vowbound

[vowbound]

He watched Arséne fall apart beneath him — not just from the stretch or the rhythm, but from the weight of being seen. Roman didn’t look away. Not from the tears in his lover’s lashes, not from the way his lips trembled around the words Daddy, don’t stop, not from the way his body opened up like it had been waiting for this. For him. For ruin. And Roman gave it.

His grip tightened on Arséne’s hips, dragging him down with a force that was just shy of brutal, making sure he felt everything — every inch, every deliberate thrust, every silent promise written in the bruises forming beneath his hands. The sound the boy made shattered something in him. So sweet. So broken. It was more than pleasure. It was worship. And Roman returned it in kind.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice low, ragged, possessive. Arséne obeyed. Wide, wet eyes met his, and Roman could see it — the need, the devotion, the silent plea not to be left untouched. Unclaimed. It burned through him, sharp as hunger. Sharper than thirst. He leaned in, lips brushing the younger man’s temple, then his cheek, then lower, letting his breath ghost across that trembling throat. The pulse there fluttered wildly against his mouth. And Roman smiled.

“You’re mine.” He didn’t need to say it. It was written across every moan, every scratch on his back, every time Arséne begged to be filled, bitten, wrecked. But Roman said it anyway. He shifted suddenly, pressing Arséne harder against the stone, lifting his thigh higher with one firm hand. The angle changed and Arséne gasped — a choked, high sound that was pure surrender. Roman rolled his hips deeper now, the rhythm harder, punishing, perfect. He didn’t rush, didn’t lose control. No. He curated it — every thrust precise, designed to leave the skater sobbing, gasping, drunk on him and nothing else.

“You wanted it rough,” Roman growled, voice low, ragged with restraint that threatened to snap. “You want to be wrecked?” His mouth brushed Arséne’s temple—tender, cruel, loving. “Then take it. Take me.” Roman shifted his grip again, teeth grazing Arséne’s throat—close, but not yet biting. He wanted Arséne to feel it first. The danger. The love. The possession that ran deeper than lust ever could. This wasn’t just about power. This was about belonging.

He had Arséne where he wanted him—folded beneath him, breath stuttering, voice broken to pieces Roman had no intention of putting back together. The boy was wrecked already, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. Not until every inch of him knew who he belonged to. Not until Roman's name lived in his bones like marrow. “Look at you,” Roman growled, one hand curling possessively around Arséne’s throat—not tight, just enough. Enough to remind him. His thumb slid along the jaw he worshiped, the skin already damp with sweat and seawater. “You begged for this. Don’t start falling apart now.”

He slammed forward again—merciless. Not just to feel. To mark. To leave something inside Arséne that wouldn’t fade. Arséne cried out, raw and breathless, hips jerking, but he didn’t pull away. He never did. He gave Roman everything. And that only made the upir crueler. More hungry. This boy was so good at falling apart for him.

He dragged another thrust out of him, brutal and deep, and Arséne gasped like it hurt—and maybe it did—but he didn’t say stop. Roman’s teeth grazed Arséne’s throat, teasing—just a whisper of pain, sharp and electric. He could feel the tremble ripple through the boy’s body, a shudder that made his own hunger flare hotter. Not enough. Without warning, he sank his teeth in—firm, claiming, leaving a bite deep and raw. The sting was immediate, white-hot fire spreading under his lips.

Arséne gasped, a fragile, broken sound that was his alone, a mix of surprise and something like awe. Roman could feel the tension in his body, the way his hands gripped tighter, but he didn’t push or pull—he let the bite speak for itself, a silent claim. He could taste the faint salt of the sea and the rapid pulse beneath the skin—warm, urgent, alive. Sliding his tongue over the bite, he pressed closer, nipping softly before dipping just enough to draw a drop of blood. The metallic tang filled his mouth, sharp and intoxicating, and Roman drank deeply—not greedily, but possessively, like he was taking a piece of Arséne’s very essence. The young man trembled beneath him, breath catching on a broken moan that reverberated straight into Roman’s core. His hands gripped Arséne’s hips harder, holding him steady as Roman continued to move—harder, rougher, claiming every inch with growing intensity. The bite was a promise, a mark of ownership that went beyond flesh.

He tasted Arséne—his blood, his heat, his surrender—and in that dark, consuming moment, nothing else existed but the way they fit together, utterly and without question.

[vowbound]

Arséne couldn’t think, couldn’t breath. His world had narrowed to the pressure of Roman‘s body — the drag of heat and muscle between his thights, the weight of that perfect, punishing rhythm that sent sparks behind his eyes. Every thrust was a tether pulling him further under, deeper into the place only his husband could take him. His fingers clutched blindly at wet skin and rock, legs trembling, chest heaving with every gasping moan that spilled from his lips. Raw, helpless, open. „D-daddy—„ It came out slurred, soft, broken — more whimper than word. Arsénes head lolled against the stone behind him, curls clinging to his crimson red cheeks, lashes wet with salt and sweat. He was wrecked and Roman hadn’t even started to destroy his hole properly yet. But the slow grind, the merciless pace, the stretch — god the stretch of Romans thick dick entering him repeatedly— was making it impossible to form a single coherent thought. And all he could do was feel.

And he felt everything. The blunt pressure of his lover deep inside him. The low growl rumbling in his ear. The hand gripping his thigh tighter when he moaned too loud. Arséne sobbed with it, breath catching as his back arched instinctively, offering more, begging without words for the upir to fill the spaces inside him that only the older man could touch. His voice came back in fragments. „Need it,“ he gasped, „need you Daddy, deeper— fuck, please—” The word dissolved into a wail when Roman shifted slightly—the angle brutal and perfect, hitting now against that bundle of nerves that let him see stars. Arsénes whole body twitched from the inside out. He shivered. His cock pressed slick between their stomachs, untouched and aching but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need his cock to be touched. Roman‘s dick alone was enough to send his nerves into a freefall.

He didn’t know how long they had been like this — seconds, hours, lifetimes — just the sound of Roman‘s deep voice in his ear and the sound of their bodies moving together. The air was thick with the heat of it. Ocean salt, sweat, the iron-rich scent of Roman‘s hunger just beneath the surface. Arséne could feel it, the way the upir‘s gaze lingered on his throat when his head tilted back, when he panted too hard and the pulse jumped in his neck. It made his skin prickle, made his toes curl. „You can,“ he whispered, voice barely there. „You can bite me… Daddy, please—” His voice hitched again when Roman thrust up harder into him and Arséne cried out, fingernails scraping down his back in a desperate attempt to stay. He was sure he left blood marks. But right now he was floating. Brain soft, foggy, clinging only to the sound of Roman’s breath and the heat in his voice. „I want it,“ The french man gasped. „Want you to drink, want to be fucked and marked and ruined—” His voice broke on a moan that turned into a whine, high and needy. He was losing it, fully, pathetically, beautifully. Just for him.

His hands trembled where they gripped Roman’s shoulders, barely able to hold on. And he loved that — loved feeling this way; ruined before the end, dumb on cock and devotion and the tight grip of his husbands hands bruising into his hips like a promise. His legs fell wider, the pain of stretch melting into something deeper, heavier, blissful. „You make me feel s-so good,“ he babbled, „don‘t wanna think anymore—just want you, just want Daddy, want you to wreck me—” Another thrust and his words fell apart again, swallowed in a sob so soft it barely made it past his pink lips. His hazel eyes fluttered. His mouth hung open, drooling against Roman’s neck. He wasn’t even trying to hold back now — the whimpers, the begging, the mess. His own cock twitched helplessly between them, untouched but leaking from his tip, and he didn’t care. Didn‘t need to cum. Didn’t need anything except this — the rhythm of Roman pounding into him, the weight, the constant, unrelenting presence of the man he belonged to, his man.

His voice cracked again, breathing hitching on another broken cry. „Don’t stop fucking me daddy,“ he whispered. „Don‘t ever stop. I need you to fuck me so hard I feel sore for days. Mark me from the inside and outside. I wanna feel like this forever..“ And maybe he could. Maybe, like this, time didn’t matter. Just the pulse of Roman‘s cock inside his body, the claim in every motion, every word. He belonged to his man. Mind, body, even his blood. „Don‘t hold back anymore. Show me how much you want me. Please.“ he begged, voice sore from all the whining and whimpering.

