#rommulus x reader

It was hot.

Too fucking hot for October.

Or maybe it wasn’t hot, maybe it was just the frustration ebbing at Romans fingertips, heat rising to his face.

Still, his makeup, some shitty skeleton face paint someone did last minute wasnt going to survive the night if it kept up like this.

The humidity of the party rang around him, half-drunk groupies and pseudo-influencers grinding up against each other clumsily while some bullshit hyper-pop song played in the background.

He had almost completely lost track of you, a petty argument about something- he couldn’t even remember- making you slam the car door in his face as soon as you arrived.

He was fucking frustrated.

His acrylics dig into his palm, some half burnt cigarette inbetween his fingers of his other hand. Hes effectively tuned out anyone, standing beside Hollis, half focused, half gone.

It wasn’t like he felt guilty. He really didn’t- he doesnt know what he expected, or even what you expected.

It seemed the both of you were just incompatible, incapable of genuine commitment- as hard as you tried to squeeze it out of him. It just never worked.

The music was fucking blaring in his ears.

He still tuned it out.

Or tried.

Hollis, not particularly really focused on Roman, nudges him, cocking his head towards the kitchen of whoever’s home they were in.

The obnoxious red tool of your tutu was peaking out of the doorway, faint laughs -both masculine and feminine- rang out through the music. Faintly.

He doesnt say much, the cigarette forgotten on the floor, Hollis left behind as he knocks against the shoulders of the people actually enjoying themselves. The faint curses of other party-goers following him as he makes his way to the kitchen.

Your ladybug costume, the one he fucking hated, was recognizable amongst the other people in there.

Slumped against the doorway, red solo cup of…something in your hand, staring off into space.

It doesn’t click at first.

Not until he looks at the kitchen island.

Messy white lines, vapid LA white girls taking turns throwing their hair up, and snorting whatever’s left from the previous person.

You stuck out like a sore fucking thumb.

It wasn’t like he was initially mad about the coke.

Moreso that he knew it was to spite him, specifically.

One look to him and he’s snatching you by the arm, nails digging into your arm as he drags you through the crowd, upstairs.

“Roman! Fucking-“ you try, miserably, to get him to let go. Even going so far as to jerk your arm away.

He doesnt let up, shoving you into the nearest bathroom.

“What the fuck are you doing.” He hissed, jerking his hand away, his brows are furrowed, white face paint creasing subtly.

The top of your lip twitches.

“Having fun. Fun at the party you dragged me to.”

“I didnt drag you to anything. Fuck.” He breathes loudly, head lolling back against the door, hands clenching and unclenching.

“Just- move. Im not doing this, especially not now.”

One step towards the door, intent on shoving him away gets you a shove back, now keenly away of how much of your personal space he takes up once he gets nice and close.

“Shut the fuck up.” He mutters, grabbing your cheeks. He wasn’t gentle about it. Squishing them together lazily while he looked into your eyes.

“Pupils are fucking blown. How much did you do?” He mutters. “Fucking dumbass.”

Blinking up at him, your eyes start watering. This, paired with the initial argument on the way here was taking its toll.

“Don’t act all worried- didnt seem like you cared all too much earlier.” You hiss, defensiveness hiding the hurt and vulnerability below the surface.

“This? Again?” He groans “I care. Okay? M’ not gonna let you snort coke off some SoundCloud rappers kitchen island. Get a fucking grip.” He mutters, letting go of your face roughly.

“Whats your deal tonight?” You say, irritation bubbling to the surface. “First it was about my fucking costume, and now you’re riding my dick over me doing what? Doing a single line? Maybe you need to get a grip.”

You knew he had a point. You just didn’t wanna admit it.

“I swear to god. Just shut the fuck up.”

“Or wha-“

Roman almost lunges at you, black face paint smearing on your lips as he kisses you.

Hes not gentle, but neither are you.

Teeth clack together, his nails dig into your ass, more face paint smearing onto you as he trails down.

He grimaces at the sight of your tutu.

“Take that shit off.” He hisses.

He doesnt give you a chance, tossing it off you as he shoved you onto the small, uncomfortable looking bathroom sink.

His acrylics dig into your thighs, traveling up to your flimsy red babydoll top, nails scratching you gently as he pulls down the front of it.

He groped you- roughly, kissing you as he slides down your underwear, the flimsy lace dangling at your ankle. The kisses trail down farther, teeth briefly biting at your nipples- his face twisting with delight as he watches you yelp.

“Be good f’ me, baby.” He whispers, kissing at your navel, then kissing down to your knee- and then infuriatingly close to your cunt- but not quite.

Your mouth snaps open, pride diminished enough to beg.

