the illusion that I had some control? I bet Roman could get through this password with no problem, but oddly enough, he was giving me a choice. 

I opened my message tab after finding out I couldn't write anything in his white box, not caring that he was seeing my previous messages with Letha, and wrote: No!!!!

Roman's reply came instantly. 

No? It's not like I haven't seen you naked already.

I pressed harder--

GET OUT. 

My fan whirred, the only sound in the room, as I waited in suspense for what he'd do. Then, his letters appeared, slow and deliberate.

Fine. Won't pry here. I see you have something interesting elsewhere, anyway.

My blood turned to ice as I watched the dual control disappear, and I realized my mouse no longer worked. With my heart in my throat, I gripped the table, scooting closer with my nerves firing all over. Something told me I already knew where Roman was heading. 

The cursor clicked out of the password tab, slid across my desktop like a predator scenting blood, and with horrifying precision, it zeroed in on the corner I hoped he wouldn't notice.

The hidden tab blinked into the foreground. Gasping, my voice broke into a strangled sob as the video player expanded to full screen; "No! No, no, no, Roman, don't!--"

The moans hit me instantly through my laptop speakers, obscene in the quiet of my bedroom. There it was, all out in the open-- the suited man, his palm cracking across the thigh of some tiny girl in his lap, spanking her until she whimpered, squirming in a way that made my stomach churn every butterfly.

My cheeks blazed hot as my hands clawed at the keyboard, but the video controls flickered grey, locked. I couldn't stop it, and I felt my eyes burn as I buried them in my palm. Was this really happening? Why couldn't Roman leave me alone, just as he had wanted to? Why was he doing his to me?

The white box pulsed again.

Oh, I've seen this one before. 

I went rigid, my pulse hammering so hard I swore I could hear it in my ears. Of course he had. My breath stuttered, hands trembling against the desk as though pressing hard enough into the wood might make the whole laptop dissolve. The moans on screen kept building, the suited man's hand snapping down in rhythm, the girl writhing in his lap like I used to in Roman's perfect lap. I couldn't watch, couldn't breathe, but I also couldn't close my eyes.

The cursor twitched, and more words rolled out with surgical calm.

He's too rough, though. It doesn't even hurt right. It's also missing something, I think. He's not touching her properly or giving her any relief. It's almost cruel. Poor girl. I wouldn't do that to you, and you know it.

I let in a shaky inhale, hot shame sparking through me. I hated how I agreed with him. I hated that I had thought those exact things before. My throat worked, desperate for air, as the cursor moved like it could see me blushing, see me squirm.

Remember how I used to touch you? I miss that. I miss you. I thought that would pass, but it hasn't. I'm starting to think it never will. 

I froze, every part of me locked in place like the sentence had reached out and wrapped around my throat. Why was he saying that he missed me? He was the one who ended it, who said I couldn't handle him, who said it was better this way? I hated the rush of heat that bloomed low in my stomach at his words, hated how my heart thrashed so violently in my ribcage, hated how much of me wanted to believe him.

The white box pulsed.

Let's watch something else. Saw this the other day and thought about how I wanted to do this with you someday.

The cursor moved again, out of the white box, and wrote a new website address. 

I felt my mouth go dry as a new video appeared within a few seconds-- I crossed my legs without a second thought, leaning closer to my screen as my eyes widened at the sight. It wasn't something dark, which I'd expect of Roman, but it was... nice? 

It was surprisingly intimate, with a girl splayed out in some man's lap, his fingers deep inside of her, moving in and out slowly as they kissed-- she whimpered into his mouth, her hips bucked softly up against his hand, and he held her tighter against him on the bed, holding her as she trembled against him and clutched his hair, pulling him closer. 

My lips parted, a soundless breath leaving me. What was going on? Did Roman really think about me like this? With softness? Why had he left me in the first place, then?! My thoughts were racing as my eyes darted to the new sentence he was typing into the top of my page. 

This is probably what you'd get with Rumancek. Is that why you were all over him today? Is that why you left with him? Are you really getting with him, as you said you would? Cruel.

I couldn't tell if the heat in my face was from shame, rage, or the echo of that sick, private thrill that he had seen me with Peter, that he had been stalking me. All over him, though? I certainly hadn't been. Peter had kissed the top of my head in a moment of comfort, and I hadn't kissed him back or anything?! Jealous bastard. He had no right to be. God, how I loved that Roman had gone to the lengths of stalking me, and I hated that I loved it.

I caught my eyes darting back to the video, watching as the girl arched of the bed, her legs trembling just slightly when the man took his fingers out of her, realizing she was close-- she cried out softly into the crook of his neck at the denial, and he teasingly bit her ear, cooing at her with words I didn't catch in this hazy state. 

The cursor pulsed again, and the new line came slower this time, like Roman was choosing the words with painful precision.

What will you do when you need him to snap you out of something, though? Like the time you went nuts about those models when I was gone in Geneva and needed me to spank it out of you? 

The words sat there, stark against the screen, as if he had carved them into me. Geneva. The models. That night. That was a whole lifetime ago. My cheeks burned with the memory before I could stop it, the humiliation and the heat braided together so tightly it made my skin prickle. He remembered every detail, every unguarded moment, and now he was using it like a weapon.

I dug my nails into my palms until it hurt, until the sting anchored me and cleared my head-- it was time to fight back.

My fingers started slamming against the keys, sharp and graceless, trying every command I could think of-- control-alt-delete, escape, command-Q, anything. I jabbed my mouse until the trackpad squealed under the pressure, clicking again and again, frantic, like maybe sheer force could break me out of Roman's technological grip. The screen flickered in protest, tabs jittering, my cursor twitching across the screen.

The white box pulsed.

What are you doing?

I gritted my teeth, pounding harder, ignoring the panic clawing at my throat. A menu appeared for half a second before he yanked it away. I hit another combination-- nothing. Another-- still nothing. My heart thundered so violently it made my fingers shake, but I didn't stop, not even when the fan wailed and the cursor seized like it was short-circuiting.

And then, as if he were... amused, or maybe impressed, the white box flickered again.

You really want to talk that badly?

My stomach dropped, but my hands didn't stop moving, clicking, slamming, forcing, until my cursor suddenly moved. Not frozen-- obedient and mine. I gasped, air tearing into my chest as the fan slowed, the controls unlocked, and the weight lifted from my screen like a phantom blanket.

A single notification bloomed at the bottom of the screen: "You now have permission to type."

I blinked, stunned, before my fingers raced over the keyboard, desperate, frantic, letters smearing across the message window like a scream held inside for too long--

YOU DON'T GET TO LEAVE ME AND CRAWL BACK INTO MY HEAD BECAUSE YOU ARE BORED. 

YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE.

The words blazed across the screen, jagged and uneven, but they were mine. Mine. My chest heaved, every inhale sharp enough to sting. The cursor blinked, waiting for his reply, but I didn't give him the satisfaction. I was already moving.

With a furious jab of the trackpad, I shoved the porn window back into the shadows where it belonged, and with another click, I opened another tab. A job search engine flickered open, its sterile white background staring back at me for the first time since I applied to my job at Godfrey Industries.

My fingers flew over the keys, half-shaking, half-steady, finding the job I had previously glanced at and deemed the best fit. My determination sliced through the haze of adrenaline as I dragged my CV into the last box, typing in the rest with speed I didn't know I had, afraid Roman would take control over the computer before I could submit it-- but I managed.

Name. Experience. Cover letter. Everything.

The way I smashed the button and clicked submit landed like a nail in the coffin. Let him watch. Let him choke on it.

I just didn't expect the way I��choked on it, too. With a sudden sob, I leaned over my desk, squeezing my eyes shut in horror. I had put off sending in my CV anywhere because somewhere, deep inside my gut, I knew that'd make it more real that I didn't work at Godfrey Industries anymore, and that my life had changed for the worse. 

The silence stretched. My laptop fan spun, the glow of the confirmation page bleaching my tear-streaked face, but the white box remained still. For a second, I thought Roman had left, that maybe I had won... until the cursor twitched, hesitant, almost uncertain.

Three words appeared.

I miss you.

At that, my heart lurched violently, betraying me. "Liar," I breathed out loud, shaking my head in denial. 

The cursor blinked once, twice, before new words spilled into the box, sharper this time, stripped of hesitation.

It's enough now. I want you back, and I will get you back. You are mine, not Rumancek's, so come back to me. Forgive me already. I don't want to be without you anymore.

My mouth fell open in disbelief, my tears drying hot on my skin as my chest burned with fury. Did Roman really think he could hack his way into my machine, claw through my privacy, dangle a confession like a bone thrown to a starving dog, and then order me back like nothing had happened? 

I slammed the heel of my palm against the desk, rattling the mug that had already bled tea across the wood. My hands shook, but I forced my fingers to steady as they found the keys again, pounding them until the words screamed across the box:

I can't forgive you. 

The sentence pulsed on the screen like a wound, raw and ugly, and I hated how my vision swam the moment I was done typing. I couldn't go back to him. I really couldn't. Not on these terms. What would happen if I did? Nothing would change. Roman wouldn't. Maybe he couldn't? He'd still flinch at intimacy, and he'd probably run the next time he saw something in me that he recognized in himself. 

The cursor sat still for a long, unbearable moment, until the letters rolled out:

Don't make me beg. 

... What?

I stared, frozen, blood roaring in my ears. The words landed like teeth on my skin, sharp and intimate, a threat and a plea in one. Roman Godfrey didn't beg. He ordered, he consumed, he ruined-- he didn't beg. And yet...

Before I could stop myself, my fingers pressed to the keys, shaky but deliberate, like I was stepping off a cliff with my eyes open.

Beg.

The cursor blinked. Once. Twice. The pause stretched so long it felt like my heart would split in two, until Roman slowly opened... my Spotify? My account had been logged out of, but I watched as Roman typed in my Spotify username and password like he had done it before-- he definitely had. That meant that he had seen the playlist I named after him, and... ugh, that was mortifying. 

But as I waited in suspense for some sort of pleading from his side, he simply clicked into a playlist I made back in college, and put on the most gutting song ever made like it was second nature-- something told me he also put it on for himself before.

The haunting intro to Lover, You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley played as his white box vanished, snapped out of existence, leaving only the sterile glow of the job site, the confirmation email blinking in my inbox, and my own reflection in the dark glass of my screen, tear-streaked and hollow-eyed.

Roman was gone.

I had been right. Nothing had changed. He wouldn't beg for me. He wouldn't, no matter how much he claimed to want me back. 

I hated the way my heart stuttered with the pain of being left again. Roman didn't love me-- he wanted to possess me. It was confirmed for the nth time, and I put my head down against my desk, letting my tears fall as I clutched my chest, feeling it seize with the pain.

No matter how much he missed me...

Roman Godfrey would never beg, and that was the difference between us both.

(a/n: I'm just gonna...... leave this one here for y'all)

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[voidpixies]

omg the KGB look is doing unholy things to me?? YES BILL

[voidpixies]

girlies with a glove fetish, how are you holding up?

[voidpixies]

because dilf caleb has been heavy on my mind...

cw. age gap, breeding, dirty talk, employer-employee relationship, twist at the end | 1.3k wc

it should be criminal how good you look with a baby on your hip. 

specifically his baby. 

caleb's darling ophelia giggles when you press your face into her chubby belly and blow raspberries, the toddler's squeal bouncing off the walls and warming up the chambers of his heart.

"again!" ophelia giggles, clapping her chubby fists together. "more!" 

while you would love to do nothing but entertain the adorable kiddo, you unfortunately have to get back to your campus dorm before curfew if you want to avoid any hassle with the university security. 

you glance over at him, an apologetic smile on your face. "i would love to, mr. xia... but my bus is coming soon." to ophelia, you coo, "tomorrow, okay?" she pouts, and to avert an oncoming tantrum, you cheer her up with: i'll bring you doughnuts!" 

once the little critter is satisfied, you tuck her into bed and head towards the door, but not before caleb's throat clearing stops you in your tracks. 

"hey. here's your cash." 

oh. you turn back, wide smile in place. "thank you so much, mr. xia!" 

he chortles, rubbing the back of his neck. he's still handsome despite being a decade older—long lashes. tousled dark hair with strands of white streaking it. heck, if he were a few years younger, you'd be hard-pressed to not try to throw yourself at him at some college afterparty. 

"y'know you can call me caleb, squirt. mr. xia makes me sound ancient." he squints. "say. how about you stay for a while. i could use some young blood to help me with my model assembling." 

"but, the bus—"

"i'll send ya back," he waves off your concern, and flashes you a grin that makes your heart squeeze. "come on. it's a friday night and you're off your duties." hammering it in, he offers:  "i make a mean margarita." 

pursing your lips, you eventually nod. "okay."

for the rest of the evening, caleb takes you around his basement, showing you his plane models, telling you the story behind all of them. the drink in your hand is mild, but in the low, ambient light, you can't help but wonder if it's a good enough reason to sidle closer to your employer.

he notices. of course, he does. caleb has a keen eye as an ex-pilot, after all. 

"what about this one?" you innocently press closer, close enough to smell the scent of his minty aftershave. he hums, but doesn't step back, a smile lifting the corners of his lips.

"ah, this... this was my late wife's favorite..."

"your... late wife?" cautiously, you approach the topic with him. "if i may... what happened to her?" 

he sobers up and gives you a wink. "another story. for another time."

the hours fly by. and just as the clock strikes 11, you're already straddling his lap, two margaritas too tipsy, lips pressed to his and swallowing down his heated moans.

his tongue slips into your mouth, begging for entry, and you give it to him, letting him taste you. 

months of familiar banter make it easy for you to thread your fingers through his hair; slanting your face to the side to give him more access to your mouth.

it should be illegal how good this feels. yet, you don't care for anything but the feel of him under your touch, the taste of him heavy on your tongue. caleb kisses you with the expertise of a man who knows what he wants and what you need.

he doesn't push you, letting you cross the line first. 

a tug on his hair. your teeth sinking into his lower lip. 

it's all so dizzying and so, so right. 

he looks good under you. all flushed lips and cheeks. and he's not shy either, judging from the tent in his pants.

"h-hey, slow down," he rasps, grasping onto your hips, his glasses askew and fogging up. "y'killing me, darling. i wanna savor you for a bit."

you would love to. but margarita number two has made you bold enough to shake your head and press closer. 

"nuh-uh. need you now."

what else can he do but oblige you? 

this cute, sexy, pretty little babysitter he hired off the net who looked so good between his thighs. was it sleazy? yeah. was it frowned upon? maybe.

but, did it feel good?

his moan is like velvet in your ears when you taste him, licking a drop of pre, flattening your tongue to drag it along a thick, pulsing vein that ran from the root of him to the crown. 

hell yeah. it's more than good. 

it's amazing.

"pretty baby," he growls, grinding up against you, feeling how hot and slick you're already getting for him. 

growling, he rips off his glasses and tosses them behind the couch, letting them clatter god-knows-where so he can yank you into a bruising, all-consuming kiss. 

"such a hot, perky body..." he pants against your mouth, kissing you with full-on need. "bet you'd look so pretty with your legs in the air, my seed drippin' down your thighs..." 

your dulcet moan sets off the fire in his veins. goddamn. he just can't get enough of you. 

"wanna put a baby in you," he mutters, finally giving into the desires he's been repressing since the moment he saw you on his front porch, all sexy as hell in a crop top and jeans. 

he palms your heavy tit, eyes hooded with lust. "do you think i can suck on them hard enough till milk comes out?" 

"h-ahhh!" your cries reverberate across the room, and he slaps a palm to your mouth to silence them. "ssh!" he hisses, "you're gonna wake the baby up."

but, it's impossible to keep it all in when he's so hot and thick inside you, pumping past your silky walls, the plump head of him hitting the opening of your womb. 

risky and devilish, he grins at you. "hope you're not ovulating or anything... might be hard to stop myself from breeding this sweet, little body." 

... fuck. just the thought of it, of him claiming you when you're this compromised, makes the lust light up your veins. 

"no," you mewl, shaking your head, pressing closer as he guides your movements up and down, up and down.

taking you for what you're worth.

"m'not... not yet..."

caleb curses under his breath. "swear? might go crazy and make you a mommy... fuck... you know you look so good with my baby... you'd look amazing, sweetheart..."

neither of you can hold back at the thought, and he's shooting inside of you—thick, messy ropes that spill past, staining your thighs. 

a-ahhh, your mewls spur him on to kiss you full on the lips, your heaving body writhing against his. 

it takes you a full minute to process you'd just fuck your employer right on his couch, and the thought makes your cheeks warm. 

"i..." 

"nuh-uh," he shakes his head, and bundles you in his arms, holding you tightly to him. "don't leave. not now." 

you close your eyes. "but, mr. xia—"

"darling, i've just been inside you," he scolds you lightly, chucking your cheek with two fingers in a playful way. "don't give me none of that mr.xia bullcrap."

you open your mouth, wanting to argue, but clamp it shut instead, a reluctant grin spreading across your face.

"caleb."

his ears are slightly red when he glances at you, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. he grabs a blanket, wrapping it around your shoulders, protecting your modesty. 

"y/n." 

but, what neither of you anticipate to hear was a small, sleepy voice that shatters the illusion of peace; breaking this fragile afterglow and nearly shooting you sky-high in frantic circles once you realize just how indecent you two look right now. 

"dada?" ophelia rubs her eyes, not even noticing your presence, or your stricken expression hidden behind his shoulder. "... i frew up..."

— feedback and rbs? *sad spongebob eyes* will make me v happy :')

[voidpixies]

. ☘︎ ݁ ˖ riding caleb while he has a fever !

this probably wasn’t the best idea. not when his fever hadn’t gone down — his temperature not dropping even after taking an absurd amount of pills prescribed by the doctor.

but there’s just something about him that’s so… captivating about him lying in bed — cheeks flushed with a shade of red, his hot, heavy breathing — the way he has to keep you close at all times even while he’s sick. it’s the way he needed you so badly that turned you on, even when he’s in this condition.

“you’re going to overexert yourself, caleb.” you said, running your hand over his chest. “you need to rest.”

“need you right now, pips’..” he breathed, breath coming out short with need. “can’t wait any longer..” and he was telling the truth. the proof was right there — the outline of his hard cock visible through his sweatpants.

“are you sure?” you asked, straddling his lap once he nodded. he gulped, watching you pull down the waistband of his sweatpants, freeing his absurdly large cock from his underwear. “you’re so needy, baby.” you said, your thumb swiping over his tip that was already leaking with pre-cum, eliciting a whimper from him.

holding yourself up on your knees, you placed his tip over your already dripping cunt, smearing his pre-cum on your entrance before sinking down on him. “fuck, pips’.. you’re so warm..” his hands automatically found their place on your hips as you bottomed out, tip kissing your cervix. “f—fuck, you’re so big, caleb.. always giving me a h—hard time.”

then when you placed both hands on his chest and started moving, bouncing on his cock, it just felt so good — especially when his body temperature was burning hot. sweat dripped down his forehead, wetting the pillow under him, hands anchored tightly on your hips. just the sight of him like this was enough to send you over the edge.

your mewls mixed with his grunts and needy whimpers, the absurdly obscene squelching noises and skin slapping being the loudest sound in the room. “oh my god, caleb—you feel s—so good—ah!” your thighs felt strained, legs too shaky to continue bouncing up and down his cock. so he did the thrusting for you, even while he’s sick. just where did this this guy get his ridiculous stamina from?

“caleb—ahh! i’m so close—so close, baby—“ your breath was uneven, voice filled with need as your legs gave out, your body collapsing forward on his chest. “‘m close too baby—gonna cum with you—“ he choked out in between groans.

“inside—inside me, caleb—! need you inside—nnh!”

you didn’t have to tell him twice before you felt that familiar warm liquid spilling inside of you right after.

© lucidsei

[voidpixies]

# RICE RECIPES ! ᯓ★

ᯓ★ SYNOPSIS: making a rice cooker meal (w additional chicken pieces) with sylus!!

ᯓ★ PAIRINGS: sylus x reader (married)

ᯓ★ WARNINGS: he flicks ur forehead, nothing else other than him being cute

ᯓ★ A/N: so…this was supposed to be a drabble and it’s at 1.4k…BUT THATS OKAY. I thrive for fluff but i can’t write it for shit 😣 can u tell that i love dialogue

The door to Sylus’s large abode was opened with the scan on your face as soon as you stumbled upon that walkway. Your body barely even running on that energy drink you took earlier. The door was too heavy to hold, the step was too high for you to even go over.

Nearly falling, your body finally entered the house before slamming the door shut, hearing the multiple locks snap into place and that automated voice welcome you home, ‘Good evening, Mrs Qin. Would you like to—“

“No.” you groaned, switching the voice off. Throwing your bag onto the ground and flopping onto the sofa, screaming into the cushion.

Why were you so pent up you ask? Today was absolutely shit — as soon as you got to that dreaded workplace this morning, you had other people work on your desk. People who are currently on holiday, leaving you with their work load.

After doing half of the work and yours, you had a billion phone calls to make and schedules to update and—

It was just too much.