[vowbound]

Roman was gone, he was consumed. By Arséne’s voice, his body, the tremble in his thighs and the way he gasped like Roman was pulling those sounds straight out of his chest. Like every breath belonged to him. And maybe it did. Roman didn’t move fast. He didn’t have to. The way Arséne’s body wrapped around him — clinging, open, perfect — it made patience into worship. It made every thrust a liturgy. “Fuck, listen to you,” Roman growled against his skin, voice rough, teeth dragging over the ice skater’s throat.

He shifted his hips, driving deeper, dragging a raw moan from Arséne that made the upir groan low in his throat. His fingers dug harder into the boy’s hips, grounding him, owning him — not with cruelty, but with certainty. The kind that said: this was always meant. This was fate. Arséne whispered again, voice cracked and soft. Please. Roman pulled back just enough to look at him. His boy was flushed, wet, lips bitten and kiss-dazed — already gone for him and they hadn’t even started. He held Arséne’s face, palm hot against his cheek, thumb stroking just under one fluttering eye.

He kissed him then — slow and deep, like he was sealing the words in his mouth. And when he pulled back, their foreheads still touching, Roman finally gave him more. Not just a thrust — a claim. His hips snapped forward, hard enough to punch a cry from Arséne’s throat. Then again, again — still slow, still controlled, but now with rhythm, with weight. Like every motion said: mine, mine, mine. “You give yourself so easy, don’t you?” Roman muttered darkly, his voice a sinful drag against Arséne’s ear. “So fucking sweet. So good for me. Letting me inside like you need to be filled up just to breathe.”

He groaned low, voice thick with heat. “I could fuck you like this all night. Slow. Deep. Until the tide shifts. Until your legs give out and you can’t say anything but my name.” Arséne moaned again, helpless, beautiful. Roman grabbed under his thigh, lifted higher, grinding them together until his cock hit just right, making the boy jolt and cry — high, sweet, wrecked. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips against a wet cheekbone. “That’s the spot. You want Daddy to ruin you right there?” Another sob. A nod. He slowed again, agonizing, grinding so deep they both gasped, their bodies locked in sweat and sea and need. “You’re not going anywhere,” Roman whispered, brushing Arséne’s curls back from his flushed face. “This body — this little moan-drunk angel act — all of it? It’s mine.” He kissed the corner of his mouth, then bit the lip that trembled.

“I’ll fuck you slow until you cry, baby.” Another thrust. “I’ll make you feel so good you forget anything else ever touched you.” A grind that made the boy whine. “And then I’ll fuck you harder — just to remind you who this perfect hole belongs to.” Roman growled low in his throat when Arséne whimpered again — that high, breathless noise that only came when he was right on the edge of sobbing for it. The upir felt it everywhere, that raw surrender: in the way the boy’s body clung to his cock like it was made for it, in the trembling hands around his shoulders, in the way Arséne gasped his name like it was holy.

“Yeah,” Roman hissed, lips brushing his ear, breath hot. “That’s it. You want me to fuck you now? Want Daddy to stop being gentle?” Arséne nodded, desperate, mouth open like he was trying to speak but couldn't get words out fast enough. Roman felt his hole tighten around him just at the threat — and that was enough. Roman’s grip on him changed — hands sliding down to his thighs, gripping tight — and with a sudden growl, he lifted Arséne higher, forcing the boy’s back up against the smooth rock that jutted from the edge of the shallows. Cool stone met hot skin. Seafoam splashed around their waists. But all Arséne could feel was him.

“Hold on,” Roman said roughly — and then he snapped his hips forward. The thrust punched a cry out of Arséne's mouth, echoing over the water. There was no hiding from the force of it. Roman buried himself to the hilt, hard and deep, his grip like iron as he rutted into the boy with rhythm now — no mercy, no restraint. The sound of wet, desperate skin meeting skin filled the space around them. Arséne was keening now, nails dragging down Roman’s back, legs locked tight around his waist. Roman fucked into him like he was possessed — like his only purpose was to keep Arséne full, stretched, ruined. “Look at you,” he snarled against his throat, nipping hard enough to mark. “Fucking melting on my cock. You like this — don’t you? Being used like the perfect little hole you are.”

Arséne gasped something, maybe yes, maybe please — it didn’t matter. Roman could feel the answer in the way his body clenched, in the way his hips tried to rock down harder, to take more. Roman gave it to him. Thrust after brutal thrust, his hand moving to grab under one of Arséne’s knees, lifting it higher, opening him up even more — the angle brutal now, perfect. “Yeah, baby,” he growled, fucking him through the next whimper. “That’s how you take me. Just like that. You’re so fucking tight like this — all spread open for me.” He pulled out slow once, just to hear the boy whine, just to feel him tremble — then slammed back in with a moan of his own. His cock drove deep, fast now, each thrust harder than the last, until the sounds Arséne made stopped being words and started being music.

“You were made for this,” Roman groaned. “Made to be mine. No one else gets this body. No one else gets these sounds. You belong to me, and I’m gonna fuck you until your sweet little brain forgets anything that isn’t Daddy.” His mouth crashed into Arséne’s again, kissing him hard, possessive, filthy — all teeth and tongue, all claim. And he didn’t stop. Not when the boy cried out again. Not when his legs started shaking. Not when his hands clawed for something to hold that wasn’t Roman, because there wasn’t anything else. Just him. Just this. The water rocked around them, a broken lullaby. And Roman kept fucking him like he was trying to carve his name inside him. Because maybe he was.

[vowbound]

The stretch burned — slow, perfect, devastating. Arséne‘s breath left him in a shaky gasp, high and desperate as Roman pushed inside. His back arched instinctively, legs locking tighter around Roman‘s hips as his body gave way with that trembling obedience only Roman could summon from him. The water lapped around them, warm and dark but it was Roman‘s heat that had the young man trembling. It was his lover‘s weight — thick and deep and everywhere — that made him moan again, softly, helplessly, into the damp curve of his husband‘s throat. „Daddy,“ he whimpered, barely a whisper.

Roman growled something against his skin — words he couldn’t hold onto — because his brain was slipping under the tide of sensation. He whimpered again, broken and sweet, clutching at the CEO‘s shoulders like he was the only real thing in the world. Maybe he was. Maybe Arséne had always been made for this — for being filled, taken and claimed. His mouth fell open in a silent gasp when Roman rocked into him again, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world to ruin him. Arséne‘s ring covered fingers dug in harder, a needy whine escaping before he could stop it. He felt stretched, stuffed full, his body molded around Roman like it had been waiting for this , for him.

And the man didn’t rush. He never rushed. Every slow grind, every deliberate thrust was a brand — a mark, a promise. Arséne cried out softly, his hips twitching as he let his head fall back to give his husband more of his throat. He was trembling more, mouth parted, eyes fluttering shut as he let out another moan. Louder now, needy and raw. „Please,“ he gasped, not even sure what he was begging for. More, maybe. Or just.. don’t stop. Thankfully Roman didn’t. His hands held the young figure skater firm, guiding his body like it belonged to him — like it always had. And it did. Arséne let go completly. No thoughts, no fear. Just moans, whimpers and the overwhelming stretch of being fully cherished, used the way he needed. The way only the upir could do.

He buried his face against Roman‘s collarbone again, his breath coming in sharp little gasps with every thrust. „So good,“ he mumbled, voice slurred with heat. His lips brushed Roman‘s wet skin. „You feel so good, daddy…“ Roman murmured something back, something dark and possessive and Arséne shuddered at that as well, followed by a moan — softer now, fucked out and pliant. His body rocked gently with each movement, water catching and glinting around them like the sea itself was in worship. „Always so full,“ he then murmured, more to himself than anything, lips brushing Roman‘s jaw with trembling reverence. „Only ever this full with you..“

When his husband‘s grip tightened on his hips, dragging him down harder now, Arséne sobbed softly into his neck. „Im yours, Daddy. I don’t want anything else. And it was true. In that moment, in that stretch of moonlight and water and heat, he would’ve given the upir anything. Hus body, his breath, his name. Because this — this slow, perfect claiming meant something. The man hadn’t even started fucking him in earnest yet, the figure skater knew that and yet he was already gone for him.

[vowbound]

Roman didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said everything — dark and sharp, like he was about to ruin something precious just to remake it in his own hands. And yet… there was reverence there too. Worship. Like he was touching something sacred, not fragile. Like Arséne wasn’t just his to take — but his to keep.

