#romulus roy

Husband!Roman who secretly loves the way people look confused when they find out you’re married to him.

Husband!Roman who hates how naturally sexy you are, because he knows you’re not even trying, and yet everyone notices — and yeah, it drives him crazy sometimes.

Husband!Roman who gets jealous even when nothing’s happening, overanalyzing every look, every laugh, every interaction — and half the time, it ends in a fight.

Husband!Roman who starts arguments over imaginary scenarios.

Husband!Roman who covers up his insecurity by showing you off like a trophy, even if he’ll never admit that’s what he’s doing.

Husband!Roman who gets triggered by the way your silk blouses dip low enough to hint, not show, or how your tailored pants sit perfectly on your hips; he’ll roll his eyes and call it “predictable,” but the way his jaw tightens gives him away.

Husband!Roman who loves that you never need him for money, power, or status — it forces him to believe you’re with him because you actually want to be.

Husband!Roman who loves when you wear silk, low backs, open necklines — he wants you to be admired, but only as long as everyone knows they can’t have you.

Husband!Roman who still can’t figure out how the hell he ended up with you — and he knows everyone else is wondering the same thing.

Husband!Roman who always notices the small, expensive, intentional choices — the silk straps sliding down your shoulder, the sheer tights beneath your skirt, the faint trace of perfume that lingers on his hands after; he pretends indifference, but his obsession shows in the way he touches you later.

Husband!Roman who thrives on the fact that you get him, that you can keep up with his chaos without trying to fix him.

Husband!Roman who finds your subtlety maddening — you don’t need to be loud to command attention, and that quiet power pulls him in every time.

Husband!Roman who feels both threatened and turned on by how independent you are; it’s infuriating, intoxicating, addictive.

Husband!Roman who watches you at events more than he listens to anyone else — your posture, your subtle expressions, the way you handle conversations like you own the room without even trying.

Husband!Roman who acts like he doesn’t care about your family’s wealth, but deep down, it messes with his head more than he’ll ever admit.

Husband!Roman who loves it when you tease him with sarcasm, especially in public, because it’s thrilling to see someone match his energy — but inside, he’s burning with desire and pride.

Husband!Roman who enjoys when you take control in private — pushing boundaries, making bold moves — because it forces him to surrender in ways he secretly craves.

Husband!Roman who can’t resist small gestures of intimacy: the brush of your hand, a lean close in a crowded room, a whispered joke at the table…

Husband!Roman who loves how you know exactly when to get on your knees, when he’s riding the high of winning a fight against Kendall, closing a deal, or shutting someone down — when his arrogance makes him unbearable and you make it worse on purpose.

Husband!Roman who hates admitting how much he obsesses over you, but he notices every look, every movement, every subtle shift in your energy.

Husband!Roman who turns arguments into tension-laden moments where the air practically sizzles — he’s testing limits, and every sharp word is also an unspoken lure.

Husband!Roman who gets frustrated when you’re confident around others — part jealousy, part awe.

Husband!Roman who sometimes initiates physical closeness in public in ways that seem casual, but are loaded with ownership and desire — a hand on your lower back, a finger tracing your arm.

Husband!Roman who pretends he’s in charge, but you figured out a long time ago that all it takes is one subtle shift — one tilt of your hips, one order whispered low — and he unravels, letting you break him without ever saying that’s what’s happening.

Husband!Roman who thrives on the chaos, on the mess of it — bruises blooming where your legs lock around his waist, teeth against skin.

Husband!Roman who hates vulnerability, but when he’s with you behind closed doors, he lets it leak through — small confessions, touches that linger, and the rare quiet admissions of need.

Husband!Roman who gets obsessive when he imagines other people noticing your appeal and he reacts in ways that are sometimes ridiculous.

Husband!Roman who pretends he’s in control in public, but in private, he’s complete undone by the smallest hints that you could leave him, ignore him, or outsmart him.

Husband!Roman who finds himself more turned on than he wants to admit when you’re pissed at him. The clipped tone, the pointed sarcasm, the way you look at him like you might walk away; it messes with his head in ways he doesn’t want to think about.

Husband!Roman who carries that tension into every fight, every jealous spiral, every mocking joke, because half the time, the sex isn’t about wanting, it’s about winning.

Husband!Roman who loses it completely when your heels into his back while his mouth is on you, grinding against the sheets without realizing he’s doing it.

Husband!Roman who is obsessed with the sounds you make — sharp, uneven, raw — the kind that get stuck in his head long after it’s over.

Husband!Roman who loves to see you on your knees for him when he has his hand in your hair - he has the biggest ego in the world whenever he has you like that.