Did you even eat today? It was just a blur the whole afternoon, did I even make it home…

GRUEMEBEL

…How rude. Your stomach was yelling for food like you were the person who made you delay your meals, like you chose to not eat at all. Who can eat if there’s two days worth of work at your hands.

“Do I wanna cook…no…” a whine left after, “….but takeout is gonna take so long and i don’t know what i want and the chef is too bougie for me…”

“Sylus!” You yelled, getting off the sofa and making your way to the kitchen, nearly running in the long hallways. With every step you felt like collapsing, why is the kitchen so far from the living room? Normally it’s like a door away or a small passage away? Gosh why does his house need to be so big—

“Oof-“

Suddenly, a broad chest was in front of your eyes, your hands instantly holding the larger person in front of you. Already knowing who it was, your arms wrapped around his waist and snuggled into him more.

“Hm? What’s wrong?” Sylus’s tone softened, his hands putting the record that he held down. With his strong arms, he picked you up, letting your legs wrap around his waist. “Too tired?”

A nod.

“…And hungry?”

“How did you know?”

“Something in my heart tell me when you haven’t eaten.”

Your eyes looked up at him for a split second, “Such a sap.”

“I think the correct term is loving and sympathetic husband.”

—————————————————————

In his kitchen, Sylus had decided that using too many pots was a big deal. And no one would wash them after it ended.

So with a simple rice cooker — you made brown rice!

Sylus, shirtless with his gym shorts on, was standing sick, washing the bowl of rice throughly, “Did you know that the scientific name for rice was Triticum durum,”

Your head turned, sat on the counter, “Really?”

“No.” He replied with a simple smile, your hand going out to slap his muscular arm. Small fingers barely able to wrap around his large bicep, “I’m just kidding, kitten. The Triticum durum is the scientific name for pasta, the Oryza is the scientific name for rice.

“Why do they have such…weird names.” You shuffled closer, seeing Sylus run the rice until the water a third time before squeezing the life out of it.

“Ask the ancients, but at the same time we all have weird names.”

“Woah mister, I don’t know about you but my name is ever so unique. Sylus?…eh i don’t know about that one—“

Sylus’s hands went straight to your hair, ruffling it until it covered your vision, then sneakily flicking your forehead, your hands flying to your head to rub the spot he attacked.

“Ow!”

He chuckled, “Pass me the vegetables,”

Your hand crossed, eyes glaring at the man who was currently sorting the ingredients for your new dish, “Say sorry first.”

Turning to face you, Sylus stared into your eyes, then your lips, coming back up to your eyes before landing a sloppy kiss on your lips, “Why should I say sorry?”

His hand went out, grabbing your headband. Placing it behind his ear, Sylus pushed his hair back, the longer locks of hair flowing down his face.

“Sylus!” He turned back to you, “What?”

“Say sorry.”

With a chuckle, he held the back of your head, brining you close. His lips landing on yours, trying to devour you whole. Despite your whines, he continued to kiss you, only pulling away when you tapped his shoulder, “Okay! Okay, I’m sorry pretty. Happy now?”

He held you tightly, his head on top of yours, feeling you giggle under him, “Very.”

“Alright then, pass me the vegetables.”

“Maybe I could if you let go of me.”

“But I don’t want to do tha.”

You rose an eyebrow, “Then I can’t get the fucking vegetables can I.”

Sylus grunted before reluctantly letting you go, patting your thigh. Grabbing the cutting board of veg, you poured it into the rice cooker, using a knife to scrap it all in.

The steaming hot rice with a touch of spicy sauce was already delicious to your nose, a few grumbles coming from your stomach.

Sylus eyes snapped down to your stomach, “Someone’s hungry.”

“Piss off.”

He closed the rice cooker waiting for it to properly cook, now moving onto the best part of the meat. The freshly made fried chicken you made earlier, crispy honey chicken tenders.

“Oo—can I cut them?” your hands pushed your body off of the counter, rushing over to the place Sylus was, looking at the crispy chicken pieces. The sharp knife still in his hand when he looked down at you, a smirk on his face, “As long as you don’t eat any, sure.”

He handed you the knife before brushing past you, standing to the side to ‘make sure’ you didn’t eat any piece.

The sound of cutting echoed in the kitchen as the knife cut through the chicken, your hand sneakily taking a tiny crumble, “Pshhe, as if!…”

“Sweetie.”

You threw the piece in your mouth, giggling at Sylus shaking his head at you. His body walking closer, making you put the knife down and back away, “Wait! Wait wait, what are you gonna?—Ack!”

His large hand went to your stomach, tickling the hell out of your body, moving lower when you squirmed and went into a ball. Your begs and pleads falling onto deaf ears and Sylus continued to tickle you to the floor, lifting you up with his evol to reach more places, “Ah-hah! Sy-ahaha! Stop! I’m sorry! I’m sorry—ah!”

Finally, after that torture, he stopped, snatching a whole chicken tenders from the board and eating it whole.

Glaring at him, you yelled, “So you still tortured me knowing that you’ll take a whole tender!”

Slowly but carefully, you went back to cutting the chicken pieces, throwing them into a bowl and adding more spicy sauce, shaking them to coat them all in the spicy mixture, “Check on the rice, you silly.”

Sylus chuckled, “I was going to.” Opening the top of the rice cooker, he was met with a face of steam before seeing the amazing nicely cooked rice.

You threw the chicken pieces onto a plate, placing the rice cooker on the table. Sylus grabbed some cutlery from his stack —the special pens you two made a while back.

Sitting down at the dinner table, you sighed, “We’re great chefs you know,”

Sylus looked at you once before scoffing with a smirk, “You mean I’m a great chef.”

You glared at him, “I helped!”

Sylus took a spoonful of the few hot made rice, blowing on it to try and make it cooler. He placed the spoon near you, his hand underneath. You leant forward, taking the spoonful with a hum. “Sweetie, you cut chicken that I made.”

After chewing, you responded, "Okay and I also gave you a show whilst cooking, I was there for emotional support-and wow that is beautiful."

"I know it is—" he tried but you shut him up with a spoonful of the rice and chicken piece.

Both of you dug in, eating the fantastic simple rice you both made, leaving the dishes for another day or so.

@ alyakhq, do not plagiarise, copy or translate my work pls :)

[voidpixies]

Note: Are we shocked that even with text messages, I still can’t keep it short? LOLLL!! And while I think this is pretty good, I’m nervous about Xav and Raf and how well I captured them… You luvlys can let me know. Enjoyyy! 🫶🏽

Warning: Aftermath? of free use & somnophilia (all guys had your consent before hand), verryyyy suggestive dialogue

Morning After The LIs Used You In Your Sleep

Rafayel 🐚

Xavier ⭐️

Sylus 🪶

Caleb 🍎

Zayne ❄️ - He inspired this whole thing, so he had a whole little fic prior to this! —Click Here— to read!

♾️ Tags: @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @sensual-study @sweetcalebb @asiaticapple @raemanova @awquaz @callads7 @floatinginaer @crimsonsylus @aquarianbeat @inutrasha94 @jadestone2 @lamogliedizayne @sylusqt @gktdh @raendarkfaerie

creds to @/cursed-carmine for the line dividers and @/asiatic-apple for the username banner!

[voidpixies]

Hooooked!

SYNOPSIS. Requested by anon ↳ ❝ [...PLEASEEE may I request the LADS guys getting so lost in the sauce that they don’t realize that they forgot to put on a condom until it’s too late and then they see the evidence coming out 🫠] ¡! ❞

A/N; MAMA IS BACK! Finallyyyyy got this out now. And yes, did husband!zayne again. I'm a sucker for him sue me. Next up on the list are some more requests I'm working on. Enjoy my sweet darlings mwah <33

TAGS. NSFW /DARK CONTENT! MDNI! unprotected intercourse(duh). implied dubcon/manipulation. püssydrunk guys. size k!nk. breed!ng. dirty talk. nicknames. overstim in xav's. kinda subby/desperate xavier. tipsy!zayne. husband!zayne. Zayne's actually loosing it lmao. mention of kids in Zayne's. tummy buldge. overstim on reader. kinda brattamer!caleb. possesive caleb. praise.

RAFAYEL ★ Pound first, think later. ~ 1.3k

Plap! plap! plap!

There's just a low hum of low, sultry music playing from a speaker in the corner, but even that is drowned out by the slick, obscene sounds of Rafayel's hips slamming into yours.

"Raf—con— nghhh! condom," your gaspy voice catches, half-mangled between the ruthless crush of his mouth on yours, barely getting your words out.

He swallows most of it with a kiss so deep it knocks your breath loose, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before his tongue slides back in, wet muscle eagely tangling with yours.

And no, he didn't reach for a condom. Didn't even spare a glance toward the bedside drawer.

He's not even thinking. Not with his head, anyway. Not when every inhale he takes is laced with your sweet addicting scent and every exhale of his a hungry growl against your lips.

He's too far gone. Too drunk on your taste, the slight stutter in your voice, your—

He slips out again— cock slick and twitching against your folds, grinding the fat, leaking crown against your clit with such blunt pressure that your spine jerks up off the mattress, a wrecked cry slipping from your throat.

"F-fuck, no, nonono—" he pants, eyes wide in panic and breathless as he grips your hips harder, dragging you back toward him, aligning himself right back at your clenching hole.

Oh, that nasty clench of your feisty pussy almost made him burst his load right into—

Wait. He can't.

"Shhhh, cutie," he slurs, pupils blown wide as he pushes the thick head back to your entrance, spreading your shaking legs even further apart, "don't gotta break that pretty little mind thinkin' about it. Just let me— fuckkkk, cutie—"

Poor, poor Rafayel.

He just wants to feel you a little longer, wants to scrape your cervix for just a minute longer, dwell in the feeling of your warm cunny before he pulls out.

"P-promise I'll pull out, just a little longer, then m' gonna get the—" Right then he halts his breath, hands griping a smacking handful of your thighs, firmly pushing them apart to gawk at your sobbing cunt, desperatly clenching just around his tip, threatening to suck him in deeper, "—condom."

Yeah, right.

The thick, bulking head of his cock pushes back past your folds, spreaaading them like the red sea, so slow and calculated, just enough to stretch you wide at the tip and make your breath seize in your lungs.

"Can't you feel it? P-pleaseee cutie," whispers, grinding his hips in circles to smear himself all over your entrance, teasing your greedy cunny as it twitches and grips around his mushroomy head. "Feels good, yeah? You feel it, right? Riiiight? C-c'mon... Gonna make you cum reallll good."

He doesn't let you answer, let alone let out a sound before his lips are back on yours, lewd sounds of tongues clashing and teeth smacking almost drowning out the loud smack smack smacking of his firm hips against your plush thighs.

Almost.

Shallow, greedy thrusts follow, punching your sweet spot with such precision it makes your eyes roll back and mouth fall agape, granting him further entrance into your mouth.

He's going to eat you alive at this point.

His hunger is almost unbearable at this point and you keen beneath him, back arching clear off the sheets, legs twitching, threatening to tremble as you suck your tummy in.

Actually, they already do.

"Just—just wanna feel you. Need it, baby." His voice is ragged, like he's barely holding himself together. "Can't wait. Can't—fuck, I need you."

And he's mere seconds away from snapping, sanity holding onto a tiny threat so thin, it might aswell already have snapped in two.

Doin' so good, sweetheart." he groans, thick girth diving into your depths, knocking at your g-spot like it's a headshot to a wanted target over and over again, your fluttering cunt screaming out obscene sound after sound. "Taking me so well—s-shiiiiit!— 'm not gonna last. You feel unreal. Fuckin' unreal, baby."

His rhythm stutters for just a second, his body betraying him, and that's when it starts to crack.

That's when he starts to crack.

You feel the shift, feel the snap in him. His thrusts falter, not from weakness but from overload, the pleasure starting to short-circuit his brain.

His breath comes in harsh, quick gasps, chest heaving as his muscles tremble with the strain of keeping himself steady. His cock pulses deep inside you, wide and twitching like he's right on the edge, trying to stave it off, trying to hold on, but he's already gone too far.

"Raf, baby. Don't forget the— nghhhh! C-condom!" you rush out followed by a moan from the depth of your throat, his head already in the crook of your neck, plastering it with kisses and maybe even an accidental bite to your nape.

Right, there was still something.

He lifts his head, eyes wide as realization hits him— but he knows he's not going to pull out any time soon.

Because he physically can't.

And fuck, his pitiful expression alone is enough to make your pussy clench like a vice around him, wrench, wrench, wrenching him like your life depends on it, so close to the edge yourself.

That coral gaze burns straight through you, so blazing and ravenous, dripping with heat and panic searching for something behind your glazed iris.

"T-tight fuckin' thing. So damn tight. Gonna cum, yeah?"

It's lust stripped down to its bare bones— his pupils blown, rimmed with color like sunset bleeding into dusk, and the way he looks at you, like you're his last meal.

He's close. And it's scaring him. Wrecking him.

Voice low and shredded now, soaked with pleasure and darker things, almost broken with how badly he wants to cum—wants to cum in you.

"You don't even know what your fuckin' cunny is doing ta' me, cutie," he rasps, fucking into you harder now, deeper, angling up to punch that sweet spot with every desperate thrust.

But you do. Oh, you do.

Hips snapping against you like he's chasing something he'll never reach, and he plants one hand against the headboard to keep himself upright, shaking all over, barely holding on. The other is locked tight on your thigh, hiking it up towards your shoulder, keeping you locked in place. Like if you so much as tried to move away, rob him from your snug tunnel, he'd lose it.

"Drivin' me fucking insane," he growls, voice cracked open and fucked-out.

Your brain stutters mid-thrust—just enough clarity to gasp out, voice high and shaky, "Wait—hnghhh! Raf', you gotta—"

"Hahhh? Gotta make my pretty baby cum?"

Now he's tasting his release at the tip of his tongue, completely lost and utterly mad from the sound of your clenching pussy alone, balls tightening up, tip ready to burst his load out. "Yeahhhhh, ya got it, baby."

"Mhmm! M' c-cummin', Raf'! Fuh-fuckkkk!"

A cry tears from your throat on cue as your body clamps down, your legs trembling, thighs shacking as a violent orgasm tears through you, every fiber of your being burning hot as your vision goes blank and you forget every scolding thought you had in your mind.

He pauses for half a second before he begins to pound you again, steadier now, dedicated even, both veiny hands firmly folding you into a meanacing mating-press.

"You got it, all of it. Yes, cream 'round me js' like that— Yesyeseyes— fuckkkk baby m' sorry m'—"

He's not.

His balls draw up tight, cock swelling deep inside you with that final, desperate pulse.

Then he bursts. Hot, thick ropes of cum spill straight into your cunt, gushing right up against your cervix.

It's too much—sticky and endless, flooding you full until it's leaking out around him in messy drips, your body milking every last drop like it needs it.

And then his eyes snap up to yours, wide, in a daze.

"Babyyyyy—I didn't— was going to, I meant to—"

But his hips twitch forward again. He can't help it.

He can't help but slip out out and watch the aftermath in awe, watch his cum overflowing your overstimulated cunt as you deserately try to keep it all in, droplets drip drip dripping down the curve of your ass.

"Y-you made a whole big mess, Raf'! I told you to—"

The words die on your tongue the second you catch his face—flushed, lips parted, eyes glowing that deep coral pink and brimming with guilt and hunger. Wrecked. Maybe even a tiny bit sorry.

"C-can I make it up to you by eating it outta ya?"

ZAYNE ⋆ ★ Can't Wait. ~1.2k

Zayne's a lightweight. Always has been.

It shows, too. In the flushed pink blooming across his cheeks, the tips of his ears going all red like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.

Your sweet husband's never been good at hiding how much he wants you. But when there's just the tiniest bit of liquor in his system? A little heat in his blood, a little buzz under his skin?

Then he's shameless. Dangerous, even.

That black button-up from your night out is hanging off his shoulders, halfway undone, unbothered to fix it, wanting you to notice. His wedding band clinks against your waist as his hands roam your hips, fumbling for the strap on your shoulder to greedily expose your perky tits.

Eyes locked on you— the only thing his eyes are trained on.

"You looked so hot all night," he mumbles against your neck, voice syrupy, breath reeking of a faint liquor and sin, "All dolled up, just for your husband, hm?"

Once your back hits the front door from the inside as soon as he closed it, he kisses you with such a feverous hunger, so clumsily sloppy.

Teeth and tongue and all heat, hands pawing at your now exposed tits, then thighs as his mouth sinks to catch your stiff nipple.

"Zayne, what's gotten into y—"

"You."

His thigh shoves between yours, grinding up until you're letting out an embarrassed squeak, one of your legs hitching up around his hip as he urges you to swing the other around to, carrying you to the next best surface— the kitchen counter— in a hurry.

"It's alllll you, darling." His words are muffled against your skin, his hands eagerly riding up your breathtaking dress to snake his fingers into your soaked through panties. "My pretty little wife makes me lose my head, you know. Can barely recognize myself."

"Zayne, baby," you try, breathless, tugging at the back of his collar to catch his attention to your face. "Sure it's not just the alcohol? Maybe we should get to bed, the condoms are also there—"

"S-shhhh", he slurs, glasses nearly slipping down the bridge of his nose as he hovers over you, "Is it a crime to worship my wife for a little while?"

In this case, it should be. Because whatever this is, it's torture.

His fingers fumble with his belt, all cocky and tipsy as he palms himself through his boxers. The fabric's soaked where his cock's been leaking all night, a fat wet spot darkening the white cotton. He's been hard since the moment you stepped out for that restaurant you've been wanting to go for ages now, thick, angry red crown twitching on his hand.

You whine in protest until your panties are torn and tossed onto the floor, his cock already smearing it's pre across your slick folds. "Just a second, Mmm-hmmm, then we'll go to bed and— f-fuckkk."

Yeah, he messed up.

"G-go to bed and I'll get the c-condom. Juuuuust a second, darlin'."

He trails off when his hand yanks your panties to the side, then off entirely, a quick, lazy tear splitting the seam as he tosses the ruined scrap onto the floor behind him.

That second becomes two. Then five.

Then he's already carrying you toward the couch, tripping over a thing or two, lips never leaving yours. One knee hits the cushion, then the next, and you fall with him, laughing into his mouth until it turns into a gasp, because his rigid length is already poking at your clenching hole, bulky cockhead pushhhhing past it.

His lips trail down your throat, mouthing at your pulse, siver wedding ring cold where it squeezes your tit, making you hiss as it catches onto your nipple.

At this point, you don't think he'll be able to—

"Can't wait,"

Ah.

"I won't go all the way but please, I don't think you understand, darling," he's a panting mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, glasses askew. His hips stutter between your thighs, cock heavy and leaking as he rocks through your folds, sometimes pushing the tip into your quivering pussy, "I need to feel you around me right now."

"Oh-okay. But you gotta promise, Zayne."

"Yeah, yeah— Ohhh, what sweet, pretty pussy my darling wife has on her."

Oh, and your husband's also a terrible liar.

Because the second the words leave your mouth, he's already in, squelch squelch squelching sounds echoing as he plumbs your weak hole full of his hefty length.

His hips jerk, sloppy and desperate, punching his cock deeper with every thrust. That thick, angry swell at the base catches on your entrance, making you jolt, back arching off the couch as he bullies past your clenching walls.

He moans into your shoulder, cock twitching as your cunt clamps down like a vice. It's too much. Too tight. Too good and he's wondering if he's actually drunk.

Yeah, he's drunk on your pussy. Gone.

"You're—hahhh— toooo good to me," he whimpers, teeth grit, face buried in your neck, glasses hanging onto a thread. "Too good— sooo good, baby."

You keen, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as thick veins draaaaag along your walls and paint them with every twitch of his slit, eyes rolling, mouth slack, hips grinding into yours, roughly against your clit like he's a goddamn mutt.

"Zayne? Your glasses, darling—hnghhh!—t-they're gonna break on the floor."

"Fuck that shit."

His language is filthy, not caring about his glasses falling off and onto the floor, not caring about anything but your crying pussy gushing around him each time he hits your cervix.

"I don't give a shit, sweetheart," voice coming out as a snarl, pace roughening, cock battering your g-spot with every brutal stroke of his. "Not when your pussy's this—hahhh—fuckin' heavenly."

Your nails scrape down his back as he pounds into you, rougher now, like he's trying to fuck every thought right out of your head.

And honestly? You're not far off.

Panting heavy, he's biting your shoulder, hips snapping into you with eagerness so reckless you can feel his hot slick crown damn near in your womb.

His eyes are glassy, mouth hanging open as he watches the way your greedy pussy takes him so well and with such shameless need, he swears he can hear her cry for more.

"Pussy's so fuckin' good— shiiiit!" he slurs, obviously drunk off more than just booze by now. "Can't think straight, c-can't—fuh-fuckkk!— M' gonna cum, darlin'—"

"Z-Zayne! The fuckin' c-con— nghhh! Don't stop, don't—"

Forceful orgasm cutting your words off as you become a squirting mess, clamping and clawing at his base as he continues his assault on your poor, overstimulated cunny, juices spraying everywhere.