His fingers stayed deep, still, curling just enough to pull another moan out of that perfect, kiss-swollen mouth. Roman drank the sound in like it was water. Like he’d been starving for it. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, velvet-dark. His breath kissed Arséne’s ear as his hand slid higher on the skater’s thigh, gripping harder, holding him in place like he’d never let him go. “Clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping you upright. Like you’d fall apart without my hands on you.”

He pressed his lips to Arséne’s temple, dragging his mouth slowly down the younger man’s cheek, over his jaw, until his tongue licked once — slow — at the spot just under his ear. “You’re right.” The second finger thrust deeper now, smoother. Roman’s voice went rough. “You would fall apart. You need this. My hands. My voice. My cock. You need me to hold you open, fill you until you remember who the fuck you belong to.”

Arséne trembled, and Roman felt it everywhere. Around his fingers, in his thighs, in the frantic beat of his heart against Roman’s chest. “God, baby,” Roman breathed against his throat, “you’re so fucking good for me.” He nuzzled along Arséne’s skin, wet kisses trailed with teeth, until he reached the edge of his collarbone and bit — firm, possessive, but not cruel.

“You let me in like this, and I—” He cut himself off with a groan, thrusting his fingers in deeper, rhythm now, pushing right against that spot that made Arséne cry out and grab at him. Roman’s cock twitched hard against the boy’s stomach, restrained only by will. Barely. His forehead dropped to Arséne’s, eyes burning. “I’ll never stop. I’ll never stop touching you. Not until you’ve forgotten what it feels like to breathe without me inside you.”

Roman withdrew his fingers, slow and slick, savoring the shudder it pulled from Arséne’s body — and then grabbed him under the thighs, lifting. Holding him there, weightless in the water, legs spread around his hips, open, offered, his. He let the head of his cock slide against that perfect, needy entrance, teasing. “You feel that?” he rasped. “That’s mine. Every inch. Every fucking inch.” Then, slowly he pushed in. The stretch made them both gasp, made Roman growl low in his throat as Arséne’s body took him so well, so tight and hot and home.

Roman buried himself to the hilt, grinding in deep until their bodies were flush. Until he felt Arséne tremble around him like a livewire. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You were made for me.” His hands gripped Arséne’s hips now, strong, unrelenting, rocking them into a slow rhythm. Water moved around them, waves catching against their waists, their chests, but Roman’s focus never left the man wrapped around him.

He drove in deeper with a slow, brutal thrust, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Arséne’s head, the other still locked around his thigh like iron. “You’re already mine,” he whispered. “And I’m going to fuck you until every cell in your body knows it. Until the ocean remembers. Until the stars envy you.” And then, with a kiss that stole the breath from Arséne’s lungs — Roman began to move.

[vowbound]

Arséne had never felt more bare. Not because of the water sliding over his skin or the moonlight carving silver across his collarbones, but because of Roman — the way he looked at him, the way he saw him, like every moment of silence was just a pause before worship. Arséne trembled but it wasn’t from the cold. It was from heat, from reverence, from the weight of being wanted so completely by the man who terrified and gentled him in equal measure.

Roman‘s hand — God, that hand — was between his thights now, firm and sure like it belonged there. Like it had always known how to touch him. The young man gasped when a finger slid inside him, slow and unhurried, the stretch making his legs tighten instinctively around Roman‘s waist. His body gave a soft tremble. Part nerves, part need, but he didn’t pull away. He never would. He trusted Roman. More than anyone, more than himself.

His arms came up around the older man‘s neck, clinging as the waves rocked them, as Roman‘s finger moved with a deliberate control, teasing and coaxing, mapping him from the inside out. Arséne let his head fall against his husband‘s shoulder, moaning quietly into the space between them, his own breath catching on every curl of Roman‘s finger. „Daddy…“ he whispered, voice wrecked with something far too soft to be called lust alone. „Please…“ He didn’t even know what he was begging for. Just more. More of that closeness, more of that claiming, more of that impossible gentleness wrapped in something primal. His hips tilted forward, needing, offering. The upirs free hand gripped his thigh again, guiding him, holding him open and Arséne gave in to it completly.

It was more than arousal. It was surrender. „You feel so good daddy,“ he breathed, forehead pressed to Roman‘s. „Always know what i need. Always..“ his words broke off as a second finger slipped inside, deeper now, fuller. His lips parted in a shocked moan — not from pain, but from how perfect it felt to be opened like this, to be known this intimately.

He blinked up at his lover through damp lashes, cheeks flushed and mouth kiss-bitten. His eyes, wide and glossy in the moonlight held no shame — only devotion. „You make me feel safe,“ he whispered, voice trembling with emotions he couldn’t contain. „Even when I‘m falling apart.“ Roman‘s fingers curled just right, and Arséne gasped — a raw, stuttering sound pulled straight from his chest — and he bit down softly on the upir‘s shoulder, unable to stop the cry that followed. Pleasure licked through him like lightning, his body tightening, hips canting forward withouth thought.

His nails dragged lightly across his husbands back, not to push away — to anchor. „I want you. I need you,“ he breathed. „I want all of you. Please.. don‘t stop.“ There was no fear in him now, just heat, just longing. Just the wild, sacred truth of being touched by someone who knew exactly what he was — and still held him like something holy. „I need to to feel you inside me, completly.“ he finally said with a finality in his raw voice.

[vowbound]

Roman didn’t speak at first. He just looked at him — looked — like Arséne was the only living thing left on earth. One hand still pressed flat to the figure skater’s chest, fingers spread, holding him in place with nothing but skin and the weight of that stare. He could feel Arséne’s heart hammering beneath his palm. Fast. Raw. So alive.

Mine, Roman thought again, and this time he let his thumb drag slowly across that heartbeat in a slow arc, like marking his initials into wet clay. Then he moved. Not rushed or frantic — measured. He leaned in close, chest to chest now, and dragged his mouth along the sharp line of Arséne’s jaw. Not quite a kiss. Just breath, just warmth, just a whisper of teeth grazing skin — enough to make the younger man shiver.

“You’re mine,” he said plainly, as if it was already law. “Every inch of you. Every breath. Every desperate little sound you make.” Roman’s hand slid from Arséne’s chest down the line of his stomach, firm, guiding, possessive. “I don’t care if the world’s watching,” he said, voice thick with heat. “I’ll still fuck you like I own you. Because I do.”

His hands moved now, slow, tracing down the lithe curve of Arséne’s waist, then over his hips, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. He slid his hands to the small of Arséne’s back and dragged him forward until their bodies met, skin to skin, heat to heat. Roman dipped his head again and this time kissed. He claimed Arséne’s mouth with a deep, consuming pull that said I know what you are and I love you anyway. Tongue sliding past lips, teeth grazing, holding the kiss until Arséne melted under it like wax.

When he pulled back, Roman’s mouth was slick, his eyes darker than the sea behind them. “You don’t ask to be taken,” he said lowly, letting one hand drift down between their bodies, fingers curling around Arséne’s thigh, pulling it up slowly to hitch around his own waist. “You already are. Every fucking time you look at me like that.”

He kissed his husband again, this time just below the ear, letting his lips linger. One hand gripped the back of Arséne’s neck, firm, grounding, the other sliding beneath the water to grab a fistful of his ass and squeeze — rough, possessive.

“Say it,” he growled against damp skin, nipping gently at Arséne’s jaw as he began to walk them backward, deeper into the water. “Say who you belong to.” As the waves lapped at their waists, Roman let Arséne feel the full weight of his body — his cock pressed against his stomach, the strength coiled beneath his touch. He turned them slightly so Arséne’s back faced the shore, the stars now behind Roman’s shoulders like a crown.

One hand drifted up between them, cupping Arséne’s face as if he were fragile, and the contrast only made the other hand — trailing wet and slow down his spine, kneading at the base — feel rougher. Needier. His fingers slid lower, slipping between Arséne’s cheeks under the water, slow and searching, while his mouth returned to Arséne’s throat, open-mouthed and biting this time. Just enough to leave a mark. Just enough to remind him. “You’re not just mine,” he murmured, slipping a finger inside — slow and intentional, testing. “You’re meant to be mine.”