Husband!Roman who sometimes isolates you in a quiet corner during events just to hold you, kiss you, or whisper something that makes you shiver — but he’ll act casual about it to everyone else.

Husband!Roman knows you could have had someone richer, calmer, easier — and instead, you chose him, and that thought both terrifies and anchors him.

Husband!Roman who lets you have him when he’s spiraling, when the insecurity eats at him.

Husband!Roman who but when his ego’s on fire, when he’s high on himself and untouchable, he’ll take it back — rough hands, sharp grip, pushing until you’re gasping for him.

Husband! Roman who finds himself addicted to the contrast: you destroying him and, in the next instant, choking on his ego.

Husband!Roman who has days where the control flips back and forth so fast it’s dizzying — your dominance feeding his submission, his roughness pulling yours out in return, until neither of you knows who’s undoing who.

A/N: Yes, maybe I'm a little obsessed with him... What? You're the one who married him, don't blame me.

I hope you enjoyed it anyway!

Romey and Shivvy

I want Roman not even asking you to be his Valentine because it’s a bargain deal. He gets you as a life partner, his little fugglesnuggle, his freak, his partner in crime, so yeah, it should be obvious you’re his Valentine. But he sees some tweet about how guys should always ask, that it’s just so important, so — while you’re in the shower, he comes in. As he usually does. But with your favorite flowers (it doesn’t matter that they’re out-of-season). Oh, and outside he also has some huge box of assorted Ferrero Rocher chocolates he remembers you talking about? And those designer shoes, you know, the ones you saw in Saks Fifth? Yeah, you should wear them tonight.

It’s not really that, though, that makes you all feel-good. It’s more that he kisses your back and shoulders when you get ready. More, more of that — more of, “You’re soft. Do you drink virgin’s blood? Seriously? The lotion I get you cannot be that good.”

He takes you to your favorite cafe for brunch. It reminds you of Paris, with outdoor seating and a delicious toasted marshmallow latte, but today you get a matcha with strawberry cold foam. He makes fun of you, “You’re drinking grass. Grass drinker. It’s not even, like, uhh — a what, cleanser? Just straight urban hippie grass juice. With a little fruity fluff.”

Afterwards, you both attend a nice museum exhibit, which you both enjoy for the first thirty minutes until you realize you’re both self-assigned critics and need a day off. So, movies — which, with Roman’s background in the film industry, is debatably worse. But Annie Hall is playing in his private theater until the late afternoon. It’s nice, it’s sweet, you’re both entangled like one great, big knot.

For dinner, he takes you to an Italian restaurant. It’s one that was once way out of budget when you first started working with him, one that you were honestly scared of walking into when he first brought you after work. Now it’s a second home. He calls it ‘your place’, meaning the place you had your first official-unofficial date. He still gets whiny when you say you didn’t know it was actually a date. You were just under the impression that your boss was trying to be nice so you don’t tattle on him for every little perversion.

He acts like it’s nothing, “Whatever, fuck you, it’s Valentine’s Day. Was I supposed to let you sit all alone and vibrate yourself numb?” He doesn’t expect a ‘thank you’, doesn’t really expect anything. This is just what you do, right? Standard procedure. You’re supposed to at least get your…romantic person (he holds himself back from saying ‘wife’), some chocolate and candy and flowers, and a nice dinner.

You walk for a while after dinner; he likes walking sometimes, usually when he’s drunk or high or upset. He’ll tell his driver to follow, just sort of not stay too far away, for when they actually wanna get home. You buy him flowers on the way back; some street vendor has Osiria roses. Beautiful flowers with dark reds and soft whites striping through the petals. He was fucking humiliated, because what, you’re buying him flowers? Like he’s some flamboyant metrosexual? You can only laugh at how ironically accurate that is. Truth is, he really doesn’t mind. He actually fucking loves it. Can’t stop ‘subtly’ smelling them when you ‘aren’t looking’.

He leans all over you on you while walking to the car. He just drapes himself over you, clings to you. Opens the door to the car for you with a snarky, “M’lady, the penthouse princess.” He nuzzles your shoulder and neck the whole ride, like a stray you’ve just picked up. For just a moment, he picks up your hand and kisses the part where your thumb meets your pointer finger, and then acts like it didn’t happen at all.

He clumsily grabs his roses and — most importantly — your hand as you both walk inside. Nudges you, an excuse to rub up against you as you both step into the private elevator. He quickly gives in, leaning on you and then making some exaggerated snoring sound as if he’s fallen asleep on your shoulder. A moment passes.

“You full? Like it?” He sounds uncertain. It shows, now, as it always will eventually, that he especially wanted you to like it. Paid attention, thought it out.