"Justttt like that, darlin', mhmmm. G-gonna fill my pretty wife up, have you all round and glowing, yeah?" he spurts out, slamming into you one final time then freezes, cock buried to the hilt as he floods you with his whispy spurts of cum. Thick, hot ropes paint your insides white, dripping out the second he pulses again.

His whole body trembles, arms giving out as he collapses on top of you, still twitching deep inside.

He tries to pull out—he really does—but the second his eyes land on your stuffed tummy, his eyes roll to the back of his head, hips already rutting back against you again.

"Ohhh my darling wife", he hums, nose buried in the crook of your sweat-slicked neck, drowning in your scent. He inhales deep, moaning like he's high off it, and that's when you realize, truly realize, just how far gone he is.

How drunk. How pussy-drunk. You-drunk.

His cock grinds even deeper, rutting into the deepest, most tender part of you as he whispers filth into your skin.

"Think it's time to consider a baby, hm?"

XAVIER ★ Pull out game... nonexistent? ~1.1k

"D-don't forget to pull out, 'kay?"

Your voice is light, barely a breath as you throw a look over your shoulder, eyes glinting with a warning that's too soft to land.

Xavier's already doomed. You both know it.

And he's already regretting everything.

Not you. Just the lazy-ass promise he made two minutes ago, when his morning wood was grinding slow and warm against your ass, and he was too blissed out on his day off to reach for a condom.

'Just a quick feel', he muttered in his grumpy morning voice, 'Gonna pull out. I promise', he said.

Even he didn't believe himself when he said it.

Now buried in you to the hilt, and the second your cunt sucked him in, wet and hungry and tight as sin, he knew he wasn't going to make it.

And it's his own damn fault.

You clench around him greedily, milking him already, and his breath punches out in a curse. He knows he should pull out. He told you he would. But all he can think about is how good you feel, how wet you are, how your cunt keeps sucking him deeper like you want him to stay.

"S-shitttt," he groans, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder, hips twitching helplessly. "I'm—shit— I dunno, angel."

"Then get a condom, Xav'. It's alright if you can't handle it." And you're so cruel, saying it as a purr, clenching hard around his cock right as he's trying to pull back, locking him in place with your feisty cunt, strangling not only his cock, but also his ego.

A frustrated grunt rumbles from his throat because you know damn well he won't.

Get out of this? Out of you? And physically stand up?

Yeah. Over his dead fucking body.

"N-noooo—" he whines, arms trembling beside your body as he sinks back in deeper, grinding slow like he needs it more than oxygen. "I can take it, I swear— promise, angel. J-just don't make me leave."

"Oh-okay, Xav'," you moan, draaaagging it out with a long and mean breath as his swollen head knock knock knocks against the entrance of your womb, "Just keep g-going—ohhh yesss! Right there—!"

Violent shiver running through his body, cock twitching deep. The slit's drooling now, spilling steady heat into your cunt in thick little pulses, leaking.

"Shit, angel, d-don't say it like that," he pants, rutting into you now with slow, needy thrusts, teeth gritted. "You're making it so fucking hard to be good— so fucking hard—"

His teeth grit, breath catching in his throat, a stifled groan dragging up from somewhere deep in his chest as he tries to keep the rhythm steady. But he's failing badly.

Thrusts getting messier now, still slow, but shaky, cock twitching with every stroke because his body knows what's coming, building and building no matter how hard he fights it.

And to be honest, he's not even trying to fight the storm coming.

Not when you clamp down on him, a hicup fleeing past your lips as you feel every ridged vein adoring his pulsating dick.

"P-princessss, need to feel you cumming 'round me," he whines, long and runny tone causing your clit to pulsate, his fingers already finding comfort on the abandoned button, "Gonna be the death of me— gonna k-kill me with this pussy."

And yet his hips keep rocking into you, slam slam slam— sooo deep you can barely think straight. Deeper now. Harder.

Because if he's going down, he's taking you with him.

You're a gasping mess as you cum around him, sobbing on every thrust, thighs shaking, nails clawing back at his scalp as he fucks you through your orgasm, pussy spurting juices all over the base of his cock.

"Nnnngh!—you're so messy, Xav'," you croon, rocking back to take him even deeper, riding out your high, grinding your ass against his hips until his cock reaches that spot inside you, creating a buldge at your lower belly, "J-just give up—"

Right then, you hear it in his voice when he cracks.

"F-fuck no."

He fucking whimpers, cock throbbing violently as he stays buried inside you, his tip drooling more sticky pre that seeps out with every grind.

"Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—quit— squeezin' me like that— I can't—!"

But his words betray his body since his cock slams into your deepest spot with every stroke, the wet slap slap slapping of skin filling the clouded room, making your overstimulated cunt cry out.

"Then pull out," you bite, tilting your head back with the last strength you muster to look at him, eyes daringly sinful.

Wait. Waitwaitwait—

His eyes are glassy. Lips parted. Chest heaving.

"I—I can't, angel," he whines, voice all breath and heat, hips grinding in deeper even as he says it. "You're too mean—fuckkkk—milkin' me dryyyyy— h-hahhhh!—Can't even think—"

You feel the way his rhythm goes ragged, his whole body locking up behind you. He's fighting it, really fighting it, his muscles shaking, jaw clenched, hips jerking in shallow, stuttering thrusts.

"G-gonna take it, right? C'mon, princess, Just this— hnghhhh!— once."

But his cock's twitching like mad. And his balls are mere seconds close to burst out a fresh, sticky load.

With a strangled cry his hips slam forward, cock buried as deep as he can possibly get, grinding in hard as he spills inside you, thick and hot and so much.

You feel his cum flooding your pussy in long, pulsing spurts, painting your walls, dripping out around the base of his cock and onto the tangled sheets as he whines into your skin, thrusting through it.

"Fuhh-ckkkk!" he moans, drawn-out and helpless, hips jerking with every spurt, every twitch. "'M so sorry—fuck, I tried— swearrrr I tried to—"

But he doesn't even bother finishing, not with the way your eyes cut over your shoulder like a blade before your fingers tangle tight in his messy hay-blonde hair and yank him down into a wet, filthy kiss that makes him whimper right into you.

Back arched into him, tongue tangling with his as you both chase the last euphoric waves of pleasure by grinding like wild mutts against each other.

"Mmnn... I know," you shakily whisper, light giggle following suit against his pouty lips, "Tried s-soooo hard, didn't you?"

And he nods like a lost puppy, breath stuttering as his glossy lips tremble once you cage them between your lips.

Your grinding back against his hips in a rhythm that makes his thighs tremble and his cock jolt again, squishing out more of that thick mess he just dumped in you.

Now that he fucked up, might aswell make the most of it, no?

"Mhmmm", he hums in a daze, cock already twitching back to life inside you, eager rutts against your ass causing the sticky mess inside you to flood out between your pressed thighs,

"One more try, yeah? G-gonna pull out this time."

Famous last words.

SYLUS ★ Alllll in. ~1k

"I'm a lucky man."

His mouth brushes your ear, breath hot as he groans, the words vibrating right against your skin. One big hand caresses the side of your throat while the other spreads your thigh wider, pressing you open.

"Mmmm-hmmm," he growls, voice rough, cock sliding between your drenched folds at an almost eratic pace. The heavy head keeps nudging your clit, slick and angry, "Very lucky indeed."

Choking on a moan, your back arches when the thick, leaking crown of his cock drags through your folds again, smearing slick and pre along your thumbing clit.

"Had a rough night. Deal went to shit," he murmurs, though his voice betrays him—strained, desperate, twitching against your hole like his cock has a mind of its own, "But my sweet princess'll help me out, right? Give me a little pep-talk?"

"Yeah, right. Since when are you so- nghhh!- so tame?"

"Since now," he pants, nudging the angry tip right into your squeaking hole, your pussy already locking his tip in a headlock, "Enjoy it while it lasts and let me in, sweetie. I won't move. Promise."

Lie. Big fat lie.

Narrow eyes of yours stare him down just as his lips curl into a cheeky, smirk, slowwwwly forcing his massive size to push your poor walls apart.

You're not even trying to squeeze him, but your cunt is already fluttering around him, soaking wet from how pent-up he is. Gripping your waist with an iron-clad hold, trying so damn hard to stay still, but every twitch of your walls makes him flinch, throb.

It's impossible.

Now he's already bullying his way through your wails and shrieks, halfway in, dragging your pussy open inch by massive fucking inch, because he's trying so hard not to ruin you on the spot and pump you full of—

Wait. There's something... off. Something missing.

"Shoooo big, Sy'! Can't—hahhh!— I can't! M' so full!"

Maybe it's just in his head.

You shudder, overwhelmed by heat and stretch and the gush of pre smearing your walls.

Right then your orgasm hits hard, embarrassingly fast, dragging another cry from your lips as your pussy clenches around his cock again, pulling more grunts from his mouth.

You're already fucked-out, hips buck again greedily, stretch dizzying, walls clamping down with gluttonous need, and his breath catches with a hard shudder. Thighs locking tighter around his waist, holding him in, dragging him deeper.

Minutes tick by, or seconds, he can't tell, until his hips start to rock in tiny, traitorous movements.

Your cry cuts off into a gasp as his hips find a brutal rhythm, heavy balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. Every ridge, every vein drags inside you, scraping his memoir into your walls.

God, he could die like this.

Eyes rolling, cock buried balls-deep in the warm clutch of your cunt, so moist and snug and just a little too cramped, your selfish cunny milking him for everything he's worth. Drowning in your whimpers, in the slap of slick skin, in the way your hands claw up his back for more.

It's perfect. Too perfect. Too bare.

Wait.

Wait—oh fuck.

He goes still mid-thrust, chest heaving, eyes wide and glossy as it hits him that he never put on the damn condom.

"Shit."

"Hmmm? Something wrong, Sy'?"

He's the Sylus, goddamnit. The ruler of the underground. But not here. Not when you're wrapped around him like this. Not when you're so hot, so loud, so feisty, and dripping down his length every time he pulls back just to thrust in again.

"Fuck's sake," he grits out, face buried in your neck like he's ashamed of himself, voice nearly unrecognizable. "I should—mmmh—I need to pull out."

But he doesn't. Can't. Not when your cunt squeezes him like velvet vice, not when your arms wind tighter around his neck and your hips grind up like you want him to ruin you.

"Hmm? What's that? C-can't focus when youhhh— ohhh!— in sooo deep, baby."

"Mhmmm, couldn't even get a condom because you're such a bratty little thing," he groans, voice going hoarse as he thrusts his fat tip right against your cervix with one forceful rut, barely holding on, "She's pulling me in, sweetie."

The bed rocks under the force of his shots, every sharp roll of his hips knocking the air from your lungs. The obscene, filthy sounds of your bodies say everything needing to be said.

"Whose fault is that, darling?" he grits out through clenched teeth, dragging his hands up your ribs to cup your face.

Fake it till you make it, I guess.

"Mhm! My fault, s' my fault Sy'!," you stammer, eyes glassy, mind running a thousand miles as he knocks your breath out again and again and—

"Now that's right," he huffs, forehead pressed against yours, a whimper catching in his throat as he eyes the heavy buldge at the pit of your tummy, "That's my good girl. Gonna let me cum inside, hm? Fill you up?"

"Mhmmm! Wanna feel it, allll of it Sy! Make me a m-mommy!"

Now you've done it.

Sylus's eyes roll back, face flushed, sweat pearling at his temple. He's trembling, so fucking close.

He's cumming before his mind even catches up, hips stuttering, breath leaving from his lungs as his body clamps against yours. A broken groan rips from his throat as he spurts buckets of pearly white cum into your womb, rutting in deep to make sure you take all of it.

"S-shit, sweetie," he hisses, forehead dropping to yours, ruby eyes blown wide and dazed, "feels good, hmm?"

You can't answer. Clenching, twitching, overwhelmed tears brimming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he hits without even moving, some of his cum escaping down the curve of your ass.

Pressing a weak, sloppy open-mouthed-kiss to his temple, your heart's hammering as the slow pulse of his cum inside you makes you more excited by the second, unconciously humbing up into him.

"A-again. Want you to fill me up again, Sy'."

"Again, huh? Now you're being greedy, sweetheart." He punctuates it with a sharp thrust, one that makes your whole body jolt, makes you yelp, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Whatever my sweet girl wants", he ushers against your puckered lips, dick twitching inside your cramped cunny, "she'll get."

Well, once you have tasted blood, you'll always want more.

CALEB ★ Home sweet home. ~1.2k

"W-what?"

"Condom, Cay'."

"Y-yeah right, condom. Gotta get it. Gotta—"

You're cruel. So very cruel.

Tangled together on the bed, your bodies slick with sweat, breaths rapid. Caleb's fingers dig into your hips as you impatiently grind your slick, exposed cunny over his stiff length, dragging it up right against his tip.

"Mhhh, hurryyyy! Wanna feel you already!"

Right then a fat bead of pre spurts from his slit, kissing your clit with a shining glee and you damn near sob, biting down hard on your bottom lip to stop the filthy little sound clawing up your throat.

"One sec' pips'. Just one second, m' gonna get it— fuck!"

He tries. He tries to lift you off, shaky hands fumbling at your waist.

"Just pull out and stop. t-talking."

But it's you who slid down on his tip, thighs slapping against his as you take him in to the hilt in one greedy push, his hefty girth streeeetching your out instantly, a loud squeak! resounding as his crown thumbs against your cervix.

Or did he drag you down, fists clenched tight around your waist?

Actually, it doesn't even matter anymore.

"Jesus Christ, baby," he groans, voice so thick with lust it's barely human anymore. "L-lemme get it, m' gonna—"

His voice cracks, almost a panic as his hands tighten on your waist, trembling, begging you to just slow down with each twitch of his fingers, cock twitching inside you since he's already right on his fucking limit.

He tries again. Hands push at your hips, trembling, uncoordinated, unable to decide if he wants to get you off him or fuck up into you on repeat.

"Wait—just lemme grab it, baby, j-just for a seco—"

"O-ohhh! I don't care anymore!" Your high-pitched tantrum throws him off, your hips grinding doen hard onto him in a hurry, so needy and shameless that he can't help but buck his hips upwards, stealing a pleased sigh from you.

You drop your hips again, soaked pussy swallowing him whole, strangling his pumping length and that's it. That's fucking it.

"Fuckin' hell," suddenly his grip turns firm, fingers digging into your flesh, forcing you down with a loud slap! of skin to skin. "Really? Ya' don't care anymore? Really want me ta' beat this pussy up?"

SLAP!

His hands slam down onto your ass, big palms grabbing, spreading, slapping, the poor flesh turning red on impact. And you jolt in his hold, clit thumb thumb thumbing like it has it's own heartbeat.

"Shit! Yer' fuckin'—nghhh!— gonna make me lose it," he pants, snapping his hips up into you dwelling in the suffocating hold of your soothing walls. "Ya' like that? Like ridin' me raw? Knocking this greedy pussy up? "

Desperate nod saying more than words could, you bounce up and down, up and down, tight pussy fixed around him, screaming in protest every time you surge up with loud, protesting gush gush gushes.

"Dirty fuckin' girl."

He grabs your ass again, harder this time, fingers sinking in, dragging you down with each thrust, eyes fixated on the delicious buldge of his fat cockhead bump bump bumping in your gut.

"Couldn't even wait, huh? Had ta' sit on my cock like the needy girl ya' are. Didn't even let me grab the fuh-fuckin'— shiiiiit!—"

Smack!

Another harsh slap ripples the fat of your rear, sharp but yet so perfect, the sting making you moan out, embarrasingly so, only further making your walls constrict around his hefty girth.

"Ya' want me to lose it, hah? Wanna make me forget everything but this feisty lil' pussy?"

You nod, nails dragging down his back. "Yessss! Pleaseeeee! Wan' you to fuck me stupid! Wanna c-cum!"

Forehead pressed to yours, he's fucking up into you with vicious intend, "Yeahhhh, yer' gonna get it. Gonna make you cum so gooood, pips' Js' let go f' me, yeah?"

And just like that, you break apart, body feeling like it's been lit on fire as you twitch around him uncontrollably, gushing your squirting sap alllll over his pelvic area.

"A-attaaaaa girl", he's watching you come undone, gripping your hips tight enough to bruise as he fucks you through your high, staring down at the mess you made in awe.

You're both drenched in it.

"What a beautiful mess," he pants, still pistoning his cock right against your g-spot, dragging your orgasm out. "Look at that pretty pussy squirtin' allll over me."

He's a pussy-drunk mess by now, cock still hard and throbbing inside your overstimulated cunt as she eagerly milks his cock, desperate for him to fill you up with his hot cum.

"Fuckkkk, I missed this. Missed you, this sweet little cunt, squeezin' 'round me. It's been sooo long."

You're panting now, still in shock from your orgasm, hips rocking against his, "B-but, Cay' we just did it y-yesterday—"

"That's wayyyy to long f' me."

You're whining, squirming in his lap, but he just has a crazed look, hungry, bucking his hips up, teasing the entrance of your womb with smooches.

He leans back slightly one hand gripping your ass, the other spreading you open so he can observe your stuffed cunny struggling to hold him in.

"Look at ya'," he mutters, half in awe, half in madness, "Gonna stuff ya' full till yer' leaking 'round me, till all you can think about is me, me, me—"

So close to his own wit's end, he's doing his best to focus on the delicious squelch of your stuttering pussy, heavy, fast breaths barely calming his racing heart down.

"God, you feel so good," he rasps, breath hitching. "So warm, so wet, 'm gonna cum, baby. Gonna fill you up."

You're clawing at his shoulders now, legs buckling as you feel your second high approching slyly. Every thrust sounds wetter than the last, his balls slapping your ass with every rushed snap of his hips.

Your moans are getting higher. His pace is getting sloppy. He's right there.

"No condom, no nothin'," he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours as he slowly, slowly inches the fat head inside, your walls stretching around him like they were made to take him bare. "You’re just gonna fuck me raw like this, huh? Gonna stuff you full till you're leaking around me, till all you can think about is me, me, me—"

He inches the fat head back in again, and your walls stretch, trembling, sucking him in until—

"Yesyesyes— fuckkk!—"

Your cry breaks into a sob as your body locks up around him. Caleb barely gets a breath before he's falling with you, mouth hanging slack as his hips jerk once, twice, and then he spills his thick load of fresh whites into you.

"Ooouhhhh! Cay-caleb!"

You sob, cunt spasming, milking him through it as your second orgasm rips through you, so intense your thighs shake, whole body shuddering in his lap, falling onto his sweaty, heaving chest.

"You're so fuckin' hot."

He's dazed, cock still twitching, slit spurting out the last wispy ropes inside you while his cum leaks out around the base in sticky dribbles, his locked gaze snapping up to your flustered face, sleazy grin twitching up his lips.

"Think m' addicted now."

Pff. As if he wasn't already whipped the second you climbed into his lap.

©︎𝙎𝘼𝙏𝙍𝙎 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. Do NOT plagiarize, copy, modify, republish, or translate my work in any way!

[voidpixies]

[voidpixies]

my hc is that if you ever did the "calling my boyfriend husband" trend on caleb he would get hard instantly

this made me giggle

“hi guys,” your smile widens as you prop your phone up against a cup, settling your small haul on top of the kitchen island for the camera to see. caleb stands behind you, hovering with eyes trained on the array of cafe items you brought home.

a few individually wrapped pastries, two drinks, a breakfast sandwich for the two of you to split. the cafe was a new one, opened just down the street from your shared place. it was a small business on its first week of operation so what better way to support than to do a friendly review mixed with a harmless prank?

your hands curl around one of the drinks, swirling the latte with your straw before taking a sip. “linkon city has the best little coffee shops,” you start, selling the bit as much as possible while your clueless boyfriend could only smile and nod along. he knew things like these were popular on social media but the sudden spark of interest in making content yourself had caught him by surprise.

still, he was happy to indulge in whatever you wanted. that was the fun part about being your lifetime partner— the spontaneity. backing you up in everything you took your hand at.

his confused yet content face catches in the camera as he wraps a lazy arm around your waist, peering over your shoulder to take his own sip. “mhm, nothing beats the croissants from the diamond plaza,” he adds his own two cents without much thought.

bingo. little did he know, he created the perfect setup.

“oh, yes!” you gasp dramatically, caleb finding your tone a bit too theatrical, laughing it off. “my husband here just loves the baked goods at diamond. it’s a must have if you’re planning on stopping by in linkon.”

his brain stopped. he swears he started to sweat almost immediately, his fingers twitching against the material of your shirt where it’s rested. part of him is convinced he literally made up your words in his own head.

the camera catches the way he perks up, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline in pure surprise. the undeniable tightness in his pants leaves him shifting from foot to foot, clearing his throat with a sheepish chuckle.

“they really are the best,” he nods his head in agreement, smug all the way around, hand gentle as it reaches over you to nudge the pastries and sweets to the side of the countertop. you feel the way he pushes his hips against your ass, the outline of his chubbed bulge making you flinch.

you don’t get a chance to stop recording the video as caleb places a hand on your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades. he guides you down, pushes you softly to bend until your chest is flat against the counter. his free hand is already working at his zipper, shaking his head in pure amusement at the slip of the tongue.