Arséne’s gasp was swallowed in another kiss — and Roman gave it to him like it was air, like it was punishment, like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. “You beg so sweet,” Roman murmured against his mouth, adding a second finger, twisting gently. “And you always take me so well. My good boy.” He bit Arséne’s lower lip softly, pulled it, then released — eyes heavy-lidded, smirking like the devil he never quite stopped being. “I’m going to take you here,” he whispered, his voice a dark silk ribbon coiling through the air between them, “in the water, under my moonlight, with the whole island silent and watching like it knows who you belong to.” And then he pulled him in — lifted him with a hand braced under his thigh, wrapping Arséne’s legs around his waist as the sea cradled them both. The tip of him brushed against the entrance of Arséne’s body, slow and threatening. “But you’ll say it,” Roman murmured, teeth against the shell of his ear. “Or I’ll make you.”

[vowbound]

Arséne‘s breath caught when Roman touched him. Just barely, fingertips like silk ghosts brushing the sides of his ribs, his waist — a touch so careful, so reverent, it made his chest ache. The ocean around them was warm, gentle, but the chill crawling up the figure skater‘s spine came from inside. From how much he felt, how much he needed.

Roman said nothing at first. And that silence.. god, that silence meant everything. It said; I see you. It said; I‘m here. It said; Mine.

The moment Roman pressed his forehead to his shoulder, something inside the younger man fluttered and collapsed all at once. He closed his eyes, let the waves rock around his hips. Let his breathing sync with the one man in this world he trusted without question.

Arséne tilted his head as the upir‘s lips hovered close. Felt the way that voice wrapped around his nerves like smoke. And when Roman finally kissed him — slow, deep and with that terrifying devotion he rarely allowed himself to show — Arséne felt himself unraveling in real time. His arms slid around his husbands neck like a prayer. „I don’t want nice,“ je whispered against Roman‘s mouth, breathlessly he added: „I want you.“

He kissed him again, more desperate this time, hips pressing forward like instinct, like plea. „I want you to take me,“ he murmured, voice trembling with both heat and reverence, „here. Now. Like i belong to you.“ Because he did. He always had. Roman made him feel precious in the way that burned. Like the moonlight belonged on his skin only because Roman was here to see it. Like every soft moan he let slip was for the Upir‘s ears only. Like every inch of him had been designed to be held, claimed and worshipped by his husband alone.

The figure skater leaned in, nuzzled at Roman‘s jaw, barely brushing his lips over the sharp line of it. „You make me feel safe when you touch me,“ he whispered. „Even when you’re rough. Especially when you’re rough.“ His fingers slid up Roman‘s chest, over muscles, over power barely restrained. „i trust you with everything, even this.“ He lifted his chin, exposing his throat. „Especially this.“

Th waves pushed gently around the men, moonlight glinting on their skin. Arséne stepped back just enough, water lapping at his waist, his thights, as he looked up at his lover with dark, wide eyes — lips parted, cheeks flushed, brown hair curling from sea and heat. „I need you to show me, mon roi. That i‘m yours. That you still want me like this. Like i‘m the only thing that matters.“ His voice was quieter now. Honest. A confession only the ocean and his husband would ever hear. „I really missed your hands on me. I miss being a good boy for you.“

He took the older man‘s hand, placed it flat against his chest, right over his heart — and whispered: „Take me daddy. Not just my body. Me. I‘m not afraid.“ He wasn‘t. Not with the man he loved. He knew what it looked like to be wanted for the wrong reasons — for fame, for beauty, for illusion. But this? This nakedness, this aching want under moonlight in a sea that belonged only to them — this was holy.

The sea still moved around them, warm and alive. The island was silent except for waves and breath and heartbeats threatening to burst through skin. Arséne let his hands slide to Roman‘s shoulders, holding on like he was the only steady thing in the universe. Because he was. They didn‘t speak for a moment. Just stood there, mouths close, skin pressed together, like the only thing that mattered right now was the growing passion between them.

[vowbound]

Roman had been quiet as they stepped through the house, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that meant nothing. It was heavy, full — like a glass filled to the brim with something dark and expensive.

He let Arséne guide him through each room, wordless and glowing, trailing joy like perfume. Roman didn’t comment. He didn’t need to. Every detail spoke loudly enough — the soft lanterns, the sunken couches, the record player humming something French and sinful. A house built not to live in, but to feel in. Indulgent. Sensual. Pointless in the best, most beautiful way. It was, Roman knew, the kind of place you bought for someone you couldn’t stop dreaming about.

He could see the pride all over Arséne’s face. Not arrogant — something purer, almost boyish. That eager glint he got when he’d done something he knew Roman would like but was trying to play it off. Roman didn’t call him out on it. Just watched him beam and gesture and practically vibrate with the thrill of sharing this fantasy he’d built with his own hands. Not a fantasy for himself — a fantasy for Roman. That was what wrecked him most. He’d had so many things handed to him in life — power, wealth, legacy. But never something made for him. Not like this. Never with joy.

By the time they stepped back outside and the sea opened in front of them, silver under the moon, Roman was drunk on more than the air. He was still thinking about the way Arséne had looked showing him the bedroom, the bath, all that open space. How every square inch of this house whispered I know you. I love you anyway. And then Arséne turned, barefoot in the sand, curls soft in the wind, voice unsure in that way that always made Roman ache.

Roman didn’t interrupt. Didn’t tease, didn’t smirk — just watched. Let Arséne speak. Let him strip — not just out of clothes, but out of whatever armor he still wore when he was scared Roman might not meet him halfway. And Fuck, he was stupidly beautiful like this.

Roman had to swallow down something sharp as Arséne stepped into the water — not desire, not entirely. Something older. Something close to awe. He’d seen so much beauty, taken it apart, broken it down to the bone — but this? This made him feel young. Human. Starving. His throat was tight. He didn’t realize how still he’d gone until the breeze lifted his shirt and he felt the chill. He let it fall. Then the pants. Then the space between them.

He didn’t rush — Roman never rushed — but every step he took felt necessary. Drawn, not decided. His feet sinking into the sand like roots. His hands brushing water like reverence. There was a slight tremor in him, quiet and deep — not hesitation, not doubt. Just the weight of feeling too much.

When he reached Arséne, he didn’t say anything. Just stepped in behind him, close enough that their skin nearly touched, but didn’t. He let his fingers trail lightly up Arséne’s sides, slow, mapping the same skin he’d worshipped a hundred times before like he was relearning it under moonlight. His breath hitched.

Arséne’s words echoed in his mind, louder than any sound the waves could make. The kind of confessions no one had ever dared give him before. The kind that clung like silk and bled into the cracks of a man built to resist softness. Roman closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to Arséne’s shoulder.

He tilted his head, breath warm against Arséne’s lips — still holding back. A fraction. The tension between them felt sacred. Like the air right before a storm, or the second before a knife cut — sharp, expectant, holy. Roman let the silence stretch a second longer. Let his thumb brush the curve of Arséne’s cheek like he was memorizing it again. Then finally, finally — a crooked smile. Quiet. Honest. A little wrecked. And then he kissed him. Like a man choosing to be unmade The rest could wait.

Roman’s eyes glinted with mischief as he stepped even closer, his hand brushing deliberately along Arséne’s side. “Don’t tempt me too much,” he whispered, voice low and silk-smooth, “or I might forget how to play nice.” He let the words hang between them, a promise and a challenge all at once, before pressing his forehead gently against Arséne’s.

[vowbound]

Arséne was glowing. Not from the heat — though Thailand kissed his skin with a warmth that clung like perfume — but from the way Roman looked at him just then. Like he was something divine and disobedient, something that broke logic and still made sense in the marrow of his bones. Hand in hand they stepped down the dock towards the private beach house, bare feet brushing warm wood, the last blush of sunset fading behind them like a curtain pulled slowly shut.

The house waited — sleek lines and floor to ceiling windows, soft lanterns already lit inside casting gold against the darkening sky. It was the kind of home no one ever built to be practical, only beautiful. It faced the sea like it worshipped it. Arséne led Roman inside without a word, letting the silence speak first. The entryway opened into a vast living space that bled seamlessly into the outdoors - white stone floors, low sunken couches scattered with linen throws, glass walls that retracted completly to let the ocean breeze move freely through the rooms. A record player in the corner already playing something sultry and french, the kind of song that made hips sway before thoughts could catch up. On a nearby table was another chilled bottle of champagne, two crystal flutes and a handwritten note that simply read „for later, once you‘ve earned it.“

When Roman arched his eyebrow, Arséne smiled innocently. „Motivation,“ he said, as if he hadn‘t ordered a staff member to put it there ten minutes before. He showed his husband the bedroom next. A wide, low bed dressed in white and soft grey, mosquito nettings draped loosely above it like something from a fantasy. The walls were mostly window, angled towards the sea, and in the dusky blue light, the ocean looked almost like glass. Then he pulled him towards the bathroom. Open plan, marble. A sunken tub that could easily fit both of them, and probably had been designed with exactly that in mind. Roman made a low sound and Arséne just hummed, cleary pleased, tugging him onward like a thief leading his favourite victim to one more beautiful trap.