Sensing your desperation, he beats you to it.

A lazy slide of his tongue meets your sopping cunt. A small noise leaves you.

Hes not content with that.

His makeup is ruined, his nose nudging up against your clit- small groans leaving his mouth as you tug at his curls.

You can briefly see the state of your thighs, smudged with a mixture of black and white grease paint. That thought is interrupted by Roman wrapping his black-clad lips around your clit. A broken, desperate moan leaves you, momentarily arching your back in response.

“Fuck- s’ all too much- Roman!”

You moan pathetically, practically feeling his shit eating grin against your cunt.

“C’mon, baby- be good for me.” He mumbles, kissing your clit briefly. “Cum.”

He’s more aggressive after that.

He’s buried in your cunt, your legs caging him in. He doesn’t seem to mind, groaning contentedly against the wetness of your pussy.

A light suck to your clit is all it takes after that, needy, broken moans filling the now humid bathroom.

His face is soaked, and your thighs are covered in what was Roman’s makeup. He licks his lips, grinning like the asshole he is.

He lays a kiss to your thigh, standing up to then kiss your forehead.

He mutters a small

“Let’s get you home.”

And you can’t help but listen, nodding as he helps you off the sink, his hand on your lower back.

You hadn’t initially intended to make him this upset.

A sharp response here and there, a disapproving glint in your eye when he talked- all in good fun.

You didn’t pay attention to the way his jaw clenched, some mysterious liquid in the flimsy plastic cup in your hand.

It wasn’t a huge party, only about 20-25 people- but that made it no less suffocating. The air was humid, having reached the peak of summer to early fall. Your dress felt light, but all too heavy at the same time. Maybe it was the mystery concoction getting to you.

Soft lighting fills the room, people talking, smoking. It smells of liquor and pot, a smell you’re all too accustomed to, thanks to the months spent hanging around Hollis.

A man- tall, not as tall as Hollis- leans over you, chatting about something, or rather trying to. His breath is warm on your face, and you’re acutely aware of how uncomfortably close he is. His breath smells like jungle juice, and a gut churning hint of smoke.

All he gets is a small nod, your eyes focused to the side, where Hollis stands- blonde hair creating an almost halo around him.

You dont expect him to already be looking at you, but he is. Not too pleased, it seems.

The stranger, in his sad attempt to flirt, redirects your face, rough hand turning your chin towards him.

It makes you cringe, bad.

With a forced cough, you slip out from under his arm.

Heavy steps lead you to the kitchen. Hands clammy, making the surface of your cup harder to grip. You throw it in the trash.

You stand there for a moment.

Steps sound from behind you, a faint shadow appearing. Tall, and lanky.

You really hope it isn’t that guy, or Hollis. You can’t tell which one would be worse. You dont turn around, letting whoever it is place their chin on your shoulder.

You know exactly who it is by now, and the voice, soft and almost, almost affectionate, rings through your ears.

“You think that shit’s funny?” He mutters, voice resigned.

Tilting your head ever so slightly, you respond. “Think what’s funny?”

“Dont act all fucking smart with me.”

“How am I acting smart?”

It’s soley just to piss him off. He knows that- knows that your keeping the act up, the act that you’ve been doing all night.

“Drop the act. I’ll drag you home, right now.” That doesn’t get him a response.

“Thats what I thought- fucking idio-“

You cut him off.

“Hey, that’s not very nice.” You tut.

It’s simple enough to sound innocent, just like your scolding him. He, however, knows you’re dragging it on, and that serves to upset him more.

With a resigned sigh, he lifts his chin off your shoulder.

You think you’ve won.

Until he grips your upper arm. Hard.

He drags you through the dwindling sea of people. His mouth is pulled taut, brows furrowed as he manhandles you through the crowd. His freakishly long legs glide through, giving you trouble as you (begrudgingly) try and keep up.

“Holli! What the hell!-“ you squeak, the fresh, outside air is starkly different from the stuffy kitchen you were just in. He gives you a dirty look.

“Dont fucking speak until we’re in the car.”

And with that, your mouth shuts. Almost comedically.

He runs a hand over his face, opening the passenger door for you. He practically shoved you in.

He doesn’t start it once he’s in the drivers side. He sits there, unnervingly still. His jaw clenches, and he runs his hand over his mouth, down to his jaw briefly.

“Cut that shit out.” He starts. You go to respond, and he beats you to it.

“Im not kidding. You’ve been acting shitty all night.”

“No I haven’t.”

He grunts. “You sat there while some fuckin’ loser touched on you. Infront of me.” He turns to face you, grabbing your jaw. He, in his annoyance, jerks your head to face him.