“husband, huh?” he leans to whisper into your ear, ignoring your protests and shy pleas.

[voidpixies]

he’s beautiful and terrible. i want him

[voidpixies]

the plan (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: blowjob, semi-voyeurism, bj during a meeting, lingerie, power-play, bratty reader

summary: you have decided to get back at the panty-thief, also known as Roman Godfrey, through an elaborate scheme. will it go as planned, though?

word count: 8,672

← previous chapter |

a/n: sorry about the gif, but that'd 100% be the faces he'd pull during a bj so......... tihi<333 also this was originally a chapter spanning over 20k words, but I've cut it up!! so take this as part one of the unravelling tihi, ENJOY the scene we've all been waiting for;)

Roman might've won the battle yesterday, but I was set on winning the war.

The plan I had come up with to counter the panty-thief, also known as my boss, was fool-proof-- I was sure of it. I shimmied my skirt further down my thighs after I stepped into the elevator, not wanting to reveal what I had worn beneath it for the group of people in here, before folding out the newspaper I had picked up after getting out of the metro. 

"Frederic Arnault Removed From LVMH Amid Sexual Misconduct Scandal."

God, it was better than porn. Thank you, Roman, dear. 

I could only grin as the elevator doors opened with a soft chime, stepping out feeling lighter than ever. This day was about to be fucking fantastic-- I could feel it in my bones. With my chin up high, I made my way to my desk, heart thrumming steadily in my chest as I tried to slow it down with deep, controlled breaths. Every inch of lace under my clothes made me feel taller, sharper, and that more dangerous as the hallway ahead of me hummed with the usual morning quiet-- screens flickering on, keyboards starting to click, voices low and polite, and I walked through it like it was air, like I wasn't even part of the same dimension. 

I set my coffee on my desk, then placed the folded newspaper next to it like a crown, like a trophy. And then, as casually as a breath, I turned to look over my shoulder to see the man who had me tossing and turning all night.

Oh, of course.

Roman's green, piercing gaze was already on me, practically Kubrick-staring at me through the glass walls of his office as he pressed the office landline phone to his ear, the cord of it wrapped lazily around his fingers like he might seduce me with that action alone. 

He was up and walking, but he wasn't pacing-- not today. Today, he stalked. Each step was slow, deliberate, like the floor owed him something, and he circled his desk once, then leaned into the edge of it with his free hand, knuckles flat against the polished surface, weight shifting through his frame like a fuse being lit.

Roman's eyes were on me-- not flicking, not glancing, no.

Locked.

The same way he might look at something he was planning to ruin for fun... or worship, depending on the hour.

I decided to act like it didn't affect me, not flashing the soft, beaming smile he usually got from me every morning. I tried not to stare at the tie he wore today, getting flashbacks from yesterday with each second I looked at him, and don't make me mention the suit... oh, the suit. 

No, no. I had a plan. Had to follow it. Couldn't stray. No, no, no. 

Turning on my heels like I had been scorned, I put down my Birkin, eyes glazing over the initials Roman had personally gotten engraved into the gold plating for me-- such a thoughtful gift from the man that had been colder than stone just mere days ago.

Then, just as I expected, the sound of his door unlocking pulled at me before I even heard the handle turn. It was quiet, almost delicate, the kind of movement that wouldn't register unless you were waiting for it-- and I was. Of course I was. I didn't turn around, not yet-- I wanted him to watch me like this for a moment longer; composed and indifferent, like I hadn't spent the night thinking about his mouth, his hands, and like I didn't feel the intoxicating weight of his stare against my ass. Perv.

Everything was going according to plan without me even trying-- this was fucking delightful.

I slowly turned, letting my head move before my body like I wasn't dying to obey, like my pulse wasn't already flaring in my wrists. 

Roman stood halfway in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame above his head like he needed to hold something to keep from reaching for me. The tie (that goddamn tie) was loosened just enough to show the line of his collarbone, and his mouth was set in that usual smug grin-- hungry, like he missed the way I looked in his backseat yesterday, like he hadn't stopped thinking about it, not even while he had been standing there on the phone.

"Problem, sir?" I asked, chin tilting.

Roman's green gaze slid slowly over me, up and down. "No," he murmured. "Am I not allowed to say good morning to my secretary?"

The way he said secretary made it sound like a kink-- that fucker. 

"You are," I said, voice calm and clipped as my fingers smoothed down a nonexistent wrinkle on my skirt. "You just usually say it before you steal my underwear, so excuse my caution."

Roman's mouth curved, a flicker of something filthy behind his teeth. When my heart thudded harder at the look of his expression, my eyes darted down to his suit, which caught the light in all the right places-- the edge of his shoulders, the sleek line down his thigh; he looked like money, like danger, and like the most exquisite mistake I'd ever want to make again.

"Mm," he hummed, gaze catching on my legs. "I suppose that's fair." His eyes dragged back up to mine, slow as smoke. "Would you dare to step into my office, or are you perhaps too traumatized?"

My lips curved slowly-- not into a smile, not quite into anything. "Not that traumatized, no," I said, voice light as I smoothed a palm over my hip, letting his eyes follow the motion. "But you've proven I can't be alone in enclosed spaces with you if I want to keep all my belongings."

Roman tilted his head, the movement subtle, deliberate. He was still leaning in the doorway, his height exaggerated by the angle, one shoulder dipped just slightly as he looked down at me like he was already undressing me with his gaze. His eyes were darker now, more shadow than colour, and every part of him radiated restraint on the edge of ruin; like he could be good, but didn't want to be. "That's not a no," he murmured, voice dipped in amusement, almost fond.

"It's not a yes either," I countered.

Roman's eyes flicked to my mouth; "You're stalling,"

I met his gaze, dead-on, daring him to blink. "You're the one blocking the door,"

That earned me a smile-- a real one. Small, sharp, and dangerously slow.

And then, Roman moved, shifting just enough to the side, opening the door behind him with a graceful, almost theatrical sweep of his arm. The hallway buzzed behind us with the oblivious rhythm of a normal morning, but the silence between us pulsed thick and private, as if we had stepped out of time. "After you," he said, voice pitched low in a way that made my pulse throb behind my knees. "Unless you're scared you won't make it out this time."

I stared at Roman for a beat longer, making him wait. Cunt. Manwhore. Panty-kleptomaniac. 

But eventually, I stepped forward, my heels clicking against the floor like punctuation, skirt swaying at the backs of my thighs. As I passed him, I felt his big eyes dip, drag, and pause just a little too long; did he have no shame, perhaps? How many times was he going to shamelessly stare at my ass today?

I didn't look back-- not yet. That would give him something, and he didn't get anything from me today.

I had made sure of that.

Because what he didn't know, what he couldn't possibly see from up there, was that beneath the neatly pressed fabric of my skirt and the demure swing of my hips, I was wearing a full lace garter set. Bra, panties, garter belt, stockings. Clipped, strapped, and cinched like armour.

There would be no stealing today.

And if he tried? He'd have to unclip four garter straps, slide down my sheer thigh-highs, and deal with a level of complicated fastening that no man could manage with one hand and a smug grin.

Let him try.

At that, my smile returned-- slow, sweet, and a little mocking. My plan was fucking fantastic.

I slid into the seat opposite Roman's desk, deliberately letting the hem of my skirt ride up just enough to catch attention. I didn't glance up to see him approach-- I didn't need to. I could feel him watching like static in the air, like heat against the back of my neck, and I knew everything was going as planned.

Roman circled me slowly, his steps silent against the polished floor, not in any rush. He moved like a man with all the time in the world to decide what he was going to do with me, and just as I guessed, he started rolling the blinds down one by one, closing us off from the rest of the office. 

I watched his reflection in the uncovered glass wall behind him, refusing to turn my head, savouring the small thrill of pretending to be indifferent while his shadow loomed closer. He passed behind me, pausing, just for a moment, before he walked over to his chair. I felt his gaze like a hand on the back of my neck.

When Roman finally sat down, it was with that signature grace of his-- one long leg stretching out beneath the desk, fingers brushing over the edge of the wood. He then leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other bringing his fingertips to his lips in thought. "I see you're in good spirits this morning," he teased at last, his voice all silk and venom, soft yet loaded. "Still salty from your loss?"

I exhaled once through my nose, a sound that might've been a laugh if I wasn't so busy holding onto my composure with both hands. My legs crossed slowly beneath the desk, heel dangling from the arch of my foot in a rhythm I knew he'd notice. "You mean the theft," I said, finally flicking my gaze up to meet his. "You make it sound like I had a fighting chance after the shit you pulled."

Roman's smile deepened, slow and sharp; "You did. You just lost,"

I tilted my head, the motion slight, almost feline. "So, what did you do with your trophy? Did you hang my panties over your bed, or did you use them to get off, perhaps?"

Roman's smile didn't falter-- if anything, it darkened. Spread. Turned indulgent in that maddening way of his, the one that said careful, little girl, you're playing with fire. He didn't answer right away; he just tapped his finger once against his lip, as if genuinely considering how much to unveil, like I had given him a pleasant errand instead of a burn. "I thought about it," he murmured, shrugging. "But I'm not going to disclose anything... confidential. That's between me and your underwear."

Ugh. I bet they hung over his bed like an animal bust. 

"Was there anything else, sir?" I asked, returning to my play of indifference. "Anything of importance, perhaps? I'm not too interested in sitting here and listening to you gloat."

"... Gloat?" Roman huffed a soft breath of laughter, but it didn't quite make it to his mouth. His eyes were too dark now, too focused, like he had already started stripping me down in his mind with the same attention to detail he gave to contracts and corporate acquisitions. "I like reminders," he said, voice lowering again, slipping into that private, conspiratorial tone that curled somewhere behind my navel. "Especially when you come in here acting like I didn't make you cum in the backseat of my car with your skirt bunched around your waist."

I would've blushed, had I not been so pissed off.

Instead, I smiled wider.

"So that's your thing, then?" I asked, almost sweetly. "Wrecking women in office-appropriate skirts and collecting what's left of them in lace?"

Roman exhaled a slow breath through his nose. "No. You're my thing,"

"... Right," I muttered, leaning back in my seat, slow and regal. Thing? His thing?

Oh well... Now was the time to strike-- I'd had enough of his gloating. 

I shifted in my seat before deliberately inching my skirt up further, unveiling the black garter that connected to my thigh-high stockings. I watched with passive interest as Roman's gaze dropped like a magnet to the motion-- he didn't even try to hide the way his eyes rounded out.

"Sir," I said smoothly, voice slipping into that polished, practiced ease I wore for his boardrooms. "If you're so fond of trophies, I figured I'd show you what you're not getting today."

Roman blinked once, twice, before catching up-- his expression slipped from mild shock to something way more entertained, perhaps amused, before he let out a quiet, controlled aah, accepting the challenge I had thrown at him like a lit match across the desk. He nodded slowly to himself as he sank back further into his chair, absorbing it.

It was followed by the kind of filthy smile that said he wanted to devour me whole, but would rather take his time watching me squirm first. The kind that said you think you've won, even as his eyes dragged like a slow hand across the exposed garter, the flash of bare thigh, the black lace biting softly into my skin.

"Well, well," he purred, voice rough now, coloured with heat. "You've come prepared."

"Of course," 

"This is war to you, huh?"

"Oh, certainly, sir," At that, I stood slowly, fluid and controlled, like the decision had already been made in my bones, and my body was merely catching up. I had planned this bit last night, but actually executing it was somewhat nerve-wracking-- I was sure it didn't show, though. I took a rather leisurely stroll around the desk, and I didn't have to look at him to recognise the shape of Roman leaning back, watching me with parted lips and darkened eyes, and his tie sinfully loosened.

"I admit yesterday's defeat," I purred, getting close enough to trail my fingers across Roman's left shoulder, avoiding his hungry eyes. "But I realized I can't win against you on your terms, because you'll always make it impossible. Therefore... I've concluded that I'll simply have to make it harder for you to steal my underwear, point blank."

Roman bit the inside of his cheek, probably trying to keep his excitement contained, yet to no avail. My fingers had barely skimmed the fabric of his jacket, but I could already feel the tension radiating off him like heat through glass-- I didn't need to look at him to know his jaw was tight, that his fingers had probably curled into the arms of the chair, and that somewhere in the back of his mind, he was already tearing the garter off me with his teeth.

But he didn't move-- Roman was letting me make my move. "You think a garter will stop me?" he murmured, almost mockingly, as he turned his chair to face me fully. "It's just a piece of fabric. Easy to get your panties around. You've got to make a better plan, if this is what you've come up with."

I could only sigh. "Oh, Roman," I purred. "You think this is it?"

My hands drifted to my skirt; I watched as he held his breath, eyes burning with excitement. I did a slow sweep across the fabric. Another. Then another. And then, with two fingers and the softest sigh of motion, I began to inch the hem upward to my waist. I held my skirt up, finally revealing the whole contraption.

The sheer, black stockings were connected to a garter, yes-- but what kept the garters up reached all the way up to the garter belt around my waist, which consequently caged in my lace, black underwear. 

Roman's reaction was immediate; I could see it ripple through him like a slow wave. His pupils, already wide, dilated even further-- black eating green. His mouth parted just slightly, but no words came out, not even one of his cocky little remarks. 

Not this time, no-- he was speechless.

And God, it was delicious.

I held my skirt where it was, unapologetically high, letting the silence stretch, letting him look. The garter wasn't just a deterrent-- it was a statement. The treasure he wanted to steal, my poor panties, were framed in lace and restraint, held tightly in place by clips that connected from thigh to waist like armour, like I had engineered the whole thing for the sole purpose of driving him insane.

Which, of course, I had.

"Fuck," Roman breathed, lips parted in complete enthralment. He leaned forward, placed his hands behind my knees to motion me to step closer between his legs, which I allowed-- only because he wasn't anywhere near my lingerie. Something told me that he knew not to touch, and I ignored the way my grin only grew wider and wider. 

"Well, aren't you gorgeous," Roman murmured with awe, reaching forward despite his better judgement. His fingers were warm against my skin; they skimmed upward from the delicate bend behind my knee, tracing the curve of my hip in a slow, reverent glide. "You pretty thing... I didn't know you owned this sort of stuff."

Well... Um. Roman didn't need to know that I got up early to run to the nearest lingerie store in my area, and tried out different designs for about twenty-five minutes, until I found this one. He didn't need to know any of that, actually. Instead, I gave a casual shrug, trying to keep my impending blush away from my cheeks in regards to all the compliments-- trying, and failing a little, because God, his voice when he said pretty thing? That was going to live behind my ribcage for weeks. 

"I have a few secrets," I teased, even as my breath caught at the second pass of Roman's fingertips. 

As I imagined he would when I planned this last night, his hands skimmed up to brush over my garter belt, now tracing around my waist. He really thought he could just touch me whenever, that I was his whenever, ready for him to grope and feel up whenever-- and sure, to some extent, he was right... but not right now. 

Roman's fingertips brushed the front, slow and curious, and I let him linger there and think I'd let him unclasp it for exactly one second too long.

Then, I dropped my skirt.

The fabric slipped from my hand in one fluid motion, falling back into place like a curtain being drawn, hiding everything-- the garter, the lace, the vulnerability, and erasing it in a whisper of cotton. I went for Roman's hands, gently prying them off me; at that, he blinked, stunned, like someone had shut the lights off mid-sentence. "Oh, what's this?" he asked, souring. "Petty revenge?"

I shrugged as I gently smoothed my skirt, palms running over the curve of my hips, ignoring the fact that I was burning inside with excitement, that my breath was shallow and tight, and that my heart was doing dangerous things in my chest. I didn't let any of that show. I just looked down at him like he was a child caught with sticky fingers in a cabinet full of things that weren't his. "I just don't think you should be touching my lingerie," I said, voice calm and poised, like I wasn't seconds away from falling apart. "I never know what you might try to steal next."

Roman let out a short, disbelieving laugh, halfway to a snort. "And��I think you should think twice before going through with this plan of yours," he said, the threat laced in his honeyed voice. "What even is it? To get me mad?"

"No, sir," I glanced past his annoyed gaze, past the way his fingers were impatiently trailing the arms of his chair, and down where I knew I had affected him most-- and unmistakably so, he was affected, alright. I could see the way Roman's pants had tightened, his cock having swelled with interest in his suit slacks, and that engaged phase two of my plan; "I just... wanted to thank you."

Roman followed the trail of my eyes and let out a huff, visibly displeased with my behaviour. "For what?" he mumbled, wary. "I know you're up to something."

I tilted my head, the picture of perfect innocence as I batted my lashes at him. "I saw what you did with Frederic," 

Removed From LVMH Amid Sexual Misconduct Scandal, as he should be. 

"And I wanted to thank you, sir," 

Roman let out a low sound-- half a scoff, half a breath. "I made a few calls," he mumbled. "Not a big deal. I'd rather he was executed by firing squad, the French way."

"You avenged me," I corrected, my tone laced with something deeper. "And I... wanted to thank you for that. It means a lot." Which, in truth, it did. It made me feel all warm and tingly inside that he had taken the time to do that, that he had put his career on the line, that he had dared to show that he cared. 

"So," I said sweetly, bending down just a smidge. "Let me thank you properly, sir."

Roman's green eyes flared. "You're not--"

Oh, I was.

Before he could finish the sentence, I bent down gracefully, hands light on his thighs-- not to part them, but to anchor myself, like I was just getting comfortable. I didn't break eye contact as I slipped beneath the desk with a fluid, practiced elegance, skirt brushing along the carpet as I kneeled between his legs, all calm, deliberate submission.

Immediately, Roman sucked in a sharp breath. All that ease, all that bravado, disappeared with a blink of an eye as he reached for my wrists on his knees, staring down at me like I was a bad, misbehaving dog. "We are not doing this," he hissed.

I blinked up at him. "We aren't?"

"I have a meeting in three minutes!" Roman continued through gritted teeth. "With the head of the Brazilian branch, for fuck's sake!"

Head? Oh, the irony. I tilted my head again, batting my lashes, smiling sweetly-- I knew all of this worked, because I could see the way his cock twitched in his slacks. How many times hadn't he pressed it up against me? How many times hadn't he deliberately done so to make me aware, to make me feel it? I had only seen it once, when he put a vibe to my clit during lunch, but this... this was way more intriguing. "And are you going to do so with a hard-on, sir?" I purred, my hands gently twisting out of his grip, before trailing them slowly up his thighs. "I'll take care of it. I'll be a good secretary. And after all, sir, if I am to be frank... I really want to know how you taste."

Roman leaned back in his chair with a guttural sound that was half groan, half a curse, swallowed behind clenched teeth. His large palms dragged through his hair like he was physically trying to reboot himself, like maybe if he tugged hard enough at his scalp, he'd wake up and find this wasn't happening. "You're nuts. I know what you're doing, do you really think it's that easy to derail me?"

If I had a tail, it would wag now. "Yes, sir," I whispered sweetly, leaning in just a little further, my breath brushing over the stiff line in his pants. "I think so."

Roman's head tipped back against the leather chair with a muted thud. "You knew I had this meeting," he hissed, voice fraying at the edges now. "You planned this to fuck me over, didn't you?"

"I only wanted to thank you... And perhaps help you relax before it," I cooed. "You always say I should be more supportive."

His eyes dropped back down to me with a look so sharp it could've split me open. His jaw flexed hard enough to crack; "I'm not going to let you mess with me like this," he threatened, low and strained. "You have no power over me. This is not how this works."

I smiled wider, pressing my cheek to the inside of his thigh-- it was almost comical to see Roman like this, panicked about being on the receiving end of anything. "But I'm being so sweet," I cooed, eyes still locked on his. "And I'm not looking to take any power from you. I don't want that. What would silly little me do with power? I just want to please you, that's all."

Roman stared down at me, chest rising fast now as his hands braced on the arms of his chair as though he needed to physically hold himself back. "I swear to God," he muttered. "If someone knocks on this door-- if anyone even nears this office during that call!--"

"Then you'll have to stay very quiet, sir," I murmured, voice silken as my nails lightly trailed over his zipper. "And let your good secretary handle it."

Roman's hands twitched like he didn't know whether to drag me out from under the desk and ruin me against the window, or let me have my wicked way. He chose neither-- at least, not yet. Instead, he gritted out; "If you bite me, I'll pan the camera down to you and let everybody see. Don't be cute,"

I smiled against the fabric, all charm and heat and threat as I unbuckled his belt. His empty threats didn't mean anything to me at the moment-- I knew him too well. "Do I take that as a yes, sir?"

Roman rolled his eyes, contained another groan, and nodded. "Only 'cause you look pretty like this," he grumbled. "But if you pull any of this shit on me again, I'll bend you over my desk and rip through every strap of that little set you're so damn proud of."

With a pout, I let the belt drop to the floor, slowly unzipping his slacks with the kind of care you only reserve for silk ribbons. "Well," I murmured, nuzzling my cheek against his thigh. "That's certainly one way to show appreciation for my initiative."