Finally, they stepped back outside onto the beach. The moon had risen — not full, but bold, enough to paint silver ribbons across the water. The waves lapped lazily at the shore, warm and patient. No one else in sight, good. Just the rhythm of water and the heavy, sweet scent of salt and paradise drifting through the air. The french figure skater turned to the upir, standing barefoot in the sand, curls tousled by the soft breeze, eyes catching moonlight like mirrors.

„So,“ he said slowly, nervously — though the smile he wore was still wicked at the edges — „I have one more surprise.“ Arséne inhaled. „We could swim.“ A beat. „Now.“ A longer beat. „Naked.“

He didn‘t wait for a response, or maybe he couldn’t. Because even saying it had already set a fire burning just under his skin — the thrill of offering not just a body but vulnerability. Something softer, braver. He reached for the buttons of his shirt and began to undo them, one by one, slow and deliberate. Satin fell away like water, revealing skin that caught the moonlight in pale gleams. Then the rest — belt unfastened, trousers sliding down his long legs, bare feet already curling into the sand.

By the time he stood there, fully nude, breeze teasing at his hips, every inch of him open to the air and Roman‘s gaze — his breath was shaking, just a little. He still didn’t look away. He didn’t need to. „I missed you,“ he said again, stepping into the warm water. „Not just your hands. Not just your mouth. You. The way you look at me when you think i‘m not watching. The way you move when you‘re tired but trying not to show it because you are too stubborn to admit it. The way your voice sounds when you say my name like it’s something you’re trying not to worship.“ The water kissed his ankles, then his knees, then his waist as he stepped closer into the open ocean. „I missed the way you let yourself have me. Not just touch me, not just fuck me. The way you take time like i‘m a secret worth keeping.“

He opened his arms out like an invitation and a dare. „I want you,“ he said plainly. „Here. Now. Like this“ and there it was — the shy boy who grew up skating on ice rinks and hiding kisses behind locker room doors, standing naked under the moon, calling his husband to the sea. „I want to feel you close, with nothing between us.“ His voice dripped. „Just us and your hands exploring every part of my exposed skin.“

He drifted a step farther, moonlight slivering across the curve of his back, his legs and his shoulders. And then, with a sly flick of a grin — still mischievous even as his heart raced — he added: „Besides, i hear saltwater is good for the skin. And I plan on being delicious for you.“ Finally, he held out his hand. The wind stilled, the waves waited and he waited for the upir to join him.

[vowbound]

The jet was too quiet. Roman had been pretending to read for the last hour, a crystal tumbler of something amber and expensive resting at his fingertips, untouched. He sat with one leg crossed, his tie undone, collar open, watching Arséne out of the corner of his eye with that same careful detachment he used in boardrooms—except it didn’t work on him. It never had.

Arséne was currently draped across the other side of the cabin like he owned the sky, shoes off, a ridiculous satin eye mask pushed up into his curls, smirking at a magazine he wasn’t reading. Every so often, he’d reach for some delicately arranged monstrosity of caviar or gold-flaked truffle or smoked langoustine and dramatically present it to Roman like a cat bringing him a dead bird.

“Darling,” he said at one point, holding up a glass dish as if unveiling a crown jewel, “I hope you brought your appetite for irresponsibility.” Roman gave him a look — half fondness, half warning — but took the food anyway, because Arséne lived for those tiny victories and Roman let him win where it counted.

Time passed like that — slow, decadent, useless. There were moment tiny one where Arséne would go quiet. Where his foot nudged against Roman’s under the table. Where his head would tip back and Roman would catch himself staring at the line of his throat, the peace there, the way he looked when he forgot to be dazzling. And Roman felt something in his chest unclench — something old and tight and half-asleep.

Eventually, Arséne napped, and Roman just… watched him. That rare, fragile stillness. The proof that someone could live like this — like nothing was chasing them. It made Roman’s teeth ache. When the pilot finally announced their descent, Arséne sat up, immediately vibrating with anticipation. “You’re not going to ask where we’re landing?” he teased, already unfastening his belt like a man about to commit a beautiful crime. Roman didn’t look up from his drink.

Stepping off the jet into the heat of Thailand was like walking into a fever dream — one of Arséne’s, no doubt. The air wrapped around Roman like a silk glove dipped in fire. A sleek car was already waiting. A yacht, too. And Roman followed. He didn’t ask questions. That was the trust of it. Unspoken. Absolute.

They sailed out over water too blue to be real, the sky bleeding into golds and honeys and soft, burning rose. Arséne pulled him to the bow of the yacht where fruit and wine waited like a scene from a painting. He gestured out toward the horizon. A sliver of land was forming. Lush and private and to unreal. Roman stared. Still, quiet. Guarded.

The island was small, but perfect. White sand. A modern house of glass and steel and sunlight tucked beneath palm trees. The yacht pulled into a private dock and Arséne practically dragged him down the ramp and into the sand, his eyes lit up like a boy showing off something precious. Then he turned. Took both of Roman’s hands in his own, fingers warm, steady. Roman stared at him. Blank, unreadable. That jaw tightening like it did when emotion rose and he didn’t trust himself with it. He said nothing. Didn’t need to. Arséne squeezed his hands gently, voice growing gentler, weightier. “It’s space. For you. For us. For moments where you don’t have to wear the crown or the mask or the name. Just be Roman.” Roman’s breath caught. He didn’t let it show — not visibly — but it was there. In the stillness. In the way his gaze dropped slightly before returning, sharper. More naked.

Roman was quiet. Very still. But listened. His voice, when it finally came, was low. Honest in a way that would have made anyone else bleed. “You always do this.” A pause. Not accusing. Just overwhelmed. “You blindside me. Knock the weight off my shoulders and pretend it was easy. Then you act like I’m the one who’s the miracle.” His hands came up, brushing Arséne’s face like he was trying to memorize it.

Then, because if he didn’t say it now he’d lose the nerve: “You bought me an island.” Beat. “Do you know how hard that is to top?” And finally — finally — a ghost of a smirk. “I hope you know this means I’m going to have to marry you again.” Roman leaned in, kissed the tip of his nose. He laced their fingers together tightly. Possessively. Then he looked toward the house, then back at the man who always seemed to break through the walls no one else even knew were there.

“Come on,” he said, voice like velvet over steel. “Show me this life you’re trying to give me.” And hand in hand, barefoot and burning with something terrifying and new, Roman walked into the future he never thought he deserved.

[vowbound]

Arséne tasted the kiss like a man who had been starving for it. The soft brush of Roman‘s lips, the heat of his hand curled possessively behind his neck— it anchored him in a way applause never could. As Roman pulled back with that velvet voice and that dangerous smirk, Arséne let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh.

„Next time,” Roman whispered, “just steal me sooner.”

Arséne grinned, a slow, wicked thing that curled like smoke. „Careful, mon roi,“ he murmured, brushing his thumb along Roman‘s jaw. „Say that again and i‘ll start scheduling weekly abductions.“

And then — like it was the most natural thing in the world — he leaned back into the wide leather seat with a satisfied sigh, eyes never quite leaving the upir. The jet climbed higher, the city falling away into nothing but clouds and sky. Good, the world could manage without them for a few days. Maybe later.

As the flight settled into cruise, the blonde stewardess returned with a tray of the kind of snacks that weren‘t so much as ”snacks“ as edible status symbols. Arséne plucked up a glass dish holding translucent orbs of caviar on miniature blinis and waved it towards Roman like he was presenting a priceless artifact.

„Darling,“ he said dramatically, „I hope you brought your appetite for irresponsibility.“ They worked their way through gold leaf wrapped canapès, delicate parcels of smoked langoustine and tiny cubes of wagyu so tender the young man theatrically moaned after the first bite. „See? This is why we work,“ he told Roman, licking a trace of something decadent from his lower lip. „You handle the cold, hard reality, i handle the cold hard truffle butter.“

Roman gave him a look — half fondness, half exasperation — and Arséne basked in it like sunlight.