He kisses you, not as an act of love or tenderness, but as punishment. It’s not enjoyable, the way he kisses you- it’s a mess of teeth clacking together, his large, menacing hand on your throat.

“I dont wanna hear another word out of you tonight. Shut the fuck up.” For the first time tonight, you obey him.

Blunt nails dig into your neck, his other hand lazily running itself over the strap of your dress, pushing it down roughly. The way in which he does it causes the fabric to scratch against your skin, roughly. You yelp. He kisses you harder.

“Idiot.” He mumbles, manhandling you atop his lap, in a manner that is anything but graceful

Trailing down, deft fingers slide beneath your underwear- tracing through slick folds. He doesn’t apply pressure, simply out of spite. Your hips buck into his hand, and in an instant. His fingers are gone. You whine pathetically.

Snapping the waistband of your underwear against your hip, he tuts, briefly kissing over your nipple before pulling the lacy fabric to the side.

You knew he wouldn’t give you the privilege of foreplay. He wanted this to teach you a lesson, to make it a bit uncomfortable.

Lazily, he frees his cock- pale, flushed with a rosy tint of pink.

Rubbing your hip, he inches you down, observing the scrunch in your face from the vaguely uncomfortable intrusion. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust.

Long, nimble fingers settle atop your hips, rolling them for you- in a way that is anything but gentle.

His eyes flickered to your face, watching the slight scrunch of your nose, the intrusion clearly unexpected.

It’s uncomfortable, until it’s not.

A warm feeling blooms in your gut, the stretch becoming more pleasant that anything. Small pants sound through the car, your hips moving in tandem with his hands.

The wetness of your cunt drips down his flushed cock, sliding down to his pelvis. Small mewls escape you, forehead falling down to rest on his shoulder.

A sharp thrust causes you to dig your nails into his shoulder, his own digging into your hips- the action feeling mocking.

His groans- and occasional moans- travel to your ears, the both of you having no care for the fact you’re still in a car.

He travels his hand down, lightly smacking your clit, making your body jerk. He pulls you back, repeating the action as he bucks up into you.

A high pitched whine escapes your lips, teeth digging into your lip as you cum, juices dripping down his flushed cock.

His hips stutter, clumsily, and desperately still moving your hips. His cock twitches inside you, vaguely.

Hot ropes of his release fill you, small whines escaping your lips as he fucks you through his orgasm. Selfishly.

His hands rub your hips. Sitting there, you reflect, and a small ‘im sorry’ escapes your lips. He just smiles.

‘S’okay.” He mutters, patting your thigh.

Kissing your forehead, he helps you back into the passenger seat, starting the car.

The attitude you had earlier was gone, you both knew that.

Coachella wasnt what it used to be.

B- list celebrities grinding against the barricade- sweaty, unpolished influencers doing brand deals. It was miserable.

Or moreso, you were miserable.

Manicured fingers drum against your thigh, the urge to rip off the fresh gel briefly crossing your mind.

Your face is hot, half from the desert heat, half from the thinly veiled embarrassment rising to your head.

The bottoms you’re wearing are suddenly a bit suffocating, the humiliation making them feel more restrictive than they already are.

Roman.

He sits next to you.

He looks pretty, that you can admit.

Smudged eyeliner framing his eyes, a slight tilt of his head backwards as he laughs at something Ryan says.

Hes ignored you- or rather, is ignoring you.

You haven’t gotten a reaction from him in hours, no response. Nothing.

The festival would’ve been a tad bit more bearable if the man you came with, and for- your boyfriend, would give you the privilege of being acknowledged.

You felt like an idiot.

You felt like an accessory, you really did.

You swallow dryly, eyes flickering to anything but him, or the friends he’s sitting next to.

A click of the bathroom door signals that it’s open.

Subtly inching to your right, you whisper.

“M’ going to the bathroom.”

It was futile- you knew he wasn’t gonna respond.

All he gives you is a subtle nod, not even looking at you.

That somehow makes it worse. Your steps feel heavy, eyes glassy and warm as stray tears fall down. The bathroom door clicks shut.

Hands go to your face, covering it weakly.

Shaky breaths escape you, the urge to sob ever more prevalent.

You briefly look in the mirror- the sight that greets you isnt one that you particularly enjoy seeing.

Sitting on the toilet lid, you crumple in on yourself, arms wrapping tightly around your waist for any semblance of comfort as you cry.

It has to be around 20 minutes until anything else happens, you just sitting there.

A knock, loud and impatient sounds at the door. Your stomach churns uncomfortably.

Inhaling shakily, you try desperately to compose yourself, or atleast the shakiness in your voice.