Roman groaned again, this time not bothering to hide it. His fingers flexed around the arms of his chair like he was holding himself back from grabbing me by the hair and showing me exactly what happened to disobedient little secretaries-- but I kept going, breath warm against him, lashes lowered, pretending I wasn't already dripping from the threat he'd just thrown at me.

"If you rip through it," I murmured, tracing one finger along the seam of his boxers; "You'll have to buy me another set. Possibly two. And let's be honest..." I looked up at him now, chin tilted, voice honeyed. "My taste is expensive. I will break your bank account." 

The second those words left my mind, something in my brain clicked; what did I just say? That didn't sound like me. Within a split second, I felt my cheeks heat up, but I tried to cover it with a tiny giggle. Was I perhaps getting drunk on the power he had so desperately wanted to keep away from me?

Roman's nostrils flared-- his annoyed expression didn't hide the way his cock twitched at the thought of me using his card, though. "They're gonna call me any minute now. Last chance to stop fucking with me,"

"I'm not," I corrected softly, sliding my hands slowly along his thighs. "And if you're smart, you'll let me do this. You'll let me thank you."

At that, he seemed to stop resisting. 

Roman got busy with his keyboard, getting ready to enter the online meeting as I pulled his hard cock out of his briefs, watching as it stood proud, and listened to him let out a small sigh of relief-- bet that felt good to get out of its constraints. My initial thought was that I thought his cock was pretty, which immediately felt odd to think; it was, though. I felt my heart soar, realizing that I was actually going to get to suck off the Roman Godfrey-- but then again, to be completely honest, it had been a hot minute since I had done anything like this at all. Still, it didn't hinder me from remembering the basics; I leaned forward, wetting my lips before placing them at the tip of his cock, giving it a small, wet kiss. 

Fuck-- he was delightfully soft to the touch. I was about to get addicted to this, wasn't I?

Roman's cock twitched against my lips, and I felt the restrained tension ripple through him, as though the gentlest touch threatened to undo him. My heart thrummed with triumph and excitement, my pulse echoing softly in my ears as I carefully parted my lips, gently easing just the swollen head of him into my mouth. The taste was rich, intoxicating-- purely Roman, warmth and silk over my tongue. What an honour, what a pleasure.

He exhaled sharply above me, the sound barely audible but unmistakable-- tense, bitten-back desire laced through every controlled breath. His hips shifted slightly beneath me, betraying the struggle he was already enduring to stay composed.

Slowly, almost shyly, I slid my lips further down, enveloping more of him, letting my tongue slide along the underside of his hard cock. I sucked softly, my cheeks hollowing just enough to coax another breathy groan from Roman's tightly pressed lips, one I knew he fought hard to silence. Holy fuck. My lashes fluttered closed, savouring the weight of him on my tongue, the heat of him filling my mouth inch by aching inch-- oh, how I had dreamed of this. Oh, how I had longed for this.

Roman's hand finally moved away from the computer-- hesitantly at first, his fingers grazed my cheek with unexpected gentleness, and his thumb brushed along my jawline in a silent caress of appreciation. It sent a spark of electricity across my skin, making me bolder; I let my mouth relax more, slowly working him deeper, relishing the small, involuntary thrust of his hips that followed as he struggled to stay silent, to keep still.

My pace remained deliberately slow and teasing; each time I drew back, my tongue swirled softly around the sensitive crown, lingering long enough to feel him shudder beneath my palms. Then I'd sink down again, wetter, more insistently, but still maintaining that shy, demure rhythm designed solely to unravel his composure inch by delicious inch.

"God, fuck--" he whispered hoarsely, so softly that only I could hear. His fingers tightened gently in my hair, a silent plea that urged me onward, telling me not to stop. I felt his pulse quicken beneath my fingertips, throbbing through his thighs, his cock swelling impossibly harder against the soft, wet pressure of my tongue.

I couldn't help the quiet moan that escaped my throat in response, sending a vibration coursing through him. His entire body stiffened, muscles tight as he fought against every primal instinct to fuck his cock into my mouth.

"Behave," Roman muttered, voice thick and ragged as his fingers stroked my hair, holding me firmly in place.

I smiled softly around his cock, eyes lifting coyly to his strained expression as I slowly, deliberately, took him even deeper, daring him to break, to lose himself completely beneath the careful ministrations of his oh-so-devoted secretary.

Then, just as he began to buck over and over into my mouth, the screen lit up with the incoming video call. Roman tensed, his grip tightening in my hair just enough to warn me; "Don't do anything stupid," he said, voice tight and rough with restraint.

I batted my lashes up at him, coming off his cock to press a kiss to the sensitive underside of the pink tip-- "Wouldn't dream of it, sir," I purred.

Roman had no option but to trust me, now. Sorry, not sorry. With a flustered shake of his head, he caressed my hair twice, signaling me to get back to what I was doing so he could get back to what he had to do.

Okay, okay.

As he greeted the head of the Brazilian delegation, his voice was smooth, professional, betraying nothing of the secret pleasure beneath his desk. I continued my slow rhythm, each slide of my lips deliberate and careful, drawing out the torment as my hand joined, stroking his cock with each bob of my head. Above me, Roman stuttered slightly at the added friction, disguising it quickly with a cough; "Ah-- apologies, good morning. Yes, I'm fine. Just a... minor cold,"

His fingers tightened in my hair again, swatting my hand away before silently directing me to slow down even more, guiding my movements carefully as I obeyed his unspoken command. His cock pulsed eagerly in my mouth, and I felt him swell impossibly harder against my tongue, fighting desperately for composure as he managed his words with strained ease.

My tongue teased the sensitive underside of his shaft, pressing just firmly enough to send a ripple of tension through him. Roman's breathing grew heavier, even as he forced his voice steady and calm, discussing figures, logistics, and contracts. Each time he paused, I could feel his self-control straining, his fingers gripping tighter, silently hoping for mercy and release.

With an almost imperceptible urgency, Roman finally guided me faster, hips lifting subtly to match my rhythm as I took him deeper, wetter, pushing him ever closer to the edge. His thighs tensed beneath my palms, his pulse hammering wildly through his skin-- I could feel it from under his desk. 

Then, with a quiet, shuddering breath disguised as a cough, Roman came, his hips jerking gently as he spilled down my throat, filling my mouth with his release. I swallowed obediently, savouring the taste, the sensation, and the triumphant intimacy of the moment-- honestly, I had never wanted to swallow before, but this was different. This was Roman. When it was him, I enjoyed it. This was the man of all my dreams, and I didn't care that it was warm, didn't care about the consistency as I had with others, because this? This was it. Roman was it for me, and this whole ordeal had gone better than I could've ever imagined. 

As Roman silently recovered, he loosened his grip on my hair, stroking it affectionately as he seamlessly continued the conversation, his voice perfectly composed, leaving no trace of the wicked indulgence he had just enjoyed beneath his desk. And just for a split second, his green eyes darted down to look at me-- he scanned the way my lips had slightly swelled, and how my half-lidded gaze stared up at him with a sweetness that betrayed my every action. I felt the twitch of his thighs beneath my palms as I tucked him back into his slacks, the residual tension laced through his muscles like a low electric hum, and that was when he snapped.

Roman adjusted in his chair, cleared his throat, and gave a shallow nod toward the screen. "Just a moment," he said smoothly, holding up a finger toward the camera. "There's something I need to attend to."

Before I knew it, Roman muted the mic, reached for the small icon, and turned off the camera. And then, in one swift, unhesitating movement, he grabbed me by the hair, harshly enough to make my heart jolt. I would've complained, would've whined, but I knew what this was; this was Roman saying you're mine.

He pulled me up from beneath the desk, forcing me to rise higher between his legs, and before I could say a word or catch a breath, Roman leaned forward beneath the desk and kissed me like he was still tasting the moment we'd shared. His mouth was hot and forgiving, all tongue and frustration, the kind of kiss that left no air, no doubt, and no room to hide.

His hand cradled the side of my neck as he kissed me again, longer this time, his tongue moving against mine with slow, deliberate possession. I whimpered faintly against his mouth, and his hand tightened in my hair again, grounding me.

"You are--" he muttered between kisses; "--completely out of your mind."

"I just want you," I whispered back, breathless.

He let out a soft huff that might've been a laugh, had it not been drenched in disbelief, and then dragged his thumb across my lower lip like he needed the contact to anchor him. "You're fucking unbelievable," he murmured. "Get comfortable."

I didn't need to be told twice.

I slid down to the floor again and curled up lazily between his legs, resting my head in his lap like a cat who had just gotten the best tummy rubs of her life. It didn't take long before Roman turned his camera back on and resumed the meeting-- he adjusted his seat slightly to accommodate me, one hand drifting absently into my hair, stroking it with the same fingers that had just clutched the arms of his chair like restraints. 

For this, all the anguish had been worth it. For this, I could go through a dozen Frederic Arnaults-- no, ew, I take that back. That was enough trauma for a lifetime. Still, I quietly sighed against Roman's thigh, nuzzling it as I made myself comfortable. This felt so... right. How had I ever lived without this? How had I ever functioned? I couldn't without him, even though I was in the middle of getting back at him for stealing my underwear. 

However, I wasn't thinking about the plan.

Because right now, I was thinking about Roman and me, and how wonderfully warm I was sure we both felt in the aftermath of my endeavours.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

By the time we were seated in Roman's private lunch lounge, glass walls dimmed with switchable film, and a view of the skyline he barely acknowledged, I was already halfway through my Caesar salad and sipping a Coke with the kind of reverence most people reserved for vintage wine.

It wasn't fancy or elegant, or in any way appropriate for the space, but I didn't care-- it had been a long, emotionally complicated morning, and Roman had told me I could get whatever I wanted. My knees hurt. My nerves were fried. And this? This was my comfort food. Shredded romaine, grilled chicken, maybe-too-much dressing, and a Coke so cold it made my teeth hurt. Bliss.

Across from me, Roman sat perfectly straight in his sleek chair, his OCD lunch untouched before him. His napkin was still folded neatly, his hands were clasped in front of him like he was observing a ritual he wasn't invited to, and the biggest tell of his mood was how he said nothing. Roman just watched me with that particular blend of disdain and disbelief.

I took another bite, sighing happily through my nose. "What?"

Roman blinked, slowly. "You're drinking Coke. With a Caesar salad,"

"Yes?" I said. "Is that a felony in your world, sir?"

He narrowed his eyes. "It's just... violent,"

"It's delicious," I corrected, stabbing my fork down for another bite. "Not everything has to be rabbit food cut up in perfect squares to be digestible. I mean... for me, that is. I know it's not your thing."

Roman didn't answer-- his expression caught somewhere between a sulk and a smolder. I could tell he hadn't recovered from earlier, from the moment I had slid under his desk with sweet little words and a wicked mouth and derailed his entire existence before a major call. Now, I was just eating lunch like nothing happened, like I wasn't the reason he had to mute himself mid-meeting just to breathe through the aftermath of his orgasm.

"Sir," I said, lips around the rim of my glass of Coke. "You're glaring. Have I done something bad?"

Roman's jaw ticked; "Well. I'm... recalibrating,"

"To what?"

"To the fact that I let you do that,"

My heart gave a soft, painful jolt. I tucked my hands under the table for a second, smoothing my skirt just to give myself something to do. "Did you... not like it?" I asked, quieter now.

Roman leaned back in his chair, exhaling hard through his nose. "I didn't say that," he grumbled. "That would be lying. I'm just trying to decipher what you've planned, because that was... unexpected. And very out of character. All I know is that you're keen on avenging your underwear."

I dabbed the corner of my mouth with my napkin, posture straightening just slightly in my chair-- prim, even ladylike, if one could ignore the Coca-Cola. My fork moved with slow, graceful precision, spearing a perfectly dressed leaf of romaine before I brought it to my lips. I chewed like I was at a garden party, not a post-blowjob debrief.

Roman watched all of this with a stare that bordered on clinically disturbed; "I'm serious," he said. "What else are you planning?"

I blinked up at him, all doe-eyed sweetness. "Planning?"

"Yes. Planning," He gestured vaguely toward me, his expression vaguely tortured. "I have a feeling this isn't the end of it."

I tilted my head, feigning thought. "No plan," I said. "Just gratitude. You were very helpful with Frederic, so... I thought I'd return the favour. Make you feel good."

Roman narrowed his eyes, leaned forward, and laced his fingers together like he was about to cross-examine me. "So, you just decided to crawl under my desk like some demonic little secretary and suck me off during a meeting with international delegates. No ulterior motive,"

"None," I beamed, sipping my Coke. "Well... okay, maybe one?"

He stilled. "A-ha... Go on,"

"I just wanted to prove a point," I said, shrugging as I laid my fork down with intentional calm. "You seemed to think I wasn't the type."

Roman's brow furrowed. "The type?"

"Mhm," I murmured. "You remember yesterday in the car? I told you I wouldn't blow you there, and you got that smug little look like, oh, of course she wouldn't, like I'm all prim and proper and sexually repressed." I reached for my napkin again, gently blotting my lips. "I just wanted to be clear that I do go down on guys. I'm not a nun."

Phase three was in motion. I was slowly getting to my main incentive by introducing the topic.

Roman gave the faintest huff of a laugh, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "And hallelujah for that," he muttered, picking up his water glass with a dry twist of his mouth. "I never took you for a nun, anyway. Repressed... perhaps. But you're always running around making trouble in hopes of me dealing with you, so there is something peculiar about you."

I folded my napkin neatly, keeping my gaze low as I murmured; "That's funny, sir... I was just thinking the same thing about you,"

His glass paused at his lips.

I looked up sweetly; "I mean, you steal girls' underwear, hide vibrators in your briefcase, and you've gone as far as to make me hump your shoe. Is that not peculiar, too?"

Roman let out a sharp breath through his nose-- half a laugh, half a threat. His jaw ticked, his knuckles now resting tight against the edge of the table, like he needed the hard surface to keep himself grounded. I could see it happening in real time, that short-circuit of disbelief-- that deeply personal discomfort of being outmanoeuvred in a game he invented.

He stared at me like I was a test he hadn't studied for. "Cut the crap. What are you getting at?"

"Oh, nothing crazy, sir,"

Roman's green stare sharpened. "You're acting out,"

"And you," I said, spearing a crouton delicately; "Strike me as a man who doesn't go down on women."

Bingo. I watched as Roman's brow arched in disbelief at the audacity of that sentence. "I what?" he asked, slowly, like he wasn't sure he'd heard me correctly.

I didn't look at him-- I just delicately nibbled the edge of my crouton, calm as you please, as my insides screamed at me to shut the fuck up before he pulled out a whip or something. When had I managed to grow this big a pair of balls? Seriously, what was happening to me today? "I mean, it's fine," I murmured. "You get whoever you want, whenever you want, and I suppose there is an incentive as to... what you can get away with not doing, as a man like you, with status like you."

Roman stared at me, stunned-- truly, violently stunned. This wasn't the secretary he knew; this was the ghost of vengeance. May my panties rest in peace, wherever they were.

I kept my eyes on my plate, shrugging nonchalantly as my heart hammered in my chest. I was truly playing with fire now, which is why I had to get going through the flames to avoid any long-term burns. "You weren't okay with me touching you until, like, three days ago," I continued. "You strike me as someone who... wouldn't be too comfortable with your face between a woman's legs. Too intimate. Too personal. Too... close, right?"

Roman slowly leaned back in his chair, gaze raking over me like he was trying to decide if I was being serious or suicidal-- and that was when I knew I had aced phase three. Get him pissed. Get him ready to prove you wrong. 

Because what I actually wanted out of this day? After he stole my fucking underwear and kept it?

I wanted him to eat me out like he was sorry. 

That would make me feel like I had my dignity back, and nothing less. This was just the build-up that was needed to get him to do it of his own volition.

Roman's head tilted back slowly, his lips parting in a disbelieving smile. He looked like someone trying to remember whether or not murder was still considered a felony in the state of Pennsylvania. "You think I don't go down on women," he said flatly, as though reciting back the charges in court.

I finally lifted my eyes to him, sipping my Coke with something close to innocent politeness. "That's what I said, sir,"

"You think I don't--" He cut himself off, face tightening like the words physically offended him. "You have absolutely no idea what the fuck you're talking about."

I widened my eyes in a faux-demure way. "Oh? So you do?" I said, cocking my head.

Roman stared at me like he wanted to flip the table, or climb over it, or pull me across it by the back of my neck and silence me with his mouth. I couldn't read him now that I was too busy stepping through this landmine of my kamikaze plan. 

"You think I don't eat pussy?" he said, voice low and furious, like it physically pained him to say the words. "Are we really having this conversation?"

I pursed my lips. "I think if you did, we'd all know by now,"

Roman looked like I had just punched him square in the reputation. His jaw set so hard I could hear the grind of his teeth.  "You-- God, you are unbelievable," he snarled, eyes narrowing. "I know you're trying to make me prove it, but at this point, I don't give a damn. I will, right fucking now, if that will shut you up for today."

The chair behind him scraped harshly against the polished floor as he stood at full height, hands braced on the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him from launching over it. His eyes were wild with intention, a full-throttle kind of fury that wasn't just about sex-- it was about pride, about power, about someone finally poking a hole in the mask he had spent his whole adult life wearing.

Roman was practically vibrating-- his suit jacket shifted with the rise and fall of his chest, and he looked at me like I was the final straw, the final provocation, the match tossed on gasoline.

And me?

I smiled.

Slow and steady, full of that unbearable, infuriating grace I knew he loathed most when it came from me. "I'm very flattered," I purred, folding my hands politely over my lap, like we were still in some corporate negotiation. "But... I'm a bit shy. I think you gotta buy me dinner before something like that."

The silence that followed was nuclear.

Roman's mouth parted in shock, his entire posture glitching like someone had just slammed the brakes in his mind. One second, he was locked and loaded, ready to destroy me in ways the Geneva Conventions would frown upon, and the next, I had pulled the rug out from under his feet. His big, green eyes scanned my face like he was double-checking for signs of brain injury. "Are you--" he choked out, disbelieving; "--fucking kidding me?"

I gave him a teeny tiny little shrug. "What?" I asked, blinking sweetly. "I'm just saying... Respectfully, of course, that even though you're my dom, and even though we've done a few things here and there, that I'm still shy. It's been a while for me, y'know."

Roman stared at me like he wanted to scream into a pillow, or kiss me hard enough to leave teeth marks. Possibly both. His knuckles were white against the wood; "Respectfully?" he repeated, dangerously quiet.

"Very respectfully," I said, lifting my Coke again like a toast. "Sir." I took a long, icy sip while he stood there, seething, recalibrating for the second time today.

Roman sat back down like gravity had forced him into it, the chair groaning faintly beneath the weight of his frustration. He didn't just sit-- he dropped, spine stiff, hands braced on the arms like they were the only thing keeping him from reaching across the table and dragging me into his lap and spanking me blue. His tie was slightly askew now, and his hair looked like he had run his fingers through it one too many times-- he was, in every visible way, undone. "I am buying you lunch," he said, flatly gesturing toward my Caesar salad like it was suddenly an exhibit in a trial. "You are currently eating a lunch I paid for. It's the same shit."

"Oh, is that what this is?" I said, gently tapping my fork to the edge of my plate. "I thought it was a peace offering after you stole my underwear."

Roman closed his eyes like he needed to mentally search for his will to live. "I should've hired the candidate before you. You're smug, you're disobedient, you're infuriating, you're a fucking brat--" Roman dragged a hand down his face. "And now," he added, voice fraying at the edges. "You apparently want me to court you? Take you out to dinner?"

I pretended to consider that for a moment. "I mean, technically, I'm already courted. Just... maybe stop stealing my underwear like a pervert and commit to one proper evening. I hear Nobu takes last-minute reservations for billionaires with anger management issues,"

Roman stared at me, and then, finally, he huffed a low laugh. "I'm going to ruin you," he said, quiet and sure, the kind of promise that made heat pool low in my belly. "You're not getting away with this plan of yours unscathed. Be aware of that."

... Didn't expect any less. 

I smiled, soft and excited, as I stabbed my last piece of romaine. "Can't wait, sir,"

Roman stared at me, his knuckles flexing lightly against the arms of the chair. I expected another retort, something cutting, maybe obscene, but instead... he went quiet. He leaned back slowly, bracing himself like the air had gotten too thick. His jaw moved like he was debating what to say, and then, almost... timid, like he couldn't believe he was saying it, he muttered; "Okay. It's a date,"

I blinked. 

Oh?

Oh.

A date? Hold on. This part of my plan didn't seem so terrifying in my head, but now? Oh, I was screwed.

Roman's green eyes flicked to mine and back to the skyline, as if he couldn't quite look at me now. "Nobu sucks. I know a better place," A pause. "Or... y'know, whatever," He scratched the side of his neck; "... Whatever."

The air between us shifted-- I hadn't thought about this part, not to this extent. Roman wasn't just mad anymore. He was actually taking me to dinner.

In the midst of my evil plan, my revenge, my plotting and scheming, I had somehow... secured a date with Roman Godfrey.