Hours passed like minutes. Arséne stretched out, head tilted back, eyes closed, one sockless foot nudging against Roman‘s ankle beneath the table. Occasionally, he‘d peek sideways just to drink in the sight of his husband, how Roman‘s tie was gone now, collar loosened, that rate gleam of ease behind his eyes.

Finally, after hours had passed the pilot announced their descent, Arséne woke up from his nap and sat up straighter, suddenly vibrating with anticipation. „You‘re not going to ask where we‘re landing?“ he teased, already unfastening his seatbelt like a boy about to get away with something criminal.

Roman didn’t look up from his glass. „You’d lie.” Arsène placed a hand over his heart. „i would embellish.“ Then he leaned in, voice lower, intimate, almost reverent: „But I promise you‘ll like it.“ When they stepped off the jet into the sticky heat of Thailand, Roman gave him a slow look, half suspicion, half curiosity. But Arséne didn‘t give him time to overanalyze it. A sleek, polished car was already waiting for them, driving them just a short distance to a private marina where a stunning white yacht bobbed gently on the water, staff standing at attention in crisp uniforms.

When Roman arched an eyebrow as they boarded, but still followed without saying anything, Arsénes heart beat a little faster at that — the trust in it, quiet and unspoken. The yacht glided across jewel toned waters, the sky painted in watercolor streaks of rose and honey as the sun began to drop. Arséne took Roman‘s hand and pulled him gently towards the bow where two glasses of chilled white wine waited beside a plate of tropicsl fruit carved into absurd shapes.

He gestured out towards the horizon. „There,” he said softly. In the distance, a sliver of land was beginning to take shape — not much larger than a neighborhoid park, but lush and ringed in blinding white sand. A few palm trees swayed in the breeze and nestled among them was a modern house, sleek and low, it‘s glass walls catching the last rays of the sun and throwing them back like fire.

The yacht pulled in towards a private dock and the two of them left the yacht, shoes sinking slightly into warm sand. The figure skater stepped in front of the CEO and took both of his hands in his, fingers warm and steady. „So…“ he began, voice soft but glinting with mischief. „About this island.“ A pause, a blink. „I bought it.“ Then another pause. „I bought it for you,“ Arséne said again, this time slower. „i mean, technically it‘s under both our names, because the paperwork got annoying, but— yes. It is yours. The house, the trees. That rock shaped like a very judgmental turtle. All of it.“

He let the silence hang between them, heart thudding like a metronome in his ears. Then, because he couldn’t help himself he added with a smirk: „I figured you deserved something you couldn’t micromanage.“ Roman was simply staring at him now, unreadable, jaw tight in that way that meant he was either overwhelmed or plotting to murder him. Arséne decided to bet on the former. He squeeted Roman‘s hands gently. „it‘s space. For you. For us. For moments where you don’t have to wear the crown or the mask or the name. Just be Roman.“

A warm breeze danced between them, tousling Arsénes curls and tugging at Roman‘s shirt. „I‘ve missed seeing you breath without the weight. I missed the sound you make when you are pissed at something. I missed the way you hum when you think I‘m not listening. I missed you.“ He lifted one of his husband‘s hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles gently. „So,“ he said, glancing towards the house. „There‘s a bed with an ocean view, a wine cellar i had filled with your favourites and zero cell reception unless you hike to the top of that cliff. Which i assure you, i‘ve made intentionally unpleasant. Even for an upir like you.“

Arséne finally smiled, more earnest now than playful. „This place is yours. Because you deserve something beautiful as well. Something that doesn’t ask anything from you. Except maybe to kiss me more often.“

Then, tilting his head and stepping closer, he whispered: „And to occasionally sunbathe shirtless. For scientific purposes.“ He leaned in, brushing his lips just shy of Roman‘s, not quite kissing him, letting the ocean and the sky and the future press in all around them like a promise. „I hope you like your gift,“ he said. „Because i‘m not returning it. Or you.“ And this time, it was his kiss that said mine.

[vowbound]

He was finishing a call when he saw the car. The reflection in the lobby glass caught first — the sleek glint of black chrome, too elegant to belong to anyone who wasn't trying to make a statement. Then the voice on the phone blurred out. Another boring member saying something predictable. Empty. Ticking seconds of his life away. Roman cut the call short without apologizing.

By the time the doors of the Godfrey Institute slid open, he’d already spotted the figure waiting for him: silk shirt, sunglasses, effortless perfection. Arséne. Leaning on the Aston Martin like a thief waiting for his mark—with a grin Roman knew was about to unravel whatever remained of his carefully managed day.

Of course it was that car. Roman paused at the threshold. Tie loosened, phone still in his hand, the ghost of a headache flickering behind his eyes. He hadn't had lunch. Or coffee. Or ten minutes to himself that didn’t include legal updates or damage control. And yet... Somewhere beneath all that executive armor, something in him relaxed. “Bonjour, mon roi,” Arséne called out, purring it like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Roman’s gaze dropped briefly to the car, then back up. His brow lifted.

Roman didn’t smile. Not fully. But there was a tell in the way his shoulders loosened, the slightest shift in the corner of his mouth. He said nothing. Just walked forward, suit jacket whispering against his frame as he approached, stepped into the passenger side, and sat — without protest, without a word. That was the answer.

Arséne slid in behind the wheel like a man with the whole day scripted in stardust and mischief. The engine came to life, and the city began to fall away behind them. The drive to the terminal was smooth, the hum of the car like a balm. Jazz played low from the speakers, something expensive and timeless. Roman glanced out the window, watching glass towers give way to tarmac and silence. The last few weeks had been a blur. Board meetings. Nightmares. Shareholder calls. Silence in their penthouse that not even marble walls could hold together. And now this. A kidnapping. Arséne didn’t speak much on the drive — just the occasional grin when Roman’s gaze lingered too long. But Roman saw it in the way he gripped the wheel, in the buzz of excitement pulsing off him like a second skin. He was up to something. He always was.

When they stepped onto the tarmac, Roman felt the wind catch his coat and the scent of jet fuel swirl through the clean, open air. The private jet gleamed silver under the sun — tailored and sharp, like everything else Arséne touched. It was absurd. And — Roman had to admit — impressive.

The interior of the jet was warm light and ivory leather. The kind of obscene luxury only two people very much in love — or very much in denial — would need to justify. Once seated, Arséne reached into a velvet-lined compartment, revealing a slender green glass bottle — absinthe, unmistakably expensive. “And this,” he said, offering it like a trinket of devotion, “is for you. Straight from Val de Travers. The good kind. The kind that makes poets cry and husbands blush.” Roman let out a low, quiet sound. Not quite a laugh. But close.

Roman tilted the champagne flute between his fingers, watching it catch the cabin light. The quiet wrapped around them like velvet. Arséne’s words hung in the air — unguarded, clumsy, deeply sincere. And it hit him harder than expected. He really did miss him. Roman turned slightly, one leg brushing against Arséne’s. His voice dropped, dry and low: “I wasn’t aware I was kidnap-able. But I suppose if anyone could manage it…” He glanced at the bottle. “And you did bring Absinthe.” Then, with a slow inhale: “You really think I’d still be your mon roi if I were in a cheap suit?” His eyes narrowed just enough to be dangerous. “You’d flirt with a barista who had my cheekbones, don’t lie.” Arséne’s gasp was half-laugh, half-mockery. Roman didn’t need to look to know that smug grin was back.

He let silence bloom between them again. Watched Arséne try not to fidget. Roman could always tell when he was nervous. Even behind silk and wit and charm, there were always tells. “You planned all this... for me.” Not a question. Just the truth, laid bare. Roman reached out, fingers brushing Arséne’s wrist, light, grounding contact. “You’re an idiot,” he said, voice a shade above a murmur. “A charming, ridiculous, silk-drenched idiot.” Then softer, thumb grazing along Arséne’s jaw: “But you’re my idiot. And you were right.” A beat. “I missed you, too.”

And there it was — that look Arséne gave him. The one that melted Roman’s spine and made him forget quarterly reports and legacy bloodlines and all the sharp things he usually held in his chest. A young stewardess interrupted, offering them two glasses of champagne as the engine hummed beneath them and the runway began to roll past the windows. Roman took his glass and raised it in return, finally — finally — smiling. “To us,” he echoed. “And to being selfish bastards about it.”