“Someone’s in here!” You say politely, another wave of embarrassment flooding into you at the poorly concealed stuffiness in your voice.

“Yeah no shit. Fuck are you doing in there?” He grunts, rapping at the door.

No response.

“I know you’re in there.” Again, no response.

Bile rises to your throat.

“Answer the fucking door.”

“Im serious.”

A soft click sounds out, but you dont open the door.

He, in his annoyance, opens the door with a sharp jerk of his wrist. “The fuck-“

He sees you, crouched on the top of the toilet lid.

You look a mess, mascara blotted and running, lips swollen- streaks of tears running through your foundation.

He’s confused, but crouches infront of you, hands smoothing down your hair to cup your face.

“Woah- woah- the fuck happened?”

He mutters, looking at the streaks of tears. His face has fallen.

It almost makes you feel bad, the tone of voice he’s using with you. The switch from his behavior earlier is jarring, another wave of heat rising to your face. It feels unjust to feel this way when hes looking at you like that.

Your lip wobbles, eyes fluttering down. “M’ sorry.” You whisper, sniffling.

“Sorry for what?”

“I just- you were ignoring me earlier…and I just-“ you take a shaky breath of air. “N’ I just don’t wanna be here and I feel so, so fucking stupid, Roman.”

Tears roll down your cheeks, mouth in a firm frown.

“Jesus, baby- thought’ it’d be funny to ignore you. I just thought you’d just be pissed. im sorry. Fuck.” He whispers, almost panicked. “I know you can’t handle that shit- I shouldn’t have.”

He kisses your forehead, delicate and slow, like he’s afraid you’ll snap.

“S’okay, Roman.” You sniffle.

“Its not. Im sorry.” He mumbles, pulling you up, placing his chin atop your head as he holds you, hand rubbing your lower back.

Another sniffle and he’s kissing your forehead again. His necklaces press against your face, not uncomfortably, just noticeable.

He kisses your forehead again, tucking you under his arm as he guides you out of the dingy bathroom.

The vibrations from the current set ring through your ears, feeling it rumble vaguely from beneath your feet.

Under his arm, you feel a tad bit better.

His voice is melodious.

Deep baritone, reminiscent of a preacher- smooth, velvety, commanding yet gentle. The sound ringing through your ears as you blearily come to.

Your hands feel heavy as you bring them to rub at your eyes, the white linen of your robe sliding down your arm, almost ticklish in nature.

It may be your body, still thrumming with adrenaline, nerves from a chase you don’t remember.

The faint taste of bile lingers in your mouth- what from? You don’t know, a faint memory comes to mind, but as soon as you feel an inkling of remembrance, it slips away- silk against a mirror.

Its calm, in a way, being allowed to float away, the warm, loving hands of consciousness and exhaustion pulling at you- you faintly register that it smells like incense, bergamot. You realize who’s holding you, whose hands are running up and down the linen covered expanse of your back, humming gently.

It’s not unpleasant- not unwelcome, not from him.

A soft mumble leaves your lips, a slight shift of your legs alerts him to your newfound consciousness.

He doesn’t say anything, petting you, almost.

It doesn’t feel degrading- in any other situation you would’ve pushed his hand off, snapped, and bitten, and snarled. The fight always present, itching at the back of your mind.

Oh how you craved it, craved to see him hurt- bleed, anything to knock the veneer of respectfully away from him, the facade of the kind, communal leader.

And he knew, he always had a 6th sense, after all- it’s how he preyed. How he tried to, his porcelain claws making divots in you with each stroke of your back.

For once, you allowed it. The physical toll of fighting, of clawing and screaming and ripping finally taking a toll on you. You mentally succumb to him, to the exhaustion- you aren’t dumb. You know it’s what he wants, his peony colored lips turning up in a gentle smile, a facade of gentleness.

“Did you hear me, angel?” He murmurs, tracing the ridge of your brow, looking down upon you, observing. You shake your head, almost comatose.

“I said I’m proud.” He whispers.

You dont know why he would be. Maybe because you’ve finally given in, succumbed to earthly weaknesses.

You register a faint feeling of nausea- but nothing comes up. You feel weighted, floating between physical tremors, and mental calm. It’s excruciating, tar at the bottom of your stomach so impossibly thick, it can’t reach up your throat.

Your eyes follow the movement of his hands in the mirror, sat by the carpet. It feels eerily reminiscent of those dingy, old tv shows where a psychiatrist would hypnotize a patient with a stopwatch. You suppose it’s comparable, your pupils dilated as the white-painted digits run across the tresses atop your head.