(a/n: oh y'all are not ready for what's about to come.... it all goes up and down from here (get it?) (ok sorry bad joke lol) ANWAYYY THANK U FOR READING THIS FARRRR!!<3)

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lovely little taglist<3:

@grimoireskin @babyslilbee @jacks4lifer @turnmeintoaflower

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

@lunaskye999 @tvdxstan @sn0wybowie-blog @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry

@succubustacy @scarledy @prismozo @kittydiarys

@melancuntly @likecherriesinthespring @voidpixies @kikibit

@immernixia @a-differentbrandof-beans @loushaw131460 @moonlightstuffs

@humongoussweetsengineer @babyslilbee @eugsposts @upirlover

@jacks4lifer @sickopsychosicko @iamslytherin0 @luverofmine

[voidpixies]

palace takeover (roman godfrey x all my followers lol)

WARNINGS: crack. literally just crack.

summary: IT'S MY ONE YEAR ON TUMBLR ANNIVERSARY!!!!!!! and Roman & co are gonna take you through it for me lol;)

word count: 1,057

Roman took his time walking into the main court room of the King Kat palace, sighing before lighting a classic cinnamon cigarette in front of the ridiculous throne. Doing this announcement thing wasn't originally on his agenda for the day-- he knew he had another party to get to, where he was hoping to get laid for the night, hopefully even twice, but he was aware that he owed a certain author a favour for giving him such a... what can I say, high rep in bed.

"Let's get this over with," he grumbled, taking a drag. "As Kat is off on a royal quest to find inspiration for new chapters, it seems you guys have been left in my care. Wouldn't say that leaving me as interim ruler of a kingdom is the smartest idea, but... I was told I could wear a crown?"

With his cigarette dangling from between his fingers, Roman glanced over his shoulder at the crown that had been carefully prepared for him on the throne. "There we go," he mumbled, picking it up and placing it on his head before turning back to you with a smirk. "Okay, so, I was supposed to read you guys some sort of statistics chart? I originally got a scroll to read this off from, but I don't give that much of a shit, so I will read this from my phone."

Whipping his phone out of his back pocket, Roman took a long drag before his voice echoed much louder in the court room than he had intended; "Oh, this shit is so fucking boring," he muttered, rolling his eyes and clearing his throat before continuing with a monotone voice. "Okay... Kat has written exactly 419,878 words during the year she has spent posting on Tumblr, and wants me to read out that... uh, that she couldn't do it without the love and support she gained from the people she has met through the platform. Bleh."

Roman's green eyes quickly darted up from his screen, meeting yours with a grimace; "Has she had nothing else to do all year?"

With a stifled laugh, he went back to his manuscript. "She has spent most of her time focusing on her fanfics, such as Seven minutes in heaven, and Brat, which have given her much joy--"

"But she should've probably spent more time finishing that threesome oneshot she started back in October, am I right?"

Roman's head turned toward the sound-- "Peter!" he exclaimed, urging his best friend to get his ass to his side of the room. "How did you get in here? Say hi to the freaky readers, they're all here!"

Peter made his way through the court room, a slight flush creeping up his cheek when he saw how many people were here to listen to the most important announcement of the year (LOL SORRY AHDHFFH). "So these are the fuckers that like seeing me cucked in that Brat story?"

"Oh, absolutely," Roman grinned from ear to ear, passing Peter his cigarette. "But we should definitely remind Kat to finish the threesome oneshot. It was kinda cool, no? Eiffel Tower alert!--"

"There will be no Eiffel Tower!" Peter shot in, before recovering and scratching the back of his neck with an awkward laugh. "I mean... um. Whatever. As long as I get some action, I guess, and I don't have to look at your ugly face, dude."

Roman rolled his eyes, shooting you a glance. "Someone's grumpy. Should've brought a frisbee,"

That earned him a smack on his shoulder, and the boys laughed as Roman got his cigarette back. "I need to get back to this statistic thing Kat wanted me to read out, though--"

"Roman, are you wearing a crown?!"

Both Roman and Peter's attention snapped to the end of the hall-- in the grand entryway, stood Letha, hand on her hip with her brow arched to the high heavens. A collective gulp was heard as she neared them. "Roman, you can't wear that! You look ridiculous!"

"Calm down," Roman mumbled, adjusting his crown. "Kat said I could..."

"Kat says many stupid things!" Letha made her way across the room, huffing. "She also made me the biggest fucking bitch in Seven minutes in heaven, for instance! I'm nice!"

"Of course you are," Peter shot in, embracing his girlfriend to hopefully calm her down just a notch, giving you all a nervous glance. "That was... not Kat's best moment, to say the least. We all agree."

"Well..." Roman shrugged, taking a drag of his cigarette; "I thought it was pretty hilarious, if you ask me."

"Roman!--"

"Dude, come on!--"

"Alright, alright!" With an annoyed sigh, Roman put out his cigarette on the throne, cleared his throat, and glanced down at the manuscript on his phone. "I'm wrapping this shit up, we have a party to get to... Where did I leave it off, though? Hold on."

As Roman fumbled around the script, Letha sighed as well, relaxing her shoulders in Peter's embrace. "I knew this would be a mess,"

"Shut it, you uncouth mongoloid," Roman muttered under his breath, lighting up when he finally found where he left off. "Okay. Kat wants me to end it by saying thank you for all the people that have stuck to her through her process of managing Tumblr, specific thanks go out to some chicks named Bela and... Lyndi? Who's this? Peter, does she mean your mom?"

Peter rolled his eyes-- "My mom is Lynda, you piece of shit. How many times haven't you been over at my place? Must be some mutual,"

"Right," Roman mumbled. "I would make a your mom joke right now, but we don't have much time left if we want to get to the party. Lastly, Kat wants to thank some guy for being hot, but I can't quite figure out how to... okay, who the fuck is this, now? Bill Skars.... what? Who? What is that letter? How do I pronounce this?"

With an annoyed huff, Roman stuffed his phone back into his back pocket, shrugging at you. "Anyway. Thank you for reading about me having sex. That's it," He put the crown back down on the throne, and walked over to Peter and Letha, motioning for them to follow him out the room.

As Roman ushered them out and grabbed the handles to the massive doors, he quickly looked at you with that unmistakable smirk you all know and love--

"Everyone who read this far will get eaten out for good luck. See you next year!"

AHAHHSHDH SORRY FOR THIS, I'M CRINGING SO HARD BUT LAUGHING MY ASS OFF..... AHHHH I'VE BEEN HERE FOR A YEAR! A YEAR WTF???? thank u to Roman lol

I started this account last year when I was really down, and after I read a catastrophic oneshot of a pairing I don't remember... I recall thinking 'wtf was that, I could probably do better than that??', and decided to test it out! I am SO unbelievably glad I did!!!! I have met so many nice people, have been inspired to write close to half a million words (what the FUCK), I've finished a whole-ass book which now spans 612 pages, and I've met the loveliest people and connected with so many of you that I'd never have, had it not been for this account!!!!!

I thank every single one of you for everything<33 to MANY MANY more years!!!! (threat)

[voidpixies]

bill skarsgård, 2013.

[voidpixies]

omg... its been so long since my latest bot.. 😮‍💨 clearly on my way creating abt new bots and reqs..

[voidpixies]

emotion is pain (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: sexual harassment, fluff, mentions of sex, fluff, sexism, fluff, fluff, FLUFF!!

summary: the French have always been fond of claiming things that are not theirs-- will Mr. Godfrey let them, though?

word count: 11,245

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a/n: I basically wrote this whole thing over a span of 24 hours, and I have been plotting this chapter since the absolute start, so... ENJOYYYYY HOPE U LIKE IT OMG THIS IS THEEE CHAPTER<333

"Ooh-la-la," Letha teased from the other side of the phone. "A Birkin? That doesn't sound like my cousin."

I stared down at the bag nestled in its silk shroud on my bed, sighing. I had been going nuts all day since Mr. Godfrey kicked me out of his office, and I couldn't get it out of my head how he had panicked. Had I ruined everything? I needed an expert opinion-- also known as Letha. "He said he thought it would match my heels," I murmured, still not over it. "I can't believe he even thought about that. He had my initials engraved on the gold pleating and everything."

There was a beat of stunned silence from the other end.

"Okay, what the hell is happening?" Letha burst out, somewhere between awe and alarm. "He bought you a customized Birkin and remembered your heels? This is not the man who forgot my birthday two years in a row! That jerk!"

I smiled faintly, but my head kept throbbing; it was way too late. The moon was shining brighter than ever from outside my window, and I couldn't sleep before I cracked the enigma that was Roman Godfrey.

There was a pause. Then, Letha let out a knowing little hum, like she had already read the ending of the book I was still stumbling through. "So... how badly did you fuck it up?"

"... What?"

She didn't miss a beat. "Roman only gives that much of a shit when he's on the brink of an emotional aneurysm. So either you kissed him, or you said something dangerous,"

"I'm not stupid, I didn't kiss him!"

"Oh, come on," I could hear Letha grinning through the phone. Her tone was smug now, but underneath it, there was something protective. "Roman doesn't do grand gestures, and the second you respond to him like a normal human being with emotions, he short-circuits. So," A beat. "What did you say?"

I hesitated.

"Oh God," Letha's voice dipped. "You said something emotional, didn't you?"

"I might've..." I clutched the Birkin tighter. "I might've told him I think about him... all the time..." My voice died out the further down I got in that sentence, and the silence that followed was brutal.

"Oh my God," Letha whispered, horrified for my sake."You told him?!"

"I didn't mean to, Lee! It just came out!"

I heard her flop dramatically onto something-- probably her bed. "Jesus Christ... That man's nervous system is already hanging on by a thread as it is. You basically set off an emotional nuke. There will be no North Korea tomorrow,"

I covered my face with my hand, groaning at my stupidity. "It was awful. He looked like he was going to be sick,"

"Because he was," Letha said. "Emotionally."

I let out a strangled sound. "I don't fucking get it anymore!" This was impossible. Mr. Godfrey was fucking impossible. "Not that I ever got it, like, ever, but this-- I don't get it! Why gift me a Birkin if you don't like me?!"

"You know he likes you,"

"I don't fucking know anymore!" I whined. "He got nauseous, Letha. Nauseous! Like he was about to throw up on the dead orchid in the corner that he never lets me water! Why is he like this?!"

Letha was quiet for a moment-- and then, with unnerving calm, she said; "I think it sounds like you might've reached past the persona and touched the actual Roman, and you scared the hell out of him. Of course he got nauseous,"

I sank deeper into my sheets, curling around the Birkin like it might save me. "Well, I'm scared now, too," I whispered. "What if he fires me?"

"Oh, you're such a drama queen!--"

"I'm serious, Letha!" My voice cracked as panic licked up the back of my throat. "What if that was it? What if that's what happened to the other secretaries? What if they all made the same mistake, thinking they meant more to him than the rest, and that was the line?"

"You didn't cross a line," Letha said, softer now.

"But I did," I whispered. "I felt it. Something shifted. I'm not going to have a job tomorrow, and-- and I'll never see him again." At that, I felt my eyes well with tears for the hundredth time today. I couldn't stand the thought of never seeing Mr. Godfrey again, of being discarded like his previous secretaries, of going back to meaning nothing to the man that had become my everything. 

Letha exhaled quietly, full of sympathy. "Look... he's not used to people sticking around after the mask slips. It's always easier to run than wait to be hurt,"

"I didn't say anything hurtful," I mumbled. "I just said that I think about him--"

"-- All the time,"

I said nothing. The silence was loud enough for us both. Even the Birkin wasn't helping, no matter how gorgeous it looked in the moonlight right now. "I'm just... sad that he thinks he has to run,"

Letha was quiet for a moment. When she finally spoke again, her voice was unusually gentle; "He's not running because he doesn't care. He's running because he does,"

I swallowed hard. That felt too generous, too hopeful. "Then why doesn't he just say that?"

"Because he's Roman," she huffed, matter-of-factly as ever. "And Roman hasn't said how he actually feels since he was, like, five. That's when his whole world blew up."

"You mean when his dad?--"

"Yeah," A beat passed. This was clearly sensitive information. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but... Roman found him, y'know? And my mom still talks about when Aunt Olivia hit him in our driveway before the funeral because he cried."

Breathless, I could only muster a tiny what?

"Yeah," Letha mumbled. "Aunt Olivia was very adamant about mentioning that J.R. had abandoned the family on every occasion. It was constant. She's cut back on it now, though, but... it was fucking brutal. Roman was never the same after that. Every time I come crying to him about anything, he tells me I should get myself together. Still, to this day."

I went quiet.

For a long moment, the only sound between us was the soft rustling of my sheets as I shifted, the Birkin carefully sliding off my lap like even the fucking bag knew this conversation had crossed into something too raw.

"He was five," Letha added, her voice low. "Just five. So don't be shocked if he gets nauseous or if he flinches. He associates emotion with... pain, I guess."

That was it-- like the last piece of a puzzle, it slid into place, and it clicked in my head.

That's why Mr. Godfrey liked putting me over his knees. Emotion is pain. That's why he liked playing mind games and seeing how far I broke down. Emotion is pain. That's why he liked how painfully desperate I was in that drunk mail. Emotion is pain. That's why he liked humiliating me. Emotion is pain. 

The more hurt we both were, the more I indulged, the more I enjoyed it too... the more he felt like he was showing me affection?

It hit me like a punch to the chest, how backwards this all was-- how twisted, how fragile. No wonder he had frozen, no wonder he had looked like he might pass out. Because I didn't cry, I didn't beg, I didn't fall to my knees like the first time, all messy and unraveling for him to feel powerful about...

I had smiled.

I had looked at the bag and smiled and said something that, to any normal person, would've meant connection.

And for him... that was the most dangerous thing of all.

I could feel it now-- what he must've felt. That invisible wire pulling tight in his chest. The walls coming down before he could stop them. The horror of it. Because maybe for the first time, it didn't feel transactional. It didn't feel controlled. It felt warm, soft.

It felt like falling, and Mr. Godfrey didn't fall-- he dragged people down with him.

"Jesus Christ," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. "I think I broke him."

"You didn't break him," Letha murmured, gentle with my fragile state. "He was already broken. You just... got close enough to hear the cracking."

I held my Birkin a little tighter, not for the leather or the hardware or the status, but for what it suddenly represented; proof. Proof that he tried, that he cracked open a door he hadn't opened since he was a child, and I (the fucking idiot that I am) had rushed through it without knocking.

"I have to fix this," I whispered. "Somehow."

"Then be there tomorrow," Letha said, soft as ever. "Even if he acts like he doesn't want you there, be consistent. He's going to try to run away, maybe he'll even try to fire you, but he will come back eventually to see if you're still waiting for him or if you've already gone. Just show up for him. Stay put, and stay loyal."

"But... what if he says something awful?"

"Girl, this is Roman. He probably will,"

I sighed. "That's not very comforting,"

"Roman doesn't mean it," Letha sighed. "And that's always the comforting part." ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I had prepared for this morning like countries prepare for war.

My nails were French. Long. Lilac. My hair was down. My skirt was exactly mid-thigh, with those dark, thin pantyhose I knew he liked, and my Louboutins were worn with no wobble, only poise. Mr. Godfrey wasn't going to find anything wrong to point out. There was nothing to point out. I was the picture-perfect secretary. I was a good secretary. 

And I was ready to stay put. 

By the time I walked into the morning staff meeting, the boardroom was already humming. Department heads. Legal. PR. Operations. The air was heavy with nerves and perfume and fresh espresso, the usual corporate tension dialed up to something just shy of explosive. Everyone was seated. Everyone but him.

The chair at the head of the table remained empty for a full ten seconds-- then, the door opened behind me.

And there he was.

Mr. Godfrey.

I felt it before I saw it; that sudden dip in the atmosphere, like someone had opened a window in a pressure-sealed room. Cold. Controlled. Terrifyingly elegant. He had walked in without looking at me, dark suit ironed to perfection, crisp collar, not a hair out of place. And his expression? Indifferent. I could've been the wall for all he cared.

Mr. Godfrey took his seat at the head of the table, set his Cartier watch down in front of him, and didn't say a word for a long, long moment, until-- "We have thirty-eight minutes before the Arnault consortium arrives. Listen very carefully, because I do not care to repeat myself, nor do I have the time to repeat myself today. Here's how this is going to go,"

His voice was low, commanding, and flat in a way that told me one wrong move today could cost someone their job. And still, the part of me that had cried into a thousand-dollar handbag last night wanted to believe there was more beneath it, that maybe the frost was just the scar tissue over whatever the hell had happened to him when he was only just a boy.

Dress codes. Press protocol. Who was allowed to speak. Who wasn't. It all went on for a while, and as it did, my eyes scoured the room, looking for the one person I had avoided since the banquet this Sunday.

And there he was-- Peter Rumancek.

He was tucked into a corner seat, legal pad already scribbled over, one foot tapping quietly under the table. His shirt was rumpled in the way that suggested he had been up since dawn, not out of obligation but because he cared too much about this case not to be. 

And then he saw me.

His big, brown eyes landed on mine, and in the middle of Mr. Godfrey's frostbitten monologue, Peter gave me the gentlest, most unexpected thing I'd received in twenty-four hours; a small, soft smile.

Just for me.

No mocking. No curiosity. No smug little told-you-so. Just kindness. Concern.

But there was something quiet and understanding in the look he gave me, like maybe he had seen this before. Maybe he knew what Mr. Godfrey looked like the morning after he broke something he didn't mean to with one of his secretaries? Or maybe he just recognized the look on my face, somewhere between poise and ruin.

Then, he mouthed something across the table, silent as snowfall; you okay?

My throat tightened-- how did this even happen? How did someone so kind end up working for this evil corporation? How did something gentle bloom beneath these harsh lights? I gave the tiniest nod I could manage, feeling my heart swell; there was hope after all. Kindness was still a thing of the earth, even though Peter knew there would probably never be a him and I.

At that, relieved, Peter nodded back, lips pressing together, serious and ready to get back to work.

Meanwhile, Mr. Godfrey hadn't even glanced in Peter's direction. He was too busy pacing the front of the room now, one hand tucked into his pocket as he ran through the logistics like he was reading out a will. His voice never cracked, never faltered, but I could feel the pressure winding around the room like smoke. Every instruction was a command. Every command was a line drawn in blood.

Then, without stopping, his voice rang out again-- clear, direct.

"And you--" he said, without even looking up; "You're shadowing me today."

It took me half a second to realize who he meant.

Me.

My stomach dropped.

I blinked, heart leaping in my throat. Slowly, every pair of eyes in the room swiveled toward me-- fuck. My throat tightened as I nodded once, sharp and obedient, schooling my expression into perfect neutrality. "Yes, sir,"

The meeting dismissed moments later in a rush of chair legs and shuffling papers, but I didn't move-- I didn't dare.

Mr. Godfrey didn't have to tell me to stay behind, and sure enough, once the door closed behind the last department head, he turned on his heel and stalked toward me. "Walk," he hissed, brushing past me without slowing. I followed, heels sharp on the marble, trying not to read into the clipped pace or the way his shoulder tensed when I matched it too closely.

He led me into the hallway behind the boardroom, where the hum of corporate urgency faded into something heavier, quieter. It was sleek, sterile, and ice-cold-- white walls, no windows, and lighting that made everything feel too exposed. It was the kind of hallway where voices echo and secrets suffocate. I followed him without a word, my heels clipped sharply against the floor as I tried not to draw attention to the fact that we were alone again. Just him. Just me. Just silence.

But then, he stopped.

Mr. Godfrey turned to me with a suddenness that knocked the air out of me, like a trap snapping shut-- one second I was walking, and the next I was up against the wall, the cold biting through my blouse as he closed the distance with terrifying precision. His arm braced to the side of my head, caging me in, his body angled too close to ignore, and his scent of leather and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke pressed into the space between us like a hand around my throat.

"You are going to keep your mouth shut today," he hissed, each word slow, deliberate venom. 

I didn't move, didn't speak-- I couldn't. My pupils had probably blown, staring up at Mr. Godfrey with fear churning in my gut. 

"You will not smile. You will not sigh. You will not breathe the wrong way in my direction, do you understand me?" Every word was punctual, like a needle prodding my skin; his green eyes darkened with every word. "If I hear one word-- one fucking sound from you that isn't strictly professional, I swear to God, I'll make you wish I had fired you yesterday."

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

Mr. Godfrey didn't blink. Was he perhaps hoping to obliterate me with his eyes?

He was so close that I could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his knuckles had gone white where they pressed into the wall above me. Even worse, was that up close, he looked like he hadn't slept, like he had spent the night unraveling and had stitched himself back together just for the sake of this day-- and barely managed so. Just barely.

There was only rage. Only rage, only pain. 

Emotion is pain. 

"I'm not here to make things worse, sir," I breathed. "My position is to-- to help you. I'm your secretary. Utilise me as you must."

Finally, Mr. Godfrey blinked, but it wasn't relief or acknowledgment that followed-- it was contempt, pure and unedited. He looked at me like I was a stain on his shirt, something ugly and clinging and beneath him. "Help me?" he echoed softly-- and then came the laughter. A single, bitter sound, short and joyless; "You think this is help?"