He leaned back in his seat as the jet lifted off the ground and the city shrank behind them, irrelevant and far away. For once, there was nothing to control. Just Arséne. Just them. Roman watches the city disappear beneath them, the cabin lights casting a soft gold across Arséne’s face. Without a word, he sets his champagne aside, shifts closer, and slips a hand around the back of Arséne’s neck — slow, possessive. He kisses him. Not rushed. Not polite. The kind of kiss that says mine without needing a single syllable. Then he pulls back just enough to whisper against Arséne’s lips: “Next time, just steal me sooner.” And this time, he really smiles.

[vowbound]

Arséne had never been one for punctuality, unless it was for Roman. Today he was early, leaning against the sleek obsidian hood of the vintage Aston Martin DB11– one of the few cars he actually bothered to memorise the name of, he toyed with the cuff of his silk shirt as the building doors finally slid open.

And there he was.

Roman, all tailored lines and quiet authority, the kind of presence that turned every head and silenced every room. The figure skater grinned, pushing off the car like a man ready to steal something priceless. Which in a way, he was.

„Bonjour, mon roi,“ he purred, slipping his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose just enough to meet Roman‘s eyes. „I‘ve come to abduct you.“ he said as he grinned deeper when Roman raised an eyebrow. „In that car?“ Arséne heard him asking.

„In our car. For this ride, at least.“ Arséne opened the passenger door with with a theatrical flourish. „No meetings, no boardrooms. Just you, me and an irresponsibly luxurious itinerary.“ Roman‘s slips twitched— dangerously close to a smile— and then he slid into the seat with that effortless grace only the upir could pull off. Arséne closed the door behind him and practically danced to the driver‘s side, the excitement fizzing in his veins like champagne.

The drive to the private terminal was smooth, cocooned in the hum of engine and the faint jazz whispering from the speakers. Arséne resisted the urge to keep glancing over at his husband, but only barely. He missed him. God, he missed him.

It was stupid, really. They shared a home that was half marble, half glass, but lately it felt like they were living in time slots and passing glances. Practice, meetings, events, deadlines. A whirl of glitter and numbers that never quiete aligned. So he planned this.

The moment they finally stepped onto the tarmac, the sun catching in Roman‘s hair and the wind teasing the hem of Arséne‘s cream blazer, everything clicked into place again. The jet waited for them— sleek, silver and utterly private.

„Voilà,“ Arséne said as they boarded, sweeping his arm in grand presentation. The interior was a dream; warm lighting, plush white leather, chilled air that smelled faintly of cedar and something darker— something like Roman. „Do you approve?“

Roman raised his eyebrow again, slow and amused. „Depends. Where are you taking me?“ was the only answer Arséne got. The french man tilted his head with a smile. „Somewhere where I don‘t have to share you with stockholders or the press. You‘ll see.“

Once seated he reached into a compartment and revealed a slender, green glass bottle nestled in a bed of velvet. „And this,“ he added, presenting it like a rare jewel, „is for you. Straight from Val de Travers. The good kind. The kind that makes poets cry and husbands blush.“

„To be honest with you, i planned this. For weeks,“ Arséne suddenly admitted, slipping into the seat next to his husband and stretching out like a cat. „I missed you. I mean— really missed you. You‘re so busy being brilliant and terrifying and—„ he gestured vaguely toward Roman‘s jawline, „-ridiculously perfect, that i realized i‘d gone almost six days without hearing you complain about your employers or how cute your nose looks when you stretch.“

Arsénes heart practically flipped in his chest when Roman laughed quiet and deep.

„I wanted to remind you,“ he murmured, voice softer now, „that even with the company and even with all the medals. It is just us. And I will always pick you. Even if we were broke. Even if you were just some annoying upir in a cheap suit.“

He could feel Romans eyes on him and when he looked up he saw thst look — the one that turned Arséne‘s bones to warm syrup and made him forget choreography, schedules, time zones.

A young stewardess interupted them by offering two glasses of champagne as the engined hummed beneath them and the runway began to roll past the windows. Arséne clinked his glass lightly against his husband‘s.

„To us,“ he said, smilling so wide it hurt a little. „And to being very very unavaible for the next few days“

And as the jet lifted into tje sky, he finally felt it again— that rare, perfect moment when the world disappeared and there was only them.

[vowbound]

Roman’s jaw clenched at the sound of Arséne’s voice — raw, breaking, trembling in his lap like something sacred and wrecked. The way the word “daddy” slipped from his lips, the way his thighs quaked and his hips bucked with helpless need, it lit something feral behind Roman’s eyes.

His hand moved with more force now — no longer gentle, but exacting. He watched Arséne shudder, crumble, fall apart like something beautiful unraveling just for him, and it made Roman’s hunger coil deeper. His fingers tightened possessively on the boy’s thigh, the other hand pumping steadily, purposefully, while his bloodstained mouth kissed a burning trail from Arséne’s jaw to the shell of his ear.

“You want to remember this?” he murmured against skin slick with sweat. “You will. You’ll feel it in every muscle tomorrow. You’ll think of this every time you walk. Because I’m going to leave my mark on every inch of you.”

Roman licked a slow line down Arséne’s throat, savoring the taste of desperation and adoration all tangled together. “You’re mine. Say it,” he demanded — voice not cruel, but commanding, like the sun demanding the moon to rise. “Tell me who you belong to while you fall apart for me. Right here. Let them all hear.”

He wasn’t touching to tease anymore. He was coaxing something deeper, drawing out every choked gasp and broken moan like a symphony only he had the right to conduct. This wasn’t just about pleasure — it was about ownership. Worship. Love in its rawest form. And when Arséne’s forehead pressed against his again, Roman closed his eyes and whispered, “Fall apart, then. I’ll hold every broken piece.”

Roman’s breath hitched, and for a second, just one fleeting second, his restraint hung by a thread. Arséne trembled in his lap, wrecked and begging, and Roman could feel every inch of him pressed close, flushed and needy. The desperation, the surrender, the love — it poured from him like fire, and Roman was burning in it. His hand slid around to grip Arséne’s jaw, tilting his face up until their eyes met — dark and wild and glassy with feeling. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he said, voice low and rough, barely more than a growl. “But you’re about to.”

With swift, decisive motion, Roman shifted them— his other hand unfastening his own pants, dragging them down just enough to expose his aching cock. There was nothing hesitant in his movements, just a deep and desperate need to claim, to feel. Not just to take Arséne, but to make him remember, like he’d promised.

Their bodies pressed flush again, skin to skin now, heat blooming between them as Roman’s breath fanned against Arséne’s throat. “No one else gets this,” he whispered. “Only me. Only you and me.” He gripped Arséne’s hips, anchoring him close. “And I’m not letting go.” And with that, he lifted Arséne up a bit, his other hand gripping his own cock to angle it in the right position under his husband’s hole and let him sink down on it.

He rocked his hips forward just slightly — enough to send a shock of sensation through both of them — and his teeth grazed the figure skater’s neck, biting him slightly, just enough to draw some delicious blood. His voice dropped into a whisper, dark and reverent. “Hold on to me. It’s going to be a long night.”

Roman didn’t speak now — he didn’t have to. The look in his eyes was answer enough. Dark, molten, unwavering. Possession radiated off him in thick, unspoken waves, like he was staking a silent claim right there, right then. One hand gripped the back of Arséne’s neck, not roughly, but firmly — his thumb pressing against the pulse there, like he wanted to memorize every frantic beat beneath his skin.

“You’re mine,” he finally growled, low and close to Arséne’s ear, each syllable sending a shiver straight down the figure skater’s spine. “You’ve always been mine. And I won’t let anyone forget that.” He didn’t care who could see. Didn’t care that the shadows didn’t hide them completely, or that the music throbbed around them like a living heartbeat. The only thing that mattered was Arséne — writhing on his lap, trembling under his hands, surrendering in the way only he ever got to see.

His other hand slid possessively down Arséne’s back, slow, reverent, then clenched tightly over his hip like he was anchoring him in place. Not just keeping him close — claiming him. Roman's jaw flexed, blood still smeared at the corner of his mouth, a remnant of the countless times he bit his husband. He looked half-wild and wholly in love.

“Look at you,” he murmured against Arséne’s throat, dragging his lips across the delicate skin but not kissing — hovering, tasting, wanting. “Falling apart for me. You don’t even realize how beautiful you are when you break open like this.” Arséne whimpered, and Roman drank in the sound like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “I want them all to see,” Roman hissed now, teeth grazing his lover’s skin. “So they never forget that no one touches you. No one gets you. No one ruins you like I do.”