“Not many people can fight- can allow that feeling into themselves, but not you, never you, angel.” He whispers, hand lazily gliding up under your sleeve, content to feel the warmer skin under there. It feels euphoric, and he knows that. He wants you to feel that, so you do.

A grumbled moan leaves your lips, wet with spit. He shushes you, leaning over slightly. His cross, the one he’s worn constantly, dangles over your face. You want to snatch it off, to see the look on his face, but you can’t. You hardly register the feeling of your robe sliding up, his hand tracing over the skin of your calf, smooth and supple. Your eyes flicker up, lashes fluttering.

“Feels…good.”

“I know.” He soothes, tracing over your collarbone.

Dazed, and confused, your hand travels to the carpet underneath you, the Sherpa tickling your fingertips as you grasp at it. Your head hurts, you realize.

The ringing in your skull does little to hinder your senses, oddly enough. The feeling of a soft, cold palm on your hip doesn’t go unnoticed. However, the fact that he had hiked up your skirt had. You lift your head up, having gathered yourself enough, at least mentally, to realize what was happening- what you were letting happen. But it felt good.

That scared you.

But you don’t do anything to stop it. You let it happen.

Your eyes meet his, strands of stray platinum hairs fall gently over his face, the evening sunlight shining on him- reminiscent of the angel Gabriel, you note. Soft praises leave his mouth, eyelashes casting an almost angelic shadow on his cheeks. Your mouth doesn’t feel dry. You cant tell if you can feel much of anything, in all honesty.

“What are you doing?” You grumble, the words escaping you before you can think about them. He hums, blinking once. Then twice.

“Caring for you, I suppose.” He says calmly, tucking a hair behind your ear.

So you sit there, his hands wandering across your shoulders, face, and more predominantly- your legs, and then your hips. You don’t say anything.

You don’t bother to say anything as his hands stroke the lace lining of your underwear- goosebumps sprouting on the expanse of your arms and legs.

It feels biblical, in a way. Perhaps reminding you of a scripture you had long forgotten from Sunday school. But more importantly, it feels good. He knows it does.

That’s why he smiles, perfect teeth etched in a Cheshire grin, but perhaps more warm.

His thumb, ever patient and gentle, slips under. You shiver. Hollis always had cold hands, somehow unable to cling onto the warmth he so adamantly craved. The blooming warmth in your lower stomach quickly erases the physical sensation of his coldness, his thumb gently tracing over your folds.

It feels foreign, but not unwelcome.

Your eyes meet his, locking almost uncomfortably.

“Hollis-“ you start, voice small and clear. He just shushes you, a chaste, almost patronizing kiss left to your hair. It was no use to beg. You both knew you were in no state to fight, not that you would mean it anyways. You never did.

Hollis, who had previously been a pimply, sloppy blonde boy had grown into a gentile figurehead. You never in a million years could have imagined lying exhausted, disoriented, on his lap- 2 of his freezing, supple fingers inching their way to your cunt. You shivered, and he smiled, shushing you softly. You hadn’t said anything.

It felt pleasant, especially after having gone celibate- the tight ring of muscles fluttering around his ring clad fingers. You could faintly hear a slick sound emerging, growing louder with each languid thrust of his bony, so-pale-it-looked-translucent hand. A faint moan left your lips, dry lips being wetted by your tongue, but then being replaced by two of your front teeth digging into your bottom lip.

He was pleased. The shushing from earlier no longer necessary. He observes, his other hand guiding your head to face him. Not the mirror- not that you could particularly see anything, eyes so glazed and fluttery you could barely make out his warm smile, his thumb gently tracing your jaw.

“Mmnf-“ you mewl, legs closing around his hand. That doesnt stop him. “I know. I know, angel.” He shushes, thumb lightly grazing the small expanse of your clit- somehow knowing how desperately you needed it. Even if you didn’t. Your hand, previously gripping the Sherpa, claws into his forearm, small pants leaving you as you saw his fingers, pumping in and out with a lewd ‘Schlick’ noise.

It’s euphoria, in the simplest of terms, and in the midst of that euphoria, you blearily realize how quickly you are to approaching the end of it, the tight, incessantly burning rope in your stomach unwinding with each movement of his hand, each flick.

It hits you all at once. No words are said, he doesn’t get a warning, not that you think you’d be capable of giving one in your current state. A shiny, transparent sheen coats his hand as he pulls it away, a rosy colored tongue darting out to taste the apparent fruits of his labor. He lets out an approving hum, satisfied with both you- and himself.

“Wonderful- never been prouder, angel.” He murmurs, your head lolling into his chest as he positions you, your body limp.

You realized you enjoyed his praise, and he knew it. You were his.