And just when I thought it wasn't possible, Mr. Godfrey leaned in closer, the expensive smell of him suffocating my every breathing cell. The space between us was already nonexistent, but he closed it anyway, like proximity itself was a weapon, pushing me up against the wall to make it impossible for me to run. "You are not helping," he hissed. "You are hovering, like some pathetic little girl playing office."

I didn't move, couldn't move-- my breath had gone still in my chest.

"You're not soothing. You're distracting. I have forty million dollars on the line today, and you're standing here with your little skirts and your silly fucking lip gloss like this isn't real, like--" Mr. Godfrey's eyes darted down at me with disdain, but had I not been alert to any new mood-change, I wouldn't have caught what I just did.

He had inhaled a short, sharp, shaky breath as his gaze fell on my lips. My silly fucking lipgloss, as he'd called it. 

Oh?

"You don't even know what the fuck you're doing to me," Mr. Godfrey breathed, low and vicious, as if blaming me for the fact that his pupils had just dilated. "I shouldn't have hired you. You might be the biggest fucking mistake of my time in this office."

The abrupt distance he created felt cold, harsh, like being plunged into freezing water after the unbearable heat of his closeness-- did Mr. Godfrey really just say that? Did he mean it? I stared up at him with big, glossy eyes, obediently silent as he straightened his suit jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and smoothed his expression into the same perfect, detached mask he had perfected. 

There was a quick moment where I noticed him scanning me, wondering whether he had broken me down completely, or whether he was up for another round of defiance. But here I was, getting a verbal lashing and taking it without flinching-- emotion is pain.

Nodding to himself, almost frustrated by my lack of resistance or snark, Mr. Godfrey rolled his eyes and accepted the reality that he perhaps had housetrained me enough. "Keep quiet today," he huffed. "Or I'll find someone else who can sit pretty behind your desk." 

It didn't take long before he turned and resumed his walk down the hall, leaving me to follow. I stayed where I was for a heartbeat, feeling raw and hollowed out. I knew this was coming. I knew, I knew, I knew it, yet it stung like a hard smack to my face. 

Sniffling, hearing Letha's words echoing through my head, I straightened my spine, gathered every fragment of dignity I could find, and silently followed Mr. Godfrey into the shadow of uncertainty.

Stay put.

Stay loyal.

I needed to keep my mouth shut today, no matter what-- there was no way in hell I'd let him find anyone else for my job.

Everything was on the line. 

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

How does one become one with the wall? Camouflage was probably the best solution. Why hadn't I worn that today? Wearing the same boring shade of grey as the wall could've helped me disappear, and there was nothing I wanted more right now. Stupid, stupid secretary.

I was doing my absolute best to blend into the wall just behind Mr. Godfrey, breath shallow and heart racing, willing myself invisible as the elevator doors slid open with a muted ding, and suddenly the hallway felt infinitely smaller as a regiment of impeccably tailored suits filed out, LVMH's most formidable leading the charge. At their front stood the son of the CEO, a man I recognized from the same issue of Forbes as Mr. Godfrey's front page-- this was the man splattered all over page six for a dating scandal. 

Frederic Arnault, tall, blue-eyed, and with the effortlessly dismissive smile of a man who knew he never had to introduce himself, came forward with a certain fondness I didn't often see in businessmen, immediately heading toward Mr. Godfrey with open arms. "There he is!" he exclaimed, voice richly accented and dripping with cocky charm. 

What caught me more off guard than witnessing this warm welcome, was the way Mr. Godfrey stepped forward, genuinely happy to see what I could only assume was a childhood friend-- how close were the Godfreys with the Arnaults? "Finally, I managed to drag you across the ocean," Mr. Godfrey murmured. "Get me a fucking medal."

Frederic laughed, leaning in to clasp Mr. Godfrey's shoulder firmly, their familiarity obvious and rooted in shared history-- I wondered what these two had gotten up to before. No good, probably. "Oh, you know me," Frederic purred. "I just follow the scent of money."

To my side, I felt Norman Godfrey rolling his eyes for me. "If we're done reliving your teenage years, gentlemen, perhaps we could move on?" he huffed. "We have a lot on the agenda."

And just as I saw Frederic turning to Norman, about to say something cheeky that he'd easily get away with, my biggest fear came true-- his icy blue gaze shifted with interested, eyes piercing through Norman's shoulder straight to me, tucked awkwardly in Mr. Godfrey's shadow. "And who's this delightful secret you're hiding back here, Roman?" he teased, eyes glittering with mischief.

My reaction was instantaneous. 

Goosebumps fleshed out across my skin, and I felt my nails trying to dig into the wall behind me. Now that I had Frederic's eyes on me, my blood ran cold at the discomfort-- he had a very peculiar empty look about him, and his eyes were a hole to the core of the energy he exuded. Suddenly, the warm persona wasn't working on me; I knew that look. I knew that exact look of I-can-get-what-I-want with a mix of I-don't-take-no-for-an-answer. 

Mr. Godfrey briefly glanced over his shoulder before turning back smoothly. "Just my secretary. She's new,"

"Ah," Frederic murmured, leaning back slightly, deliberately slow like he was tasting the sight of me. "Roman, dearest, your taste improves with each hire."

My pulse spiked, breath snagging somewhere beneath my ribs-- no, no, no, no, no!

Mr. Godfrey let out an unimpressed huff, masked as casual boredom, before recovering by introducing Frederic to the rest of the delegation, everyone exchanging quick pleasantries as I started scooting closer to Norman, hoping to be swallowed behind his height. 

And just as I thought I'd get away with it, Norman (that fucker) moved a step forward, greeting one of the LVMH partners, leaving me without a hiding spot. Before I could hide behind someone new, someone slid forward, and their large palm settled on the small of my back.

My breath hitched, and I wasn't surprised when I glanced up to see who it was-- Frederic was saying something to Mr. Godfrey in passing as his hand continued snaking down my back like he had all the right to feel me up. I could feel my ribs caving in on themselves, suffocating me from the inside, as his fingers moved up again to squeeze my waist, checking out the curve of my figure as panic rose in my throat. 

Before I could wriggle myself out of his grip, scream, kick, fight, Frederic had already withdrawn his hand, smoothly turning his attention back to Mr. Godfrey as though nothing had happened. 

He... had missed the whole thing.

My glossy eyes repeatedly tried to find his green ones, desperately, silently pleading for him to look at me, and I would've spoken had he not--

"If I hear one word-- one fucking sound from you that isn't strictly professional, I swear to God, I'll make you wish I had fired you yesterday,"

Swallowing my panic, trying to steady my breathing, I forced myself to remain composed, silently following as the entire delegation moved further down the hallway, praying the trembling in my hands wouldn't betray me.

I just needed to get through this day.

One more day.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Later that day, during the lunch break, the hum of the printer was the only thing anchoring me in the copy room, the rhythmic flash of paper offering a fragile distraction from the anxiety still prickling beneath my skin. Click, click, click. Bzzz.

My fingertips shook lightly as I rearranged the files, mentally counting the pages to ground myself. Click, click, click. Bzzz.

One, two, three. 

Click, click, click. 

Had I maybe imagined Frederic's hand on my waist? Maybe he had simply tried to pass by or something, or maybe he thought I was someone else? Then again, who else would he do that to...? Hopefully not Mr. Godfrey-- then they would surely have more than a friendly relationship, and I didn't like the thought of that. I was convinced Mr. Godfrey was too fond of women to ever fool around with men. Or? Maybe if he were drunk. Or high. Or on some type of drugs. Did Mr. Godfrey ever take drugs? In his youth, probably. If he still did it, that would be bad. Oh, well-- I concluded that Mr. Godfrey and Frederic Arnault probably didn't have some sort of intimate past, and that left me with... Frederic being a classic creep.

Before I could conclude on how to deal with the situation, the soft click of the copy-room door closing made my heart stutter.

Oh no.

I turned around in an instant, breath freezing as I met Frederic's piercing blue gaze. Why was he here? Why wasn't he taking lunch with the rest of his delegation? Oh, this was bad. This was so bad. 

He leaned casually against the now-closed door, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets, his expression effortlessly pleasant-- still, something was unsettling about his eyes; it was like his smile didn't quite reach them. 

I didn't want to be here with him. I didn't want to be alone with him. This was bad. This was dangerous. Should I brace for the worst? I already did.

The room felt impossibly small, cramped, suffocating, as I backed up against the printer, immediately alert. "Sir," I tried, forcing a polite smile like I wasn't trying to crawl into the copy machine. "I think you might've gotten a bit... lost. Should I help you find the rest of your company?"

At that, Frederic let out a warm, short laugh, dripping with wealth-- he shook his head, tutting at me like I was a wounded bird he was circling, ready to eat. "It seems I have gotten lost, yes," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "But it was fate, perhaps."

... Fate?

No, no, no!

My smile turned strained, desperate to hide my discomfort. Swallowing became impossible. "Just making copies," I managed to mumble, voice barely audible over the steady mechanical rhythm of the machine. Click, click, click. Bzzz. "Nothing about-- nothing about fate. Just my job."

"Yes... You might be right," he murmured, taking a slow, measured step toward me. "Roman does keep you busy. He's always been rather... demanding."

My breath hitched as Frederic took another leisurely step closer, my back pressing harder into the edge of the copier. There was nowhere to retreat, nowhere to vanish, nowhere to run-- I was screwed. "Mr. Godfrey has high expectations," I managed, voice trembling faintly despite my desperate attempt at neutrality.

Frederic's lips curved knowingly, the warmth of his charm sharpened by something colder beneath the surface. "High expectations," he echoed, voice gently amused. "I can see why he chose you, then." His blue eyes wandered deliberately down my form, lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl. When he lifted his gaze again, the emptiness behind his charm was unmistakable, terrifyingly hollow.

"You're nervous," he pointed out, his smile widening slightly, clearly pleased. "You shouldn't be. I promise I'm perfectly harmless."

"You never know," I blurted out.

"Oh, really?" Frederic hummed, cocking his head to the side. "What, do I look like a classic office rapist?"

He knew damn well. He fucking knew. That word made my blood run cold, and I swallowed hard, my mouth painfully dry. He was using it on purpose, of course. What was I supposed to do, though? I was so scared that I couldn't think clearly-- if I started screaming and Mr. Godfrey came running, he'd obviously take Frederic's side. This Arnault douche would say I was throwing a tantrum, that I was acting out, that I was trying to force a fake accusation on him to get money-- you name it.

I had nowhere to go, with no help in sight. 

My silence stretched between us, my pulse frantic in my ears as I prayed to every entity in the universe that I didn't believe in that Frederic wouldn't try anything, and that I wouldn't be forced to fight. 

And just when I felt certain he would close the remaining gap with his freakishly long legs, Frederic smoothly stepped to the side, reaching for the door handle with casual grace. He opened the door, stepping back with a practiced upper-class elegance "Ladies first," he murmured softly, the perfect picture of gentlemanly courtesy.

Despite the prestige, despite the facade, I saw it still-- the complete and utter glee in his eyes at the fear swimming in mine. 

My legs trembled as I rushed to move past him, hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. He didn't touch me this time, didn't even brush against me, yet his gaze lingered heavily on me as I passed.

"See you soon!" Frederic added, the promise in his voice sending ice flooding through my veins as I slipped from the room, breathing shallow, heart hammering painfully in my chest.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Click, click, click.

I was falling apart.

Click, click, click, came the sound of my heels as I followed a nervous Mr. Godfrey down the hall, on our way to finalize the contract with LVMH. His new passion project, his new dream of branching out Godfrey Industries, all depended on what would happen in that room in three minutes.

"Do you have the statistics poll?" Mr. Godfrey called out over his shoulder, flipping through the contract over and over. 

I could only hum-- I had promised not to speak. Not to make a sound. Not to say a word. 

My pulse was still frantic, skin still crawling from Frederic's barely-veiled threats, but as we stopped in front of the conference room, I forced myself to breathe, to steady, to maintain the fragile façade I had worn since this morning. He was right behind that door. That awful man was barely a wall away, and everything depended on me being able to take whatever he was about to dish out. 

If Mr. Godfrey lost this deal because of me, he'd definitely fire me. I'd never see him again. I'd never be his again. I'd lose everything. 

Stay put.

Stay loyal.

Mr. Godfrey's head bowed, eyes scanning over the contract meticulously, each word examined with ruthless scrutiny. His brows were knitted tightly, tension coiled in his posture, shoulders rigid beneath his perfectly tailored jacket-- I tried not to think about how handsome he was, and how I had leaned against those exact broad shoulders as he made me cum on his fingers in his office chair just a breath ago. I needed to have that again-- I needed him to see that I could take whatever he'd throw at me, so that he could snap out of whatever Godfrey-induced trauma-bubble he was drowning in.

But... 

I was so scared.

I carefully placed myself in Mr. Godfrey's line of sight, willing him to look up. My heart pounded, anxiety screaming that I shouldn't even attempt this, that he would only dismiss me again, but the ghost of Frederic's hand still burned on my waist, my spine still shuddering under the memory of his cold, possessive touch.

Slowly, Mr. Godfrey's gorgeous green eyes lifted, meeting mine with barely concealed irritation. "Yes?" he snapped.

"Sir," I whispered, my voice strained with tension, scared to speak, desperately trying to communicate my fear, my discomfort, everything that remained trapped behind a veil of silence. I stared up at him, eyes wide and desperate, pleading silently for him to truly see me. "I..."

Mr. Godfrey's gaze hardened slightly, patience visibly fraying at the edges. He gave me an expectant, cold look; "You better choose your words very carefully," he hissed. "We're about to finalize a critical deal. I don't have time for distractions or confessions."

I think about you all the time.

Click, click, click.

My heart tightened, pain souring through me as my courage dissolved beneath his dismissal. I felt small, insignificant, like a child interrupting important adult affairs-- but Frederic's actions lingered in my mind, causing a slight tremble in my fingers. 

Still, my will-power to adhere to Mr. Godfrey's commands of keeping quiet and out of sight outweighed my fear; he was more important to me than anything.

However, on the other side of my inner monologue, Mr. Godfrey sighed at my silence, irritation flashing briefly before he shook his head with dismissal. "If you're going to hover like this, at least make yourself useful. Go get coffee for everyone. Make it quick,"

His tone left no room for argument, no space for explanations or pleas for understanding. Hurt flickered briefly in my eyes before I forced it down, nodding silently. I was doing the right thing by staying quiet. I was adhering to orders. I was adhering to the orders of my dominant. My boss. The CEO. Roman fucking Godfrey. I stepped back quietly, turning away, humiliation burning hot and bitter in my chest. 

This had been my opportunity to say something...

But I was a good secretary-- Mr. Godfrey would realize that after the contract was signed, right?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Minutes later, the boardroom hummed with anticipation. The heavy wooden doors were shut behind me, sealing in a numbing mix of expectation, ambition, and power. The suits lining the sleek mahogany table were pristine, expressions composed, voices hushed and professional as they finalized the arrangements. 

The ultimate terror, Frederic Arnault, sat opposite Mr. Godfrey, lounging back with effortless ease next to his delegation, as though everything around him belonged firmly in his grasp, including the contract now placed before him by the one and only Peter Rumancek.

Avoiding Peter's pitiful gaze, I circled silently around the table, carefully setting cups of freshly brewed coffee before each executive and lawyer, my hands trembling imperceptibly with each placement. 

Mr. Godfrey was visibly out of himself with excitement, his leg bouncing with joy; "I'm so glad that we managed to draw something up," he murmured, watching Peter hand Frederic the pen. "It's been an honour doing business with friends."

"Agreed!" Frederic's blue eyes glinted with smug satisfaction. "I still believe this was all a ploy to have me step on American soil, though. You better not try to make me eat some McDonald's trash."

Norman cleared his throat, scooting forward in his chair next to a laughing Mr. Godfrey. "Boys," he said, voice stern. "Enough. Do we have a deal or do we not?"

Grinning, Frederic leaned back in his chair, holding the pen like it bored him. "Mmm..." he mused aloud. "I'm not sure. I think I need to be courted a little harder, the French way. Perhaps someone should make me another offer... maybe with a kiss?"

Polite laughter skittered across the table like static, unsure and awkward. I felt my stomach twist, my grip on the next hot coffee faltering as my heart skipped an anxious beat. 

"Maybe you can offer up the secretary, Roman?" Frederic continued, tapping the pen against the table as amusement danced in his evil eyes. "Bet she'd do it for the good of the company, hm?" That hellish gaze darted to me-- "Wouldn't you, cherie?"

The silence was no longer polite. 

It was strangled.

Every eye in the room hesitated-- some darted to me, some to Mr. Godfrey, but most fixed downward in panicked neutrality, pretending they hadn't heard what they'd just heard. I stood still, coffee cup hovering uselessly in my hand, my body completely detached from my mind, which had gone screaming somewhere far away. I could feel Peter's horrified gaze on me, the pity in those brown eyes searing through my body like a sword cutting me in half. 

Mr. Godfrey's foot stopped bouncing, and that was enough of a tell for me. No matter how panicked he was about my confession yesterday, no matter how furious he was with me, this made his jaw tick. "This is America," he said, tone light and controlled. "We tend not to auction off our secretaries here, though I'm sure you miss the old world charm."

We only tend to spank them sore and make them cum in our private offices.

Frederic grinned wider, pleased with himself. "What can I say? I bring the old French spirit wherever I go,"

"And the lawsuits," Norman muttered under his breath-- it was loud enough to hear, but no one laughed; not this time.

As the tension rose, Frederic raised his hands in mock innocence. "Oh, come on, it was a joke! She's lovely, that's all!"

"And aren't you charming," Mr. Godfrey said, clearly souring despite the polite smile still plastered on his face. "But now that we've all complimented each other, let's move on, shall we?"

Yes, please. 

With a shaky breath, I continued my coffee run, trying to steady my breath as I realized I was nearing Frederic.

I watched as he finally leaned in over the contract, signing his family name with a dramatic flourish he probably learned in some expensive boarding school in Switzerland. As he laid down the pen, Mr. Godfrey visibly relaxed, the barest flicker of genuine relief softening his features.

And for that, this was worth it. 

His relief, his pleasure, his peace-- it was all worth it.

My heart soared as I calmed down a notch, and I held back a small smile as I placed Frederic's coffee down with exaggerated caution, trying not to get too close. I was so crazy about Mr. Godfrey that I'd go through this hellish day for his gain, I'd stay quiet for his comfort, and I'd suffer for his joy. Wasn't this love? Wasn't this pure, unfiltered devotion? Why couldn't he see it and enjoy it too?

But just as I straightened, feeling a faint relief at escaping unscathed, my biggest fear came true.

Frederic's hand moved, and it settled on the curve of my ass like it belonged there, like it was his right, like he owned me.

Humiliation and shock seized me, freezing me in place, and a startled squeak was barely suppressed behind my tightly clenched teeth as I shot up straight. My eyes widened, glossing instantly with tears of betrayal and violation as my vision blurred, staring straight at the wall in front of me as I forced my thoughts out of my brain. I couldn't be here. I couldn't stay in this moment. My body wasn't mine. It didn't belong to me. Not right now. 

Ironically, Mr. Godfrey had once predicted this one of our first email exchanges; the French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs.

But this time...

Mr. Godfrey saw.

His green eyes snapped directly to Frederic's hand, and in an instant, something flickered in Mr. Godfrey's expression-- momentary disbelief chased by furious, white-hot rage.

It probably didn't take more than two seconds. Nothing more. He didn't need more to decide his course of action.

In one smooth, lightning-fast movement, Mr. Godfrey snatched the contract off the table before kicking away his chair, shooting up straight-- this sent a jarring, shocked silence cascading around the room, with Peter's jaw dropping and Norman freezing in his seat with horror.

"Get out!" Mr. Godfrey yelled, the boom of his voice making the coffee in front of him shake.

To make matters worse, Frederic leaned back casually, utterly unfazed, eyes glittering smugly as he slowly removed his hand from me, making no move to apologize or back down. "Oh, relax! She doesn't seem to mind!"

No, no... no, no, no.

My face flushed hot with shame, tears welling, blurring my vision further. 

And with that, it only got worse-- Mr. Godfrey's rage ignited, a terrifying blaze in his green eyes as they finally met mine. He saw. He knew. He saw. So, without hesitation, possibly for the first time in his life, he ripped the contract into jagged shreds, flinging them onto the polished table. Gasps echoed around the room, executives frozen in stunned disbelief, with Norman gripping his heart like he was about to have a heart attack. 

Frederic stood, slow and threatening, no longer smiling. "Careful, now. You're making a mistake, Roman,"

"No," Mr. Godfrey hissed. "You did. Now get the fuck out before I make you bleed!"

"Roman!" Norman cried out, standing up as well. "We have a forty million dollar deal! Think about this!"

But he was too far gone-- blinded by rage, Mr. Godfrey grabbed the coffee mug in front of him and flung it across the table, making Frederic duck. "Get out!"

The mug hit the wall behind Frederic with a brutal, wet crash. Coffee sprayed across floor-to-ceiling windows in a starburst of heat and ceramic shrapnel; one of the LVMH partners let out a shocked yelp, ducking instinctively, someone dropped a pen, and Peter jerked to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process.