And then he kissed him — really kissed him. Not sweet, not gentle. It was a possession, a promise, and a demand, all crushed into the brutal press of mouths colliding. Arséne melted into it, shattered against it, clutching Roman like he was the only solid thing in a world that had blurred around the edges. They didn’t need a bed. They didn’t need privacy. What they had wasn’t for the fainthearted — it was a storm, a ritual, a devotion carved in skin and scars and gasps in the dark.

[vowbound]

The figure skater trembled in his husbands lap, not out of fear but from the overwhelming rush of being seen and being touched like this - like he was precious and filthy all at once. The world around them melted into shadows and pulse-light, music pounding somwhere distant, but it was irrelevant. How could he focus on something else when he only could feel Roman. The way those hands owned him, the way his deep voice made his body react before his mind could even catch up.

Arséne let out a gasp, sharp and needy as Romans grip tightened around him. His own hips stuttered forwards instinctly.“Daddy p-please,“ a soft broken sound tumbled from his lips - part whimper, part plea. It was unbearable how slow the upir was going. But also perfect, „Daddy.“ Arséne tried again, his voice barely more than a breath, high and wrecked with pure longing. He wasnt even sure what he was begging for. Release? Complete ruin? To be held down or being pulled closer until there was nothing left between them? It didnt matter, Roman always knew. Their foreheads stayed pressed together, sweat slick and trembling, his hands fumbling for purchase - against Romans chest, his shoulders, his arms. He simply needed to hold onto something or he was going to come apart too soon, too fast.

The CEOs strokes were torturous in the best way, dragging moans from his throat that should have felt far too loud for a public place, especially in such a High Society club - and yet.. he couldnt care „Let them watch“ Roman had said and Arséne would let them watch, let them see how completely Roman undid him without nothing but deliberate touches and devotion. Arséne tilted his head back to expose his throat again in quiet submission - that silent offering he gave only to the upir, to the man he married. „You always let me know that i am yours. Not only around other people but around me as well.“ he choked out, voice cracking with the weight of it, „like i dont exist anywhere but here, under your hands.“ he finished, voice thick with emotions and pure admiration.

His pale fingers gripped Romans bruised knuckles, grounding himself in the roughness of them. Every mark on the man - the blood, the cuts - just made Arséne only want him more. This wasnt just clean, soft love. No, this was savage, sacred. And when Romans hand tightened slightly, just enough to pull a soft cry from the figure skaters lips, Arséne fell forward, burying his face in his husbands neck, body shivering with anticipation as he hovered at the edge.“D-dont stop.“ he whispered, desperate and breathless. “I want them all to see it. How good only you can make me feel. How much i need you..“ then quieter, against the upirs skin, a whimper soaked in devotion. “Break me, if it means i get to be rebuilt in your hands.“

He was trembling harder now - full-body, bone-deep shaking, the sensation of Romans long fingers around his twitching cock unraveled him one breath at a time. His thights quivered around Romans lap and he couldnt stop the way his hips continued jerking forward, chasing more, always more. His breath caught in his throat when he felt Romans thumb brushing over his slit, teasing him with madding care. The figure skater bucked forward with a sob, all pretense gone, unraveling in real time against the man who he loved and who owned him. „Fuck - daddy, please - d-dont be gentle,“he begged, barely able to form words, his hands still clawing at Romans shoulders like he was afraid he could dissapear any moment. „I dont want to be handled easy. I really want to be ruined by you. I want to feel it tonorrow, want to remember every second of it. I want it branded into my brain, into me.“ he gasped. He wanted to sob from how much he loved him, how much he needed this. The pressure, the heat, the overwhelming intimacy of being loved like this in a place full of partying people, like Roman didnt give a single fuck about anyone else, like the world had narrowed down to just them.

Arséne kissed his husband again, mouth desperate, hungry and messy, moaning into it as Roman continued stroking him a little harder, pulling sounds from him that definitely sounded obscene and filthy. Arséne had to break the kiss with a strangled gasp while his forehead rested against Romans, breathing him in like oxygen. „Im going to fall apart,“ the figure skater whispered, eyes fluttering shut, tears stinging at the edges from too much want. „I want you to fuck me until i forget who i was before you. Until the only thing i remember are your touches“ He meant every word he said because in Romans hands he wasnt just a submissive - he was his altar, his offering, his love. And he would fall apart a thousand times if it meant being put back together by those same bruised hands.

[vowbound]

Roman’s breath hitched as Arséne laid himself bare beneath him — words tangled in need and surrender, his voice trembling with the weight of it all. And god, how beautiful he looked like this: flushed, eyes glassy with desire, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as though just being seen—truly seen—was enough to unravel him.

Roman didn’t rush. He never did, not when it came to Arséne. No, he took his time because worship wasn’t something to be hurried. His hand slipped beneath the hem of the crop top completely, fingers splaying against the delicate curve of his waist, drawing lazy circles into heated skin. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for,” he murmured, voice a dark velvet that curled around the edges of the moment like smoke. “But I’ll give it to you anyway.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over the edge of Arsénes jaw, just a whisper of touch before his mouth found his throat. The same throat that had been offered up so willingly — trustingly — and Roman kissed it like a man starved, tasting the salt of skin, the pounding pulse underneath. He didn’t bite, not yet. Just enough pressure to make the boy squirm, to make his breath stutter. One of his hands roamed lower, finally finding the waistband he’d hovered over before. He slipped inside, fingertips ghosting along sensitive skin, just enough to draw out a gasp from Arsénes parted lips. “You’re burning,” he said against his neck, the words almost reverent. “And I haven’t even started yet.”

His free hand found the back of Arsénes head, curling through his curls and gently tugging, just enough to tilt his face up again. Roman kissed him hard then — no softness, no teasing. Just raw, desperate want crashing against the edges of restraint. Their mouths moved like they were devouring time itself, as if this single moment could stretch forever.

They were still mostly clothed, but the air between them was thick with the promise of more. Of layers peeled away and limbs tangled in hair, of whispered filth between gasps, of love so fierce it ached. Roman pulled back just enough to meet Arsénes eyes — dark, desperate, and shining with emotion. “I’m going to make you forget your own name tonight,” he said, low and dangerous. “And the only thing you’ll remember — is mine.”

When Arséne gave him that look — equal parts challenge and surrender — Roman hooked his fingers into the waistband of those tight jeans and began to push them down, slow, deliberate, the way a sculptor unveils art. Blood still crusted faintly at the corner of his mouth from earlier, his knuckles bruised from the fight, but there was nothing gentle about the hunger in his eyes now. Only devotion. Only claiming. And a promise in the way he pulled Arséne closer: “I’m going to ruin you beautifully.”

Roman’s breath was a low, steady heat against Arséne’s cheek as he pulled him tighter into his lap, one hand splayed across the small of his back, anchoring him there like he never wanted him to move again. His other hand slid slowly, deliberately, up the back of Arséne’s thigh—fingers teasing, learning, remembering every inch like a sacred map etched into muscle and skin. The boy was flushed, lips parted, his chest rising and falling against Roman’s like he could barely hold the weight of the moment. The music was nothing but a low pulse now, something distant and faraway compared to the storm of feeling between them. Roman didn’t give a damn if anyone saw. Let them. Let them all see how he worshipped what was his. “Look at you,” Roman murmured, voice like honey and smoke, his thumb brushing against the exposed line of Arséne’s hip. “You’re shaking for me.” He said it like a promise, like a claim.

And then, with that quiet hunger he wore like a second skin, Roman wrapped his hand around his husbands cock. —not rushing, no. He took his time. He wanted to feel every tremor, every breath caught in the back of his lover’s throat. His fingers curled around him, slow, confident, possessive. He didn’t move at first, just held him, letting Arséne feel the full weight of his attention, his claim.

Their foreheads were pressed together, and Roman’s gaze didn’t waver for a second. “You feel that?” he whispered, lips ghosting over Arséne’s jaw. “That’s how much I want you. That’s how much I see you. Right here. In front of everyone. And I still want to make you come undone for me.” Arséne’s breath hitched, hips twitching involuntarily, and Roman finally began to move—slow, deliberate strokes that bordered on reverent. It wasn’t just about pleasure. It was about intimacy, about letting Arséne know without a single word that he was his entire world. And Roman didn’t look away. Not once. Because this wasn’t just lust—it was love, wild and unashamed.