"Roman, enough!" Norman shouted.

But it was chaos now. Pure chaos.

Frederic straightened slowly, brushing an imaginary speck from his jacket-- that infuriating, oily smirk had finally faltered. "You're unstable!" he yelled. "You've just made the worst mistake of your career! The Arnault association will never forgive what happened here today!"

"I don't give a crap!" Mr. Godfrey yelled back, already reaching for another mug of coffee; had Norman not stepped in, there would've been another one flung across the room. "I will make sure you don't have a job by dawn!" Mr. Godfrey continued; "I will ruin you!"

I was sick to my stomach.

Their shouting became distant, like I was underwater-- echoing, distorted, and suffocating. My vision blurred as nausea violently surged in my chest, panic roaring loud enough to drown out everything else. Unable to take another second of it, I turned and bolted from the room, nearly tripping over my heels as I stumbled down the marble hallway.

Behind me, the yelling continued-- Mr. Godfrey's fury tangling with Frederic's smug threats. I didn't stop to listen, didn't dare look back. I passed by my desk, grabbing my new Birkin, before dashing to the elevator; I hammered at the elevator button, begging for it to arrive before I burst into tears and died on the spot. 

It took approximately a year to arrive. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Everything was ruined. I would never see Mr. Godfrey again. I had somehow managed to be the thing that fucked it all up for him without even trying, so was this maybe a sign? Men. Fucking men. I hated Frederic Arnault. I hated, hated, hated him.

The doors slid open agonizingly slow as I watched all the businessmen streaming out of the conference room down the hall, some dripping with coffee. With a loud hitch of my breath, I slipped inside the elevator, hand pounding the close door button frantically, praying for the metal barrier to shut out the chaos and shame.

But just as the doors began to seal, a hand shot through the narrowing gap-- I let out a horrified scream. It was like a scene taken directly out of The Shining, and my mind went awry, thinking the worst, deciding the worst. Was this him? Was this Frederic? Was I not going to be able to escape after all?

The elevator jolted back open, and Mr. Godfrey stepped inside, chest heaving, eyes wild, tie askew, hair tousled from his fury.

Thank God.

My breath left me, and I nearly buckled over with relief.

He stood there, staring at me, breathing hard as the elevator started going down. For once, the mighty Roman Godfrey had no words, only raw panic and something else, something deeper, that made my stomach twist again. He swallowed thickly, voice ragged, shaky with worry as he finally managed; "Are you-- Are you alright?"

If I were... alright?

With that, the answer no left me before I burst into tears.

Loudly sobbing, all-taking sadness and anguish drowned me as I pressed my back to the elevator walls, dropping my Birkin before hiding my face in my hands. 

Mr. Godfrey froze for a good second before letting out a breathy fuck.

It didn't take long before he jammed his hand into the emergency stop button, our ride coming to a halt. He stared at me, hands twitching at his sides, unsure whether to reach for me or stay away. His eyes were coiled in panic and guilt, every breath ragged in his chest; "Was he like this all day?" he echoed, sounding as far from himself as he ever had. 

I couldn't speak, couldn't muster the energy. This feeling was too much-- I knew I was losing everything. Nothing was in my control. I knew I had failed his one wish of being invisible today, although it wasn't even my fault. I was going to lose Mr. Godfrey. I could never work here again. Was his career ruined? Had I managed to screw it up for him to that degree? Everyone had seen Frederic Arnault feeling me up like I was some toy, like I was some easily accessible whore that was designated to the office, and I couldn't get that awful feeling of his hand on my ass out of my system. 

"Were you... Were you trying to tell me about this earlier?" Mr. Godfrey asked, taking a step closer. 

I barely nodded, fingers clawing into my hair as I tried to scrape Frederic's touch off my body, off my skin, off my scalp. "You said-- You said I would lose-- lose my job if I spoke, I--"

"Did he do this any other time today?"

In the middle of a new sob, I mustered the energy to nod again, and that only made it worse; now, Mr. Godfrey looked like he was about to punch the wall. Instead, he raked a hand down his face, eyes burning, voice cracking. "You go against my orders every day, but not the one time you should have?"

"Because you needed the deal!" I sobbed. "Because you needed the deal and I--" My voice cracked; "I didn't want to-- to ruin anything for you! Not more than I've-- already done!"

"Jesus Christ," Mr. Godfrey breathed, more shocked than angry now. His eyes found mine, wild and horrified; "You think I'd sell you out for a deal?"

I couldn't answer-- my voice had died somewhere in the middle of the elevator floor, and my body shook too hard to speak.

Mr. Godfrey ran both hands through his hair, pacing again in the tiny space, teeth clenched like he was trying to hold back a scream. When another sob twisted out of me, he immediately stopped, turning to me with a horrible helplessness I had never seen in him. "I'm sorry," he said, voice trembling. Was that his first time saying that? "I should've protected you, I should've-- I never should've put you in that room. I knew he was a creep, he's always-- he's always been like that, but I didn't think he'd try to?-- I didn't think. I haven't been able to think since yesterday."

I think about you all the time.

I sank lower against the elevator wall, still crying, chest aching. Some small, soft part of me heard the sincerity in Mr. Godfrey's voice-- the way it cracked around the edges, the way he couldn't stop pacing like something inside him had shattered.

And then, it fell out of me; "I didn't-- I didn't sign up for this,"

Frail as ever. Broken and battered.

Mr. Godfrey stopped pacing.

I didn't look up-- I couldn't. I kept my fingers buried in my hair, trying to breathe through the dizziness rising in my chest. "I didn't sign up to be the... the office whore," I whispered, breath catching in my throat. "I-- I didn't sign up to get... felt up by your business partners while you look the other way."

"I didn't look away," Mr. Godfrey shot in, pained.

"You did," I snapped, the words rising bitter and hot. Tears streaked down my cheeks as my voice trembled; "Because you-- Because you pushed me away, I was scared to say a word to you. All. Day."

Mr. Godfrey's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his mouth open but speechless, like every word he might say would be the wrong one.

"You were so mean," I breathed, a fresh tear rolling down. "In the hallway. And I stayed put, I stayed loyal, and I was ready to-- to take your abuse, because I was stupid enough to think that maybe if I stayed quiet, you'd... consider me as something more than this."

Mr. Godfrey stared at me like I was slipping out of his grasp, like he could feel me fading from the frame of whatever structure we had built; whatever unspoken, burning, complicated thing had held us together was falling apart, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. "Abuse?" he breathed, tasting the word.

Sniffling, I desperately tried to wipe away my tears. "And I'm sorry that I-- I'm sorry that I said I think about you all the time, but I'm mostly sorry that it scares you so much,"

Instead of the barking I thought I'd get from saying that, there was nothing.

Silence.

Mr. Godfrey leaned against the opposite elevator wall like the floor was tilting underneath him. His eyes, those sharp, vibrant green eyes, had lost all their venom now; they were just wide, sad, and exhausted, searching for the right thing to say. 

"Maybe it's best if I leave," I breathed, feeling myself melt into the walls of the elevator. "I will only be hurt here. Maybe it-- maybe it will heal me to go." It will be death, it will be death. Click, click, click. "I don't want to leave you, or-- or this job, but I can't keep ruining myself like this for nothing in return."

The hum of the elevator resumed beneath our feet, but before I could take another breath, Mr. Godfrey slammed the emergency stop again. The lights above us flickered, the car jerked to a halt, and--

"No,"

The word cracked through the air like a verdict.

Mr. Godfrey stood there, one hand still braced against the panel, the other twitching at his side like it didn't know what to do with itself. His chest rose and fell in frantic swells, his tie was crooked, his hair was messed up from the violence of the boardroom, and something wild, raw, and unfamiliar had taken over the cold, composed man I had known for months.

"No," he repeated, barely above a whisper now, as if saying it aloud made it real. "You can't leave."

My world stopped. Everything did. 

I stared back at him, trying to blink away the tears that kept falling. "What?" I breathed.

"You--" Mr. Godfrey's hand dropped from the panel, hung limp for a second, and then curled into a fist. "You can't--" he broke off, swallowing hard, eyes flicking up to meet mine. "You can't leave me. I won't let you."

The silence stretched; my tears were still clinging to my jaw, my cheeks hot with them, and my chest started to bruise from the sobbing. 

Mr. Godfrey looked at me now like he was seeing me for the first time; not just the crying girl in the elevator, not just his secretary, not his temptation, but something entirely new, something he needed.

"I'll give you something in return," he breathed, a wave of calm pushing up against his shore. Something told me he had gotten to terms with what had been bothering him for so long-- something told me he had cracked it. 

And then, without a word, Mr. Godfrey walked toward me. His dress shoes thudded dully against the floor of the elevator, echoing off the metal walls like heartbeats, like my thudding heartbeat. The closer he got, the more I felt the constricted breath painfully tug at my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut and braced against the elevator walls for what I could only assume was some sort of punishment or telling-off, or something that would hurt me in emotional ways I couldn't begin to imagine.

But...

That was until I felt Mr. Godfrey's fingers gently touch my cheek, touching me like I'd break with one misstep. I flinched, but not from fear of him; it was from the sheer disbelief that something so soft could come from him, the same man who had just shattered a multi-million-dollar deal like all his work had meant nothing to him at the end of the day.

My eyes fluttered open.

It didn't take long before Mr. Godfrey cupped my cheek, his thumb softly ghosting beneath my ear, brushing away the wet trails of what had once been silent, humiliating tears. I could barely breathe under the weight of it, under the tenderness I hadn't expected, under the ache that came with realizing I wasn't prepared for kindness; not from him, not now, not ever.

Mr. Godfrey didn't speak-- he didn't have to, not when his hand moved slowly, deliberately, from my cheek to my wrist, then lower, down to my hand, where he carefully took it in his.

And then... he placed it flat against his chest.

Right over his heart.

It was pounding.

This was not the calm, cold steadiness of the man I knew from meetings and memos, not the clinical thud of control-- this was frantic. 

Mr. Godfrey's chest rose beneath my palm, breath catching as I touched him. I couldn't believe he was letting me, couldn't believe this was happening; I felt his heart race under my fingertips and realized, with a dizzying ache, that it matched the rhythm of my own. "Sir," I breathed, searching his eyes.

"No," he murmured, like he was peeling off the armour he had worn for too long. "Do you know my name?"

"Your name...?"

Mr. Godfrey's eyes searched mine, swallowing, before his mouth brushed against mine, making my breath hitch. Then, like a confession meant for no one else in this world; "My name is Roman. Call me that," he whispered. "I want to be Roman to you."

Trembling, breathless, I whispered back into the space between us--

"Roman,"

At that, Roman exhaled. 

Roman, Roman, Roman. 

Click, click, click. 

He breathed against my lips, soft and reverent, relieved and nervous; "I think about you all the time, too," he echoed. "All the time, you are on my mind. You are my every waking thought. To me, you are water."

My breath trembled against the air between us. Had I heard that right? I stared back at Mr. Godfrey-- Roman, eyes wider than ever before. 

He stood there, frozen, for a heartbeat longer, the kind of stillness that felt tight, like the whole weight of the moment was pressing against his ribs. His eyes flicked down to my lips, then back to my eyes-- once, twice, like he was unsure if he was allowed, like he had forgotten how this even worked.

And then, suddenly, like he couldn't stop himself, his soft lips found mine. 

It was fast. Quick. A short press of his mouth to mine, more instinct than plan, like he just had to feel it, had to know. The kiss barely lasted a second, but his lips were warm, a little dry, and gone too soon. 

When he pulled back, the look in his eyes made my breath catch.

Roman looked... shellshocked. 

As if kissing me had burned him and soothed him all at once, as if his brain had to catch up to what his body had just done, as if it was his first kiss ever. Roman had probably not kissed anyone in a really long while, considering he didn't even like being touched-- when had his last kiss been?

Something about that made my cheeks redden, and a small smile formed, one I hadn't expected to have on my face today. My free hand found the lapel of his jacket and tugged, just enough to invite him closer, just enough to let him know I wanted more.

Roman's eyes flicked down to my lips again, this time slower, more deliberate-- and then he leaned in again, this time letting it happen.

The second kiss was different.

It was hesitant, yes, but deeper, like he was rediscovering something he had buried a long time ago. His hand cupped my jaw with a newfound care, and he kissed me like he didn't know what he was doing, but wanted to get it right.

Roman's hand left mine, slithering down to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and my fingers slid up his neck, disappearing into his hair. It was surprisingly soft, with a silky finish I hadn't felt against my skin before. At that, he made a soft, involuntary sound into my mouth as I touched him, like the sensation startled him, like he couldn't believe I was touching him like that, and he couldn't believe he was letting me.

Roman kissed like a man who had spent his whole life resisting softness and didn't know how to receive it. His mouth moved carefully over mine, pausing often, almost like he was memorizing the shape of me, the pace of my breath, the way my breath quivered slightly when he lingered.

It was almost frustrating how slowly this was going-- I had wanted him like this for so long, so much that I was ready to burst like fireworks. However, when Roman pulled away, his breath fanning shakily against my upper lip, his words changed something in me; "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to be like this with someone."

My eyes rounded out, and with a surge of fondness washing through my veins, I reached for the strand of brown hair that lay softly over his forehead. "You're doing fine," I breathed. "Does it feel nice?"

Roman's green eyes dared to shut as my fingers brushed that loose strand of hair from his face, and for a moment, he just stood there-- utterly still, like that small, delicate touch had undone him more than expected. When he opened his eyes again, something had shifted in them; the hesitance was still there, but beneath it, desire began to bloom, as if I had just cracked open a door he had kept bolted shut for years.

Emotion... doesn't have to be pain.

"It does," he said, somewhat hoarse. "You taste sweet."

"That will be the silly fucking lip gloss,"

At that, we finally shared our first relaxed laugh-- a small huff of air, barely there, barely a breath. 

That laugh, fragile and startled, seemed to undo him further. Roman blinked slowly, like he wasn't used to that kind of ease, that kind of warmth; it was as if even the gentlest humour between us was foreign territory, a language he had only heard but never spoken.

But he wanted to learn-- I could sense it, I could feel it, I could see it.

I was still cupping the back of his neck, thumb gently stroking the base of his hairline, and when our eyes locked again, there was no tension; only inevitability. 

"Right," Roman murmured, smirking. "Let's get that lip gloss off, then."

Before I could process the sentence, before I could even breathe, Roman bent and hooked his arms around the backs of my thighs, lifting me in one smooth motion. I let out a small gasp, legs instinctively tightening around his waist, arms flying to brace myself around his shoulders. The elevator wall met my back with a dull thud as he pressed me into it, and then-- God--

His mouth crashed into mine.

This wasn't the hesitant, searching kiss from before; this was something else entirely. Roman kissed me like he had run out of time, like his hunger had overtaken every bit of restraint he had clung to. His tongue slid past my lips with a low, desperate groan, coaxing mine into a rhythm that was dizzying, filthy, and perfect. My breath hitched, body arching into his without thinking, my fingers fisting into the back of his suit as if anchoring myself to this moment, to him.

Roman was all heat and passion-- he pressed me harder into the elevator wall like he couldn't get close enough, like he didn't want there to be any space between us at all. His hands were gripping my thighs, hard, but not cruel; grounding, like he couldn't believe someone was this close to him and he was letting them. 

When Roman pulled back slightly to breathe, his lips were pink and flushed, a tiny smear of my gloss shining on his mouth. His voice was gravel and velvet all at once, and it ghosted over my lips with unbearable intimacy; "I think it's gone now,"

I could barely nod. My pulse throbbed in my throat, in my wrists, in places I didn't even know could ache, but I still leaned forward, mouth brushing his again, and breathed out against him; "Good job,"

Roman gave a hoarse laugh against my lips, something breathless and almost boyish that tugged straight at my heart. "God," he muttered, kissing the corner of my mouth like he couldn't help himself; "You really are trouble."

I grinned, still catching my breath, drunk on the taste of him and the air between us. "You like trouble," I purred. "You wouldn't have hired me if you didn't."

Roman's eyes flared at that-- something between mischief and dark hunger flickering just behind the green. He tilted his head, letting out a low, breathless laugh, and then he kissed me again, so briefly it barely counted, just a brush of lips that still managed to send heat licking down my spine.  "Filthy mouth," he whispered, his thumb ghosting over the corner of my lips like he could still feel the ghost of my grin. "Talking about taking cock on your first interview."

My cheeks turned a peculiar shade of maroon-- I remembered it like it was yesterday.

"Would I have had to lie down and take a cock for the first time to know how to handle this job? Would I have had to go through the experience of feeling myself being split open, the blinding pain of that, for you to know that I could take you stepping on me to get the job done at this company?"

Oh, how that comment had haunted me for days. "My mouth might be filthy," I mumbled, voice dying out midway; "But you're still kissing it."

At that, Roman's hands gripped my thighs harder, hitching me up with a breathless groan as he pressed me even tighter into the wall. I arched into him helplessly, heart slamming against my ribs as I realized he was pressing his hardened cock between my legs.  "Damn right I am," he murmured.

Roman's soft mouth found mine again, but this time it wasn't just hungry-- it was devouring, aseries of slow, dragging kisses, open-mouthed, heated, sinful, that made me whimper into him, mind buzzing with aching pleasure, as if we were both trying to make up for all the time we had spent not doing this. Roman pulled back just a breath-- his lips brushed mine like a tease, his nose nudging the edge of my cheek, his voice vibrating against my skin. "You have a problem with that?" he asked, right as he kissed me again, wetter now, more possessive.

I tried to answer, tried to throw something smart back at him, but Roman didn't give me the chance. His mouth was already on mine again, drinking in every sound I made, every shaky breath, like he was starving and I was the only thing that could ever feed him.

Roman's teeth scraped lightly at my bottom lip, and when I whimpered into his mouth, he smiled against me: "Didn't think so," he whispered.

He kissed down the corner of it, along my jaw, toward my neck, dragging his lips lower. "Filthy," he groaned, tongue swiping once over the spot beneath my ear. "Pretty," Another kiss, hotter now. "Bratty mouth," He bit lightly at the edge of my throat, grinning when I gasped. "But it keeps saying my name."

I was melting, undone, clawing at his shoulders. "Roman," I breathed.

A groan tore from his throat-- guttural, low, shaken, before he surged forward and kissed me again, this time with tongue and teeth and possession, as my hips bucked into his without shame, chasing friction, chasing him.

Emotion is pleasure.

Emotion is soft.

When Roman finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, both of us panting-- his lips were red, swollen, and wet from mine, and those green eyes (God, those eyes) were burning now. No fear, no confusion; just need.

I wanted him with that same fire. I wanted him more than I wanted safety, logic, maybe even dignity-- but the reality was creeping in now, slow and bitter, like cold fingers up my spine. My heart was still racing, lips swollen, body thrumming with heat from where his mouth had been, and somewhere in the haze of lust, fear still flickered.

"Roman..." I started, feeling how foreign his name was on my tongue. "What... what happens now?"

His hands stilled where they were gripping my thighs-- I could feel the weight of the question sink into him.

"That was Frederic Arnault," I whispered. "And you just blew up a really important deal for a secretary." 

HR would definitely come knocking now, those long-legged fucks.

But Roman just... stared at me.

He blinked once, slowly, unreadable. Then, without changing his grip on me, without even pretending to explain, he leaned in again, brushing his mouth just shy of mine. His voice, when it came, was low-- steady and warm, but dismissive in a way that made me shiver. "Don't think about that," he murmured, breath brushing across my lips. "I'll handle it."

That was it.

No justifications. No damage control speech. No panic. Just that quiet, maddening certainty in his voice. 

"You blew up a forty million dollar contract," I breathed, blinking. Did he not consider the potential ramifications? 

"I said," Roman whispered, pressing his forehead to mine now, his (Forbes) nose skimming along mine. "Don't think about it." His hands slipped lower, gripping the back of my thighs again before he rolled his hips slightly forward, pressing me harder into the elevator wall so I could feel all of him. "I've made worse messes for much less than you."

My breath caught, my hips keening against his before I could stop myself. Was this really happening? Could it really be that easy?

And then Roman kissed me again-- slow this time, but possessive. His tongue dragged lazily into my mouth, his hands firm, commanding, like now that he had made up his mind, there was nothing else in the world to consider. Not HR. Not reality.

There was no nausea. No panic. 

Just us, as it was always supposed to be-- grounded, together, and finalized, like a forty million dollar deal.

And God, how I kissed him back.

(a/n: omfg you guys have no idea how SATISFYING this was to write??? FINALLY these bastards got together!!!! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE AND SUPPORT AND COMMENTS AGGHHHHH ILY!!!!! HOPE U LIKED IT!!)

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(shh, they're sleeping!!!)

yes cat caleb is smaller than zayne. Why? because I think it's cuter that way :)

I saw someone make applefish edits with the catlads so I wanted to do some for snowapple/snowcrow too! ^.^

Sylus is trying so hard to impress Zayne but Sylus forgets that Zayne is oblivious and can't read social cues very well :( Don't give up Skye!