“When don’t I?” It’s half a scoff and half a laugh. You really have no room to say you don’t like one of your favorite restaurants in Manhattan, if not the world. Especially when he gets you the same pasta you had on your first date, the same tiramisu, with a hazelnut latte. He scoffs in return, face scrunching up as if it’s physically painful for him to imagine that you’re just lying, going with the flow.

When you both get into the penthouse, it’s actually not very late. You’re both full, and he groans as he stretches like an old man. He’s getting stocky, because he actually eats with you around. You notice when he doesn’t.

“You…like, like me, right?” He’s changing when he asks the awkward question, one he feels like should be left unsaid, it should be kind of obvious; you live with him, you work with him, you’re his Valentine. Every time something goes wrong or you’re upset, you call him. Of course you like him, duh, but maybe you don’t, or maybe you’re just playing the game, getting inside his head.

“Rome, come on. It’s us,” your words are supposed to portray just how dumb it sounds to ask you, of all people, that question. You’ve seen this guy cry, sob, you’ve felt him sneak into your bed after a nightmare, he’s told you stories of his fucked-up childhood and you’ve seen him get hit so hard he’s lost a tooth. He has admitted to you, in the privacy of the dark, quiet penthouse, while in the same bed with him playing a game of ‘Truths’, that he pissed the bed as a teen. And you’re still here. You’re always there.

“Fuck you, I know. I know you like me. But, do you?”

“Yes! Jesus, honey, yes, I like you,” you say quickly. It doesn’t take long for you to grab and hold his cheeks, feeling the scruff on them, rubbing circles with your thumb. He leans into the touch, kisses your thumb. His eyes practically twinkle.

“Yeah. Yeah, you do,” his first ‘yeah’ sounded almost whispered, like it soothed some part of his soul, whereas the second ‘yeah’ immediately turned back into typical Roman. That faux suaveness never fails to make him look silly, all sweet and stupid.

“Bed now?”

“Bed now,” you agree. And it isn’t inherently sexual. You’re both tired, and he wants your skin on his. He lays the roses beside your flowers, assuming the maid will put them in water for him.

The two of you brush your teeth together in the en-suite. You do your skincare routine together (although his takes longer). And at the end of both, he comes over to where you sit on the edge of the sink and puckers his lips for you to kiss, and you hop off and head over to the bedroom to change.

He nearly never sleeps without a shirt. Whether he’s wearing an undershirt, or one of your tees, he’s almost always in some shirt and his briefs. He takes his shirt off tonight, and doesn’t put one back on in its place. He’s soft, shaven, and just a little pudgy. Little freckles and moles are dispersed sparsely around his pale skin that has very recently been seeing just a bit more sun from a recent vacation to Italy.

“You’re such a fuckin’ perv,” he comments awkwardly at your staring. It sounds confident, funny, but you can tell that he’s sucking in his tummy, flexing his biceps as if he’s some big, strong man.

“I appreciate beautiful things. Don’t you?”

“Oh — smooth, smooooth fucking operator, very nice. I mean, an art exhibit is one thing, but full-frontal is kinda different.”

“Mm,” you come up to him, kissing his back now, kissing his shoulders. “Not with you.” It has two meanings, a double-edged sword: he always finds such weird shit so artistic, and not even in a directly perverse way; he loves the movie Brown Bunny, and genuinely believes that the blowjob was crucial to the plot. On the other hand, he’s also just — different. Even if full-frontal, on average, may not be worthy of the Louvre, it’s Roman. He’s Venus as a boy. He’s something entirely different from the rest.

And he can’t handle that. His face scrunches up again, as if in pain, feels his eyes hot, wet. You’re kissing his back and saying he’s art.

With a quick whine, he’s turned around in your arms and facing you, kissing you the way you’d imagine a woman may kiss her husband after he returns home from The War. It’s silly, it’s almost like he thinks you’ll disappear if he stops, it feels like he’s a kid, like he’s a little kid again with a crush on Sally-May-what’s-her-name aka who-gives-a-fuck. Like he’s never kissed in his life, and he’s wearing noise-cancelling headphones and the only thing playing is how the fabric of your dress moves against his hand as he hold onto it like reigns, and the squeaky noises of lips on lips, and your soft little noise is surprise.

But you don’t push him away. You let him take his fill. And he does, and when he’s done, he licks his spit from your lips with such reverence that it’s hard not to laugh.

“W-fuck, what?”

“No! No, Roro, it’s fine, no, you’re just,” you chuckle breathlessly, partly because you’re trying to hold back a laugh at his actions, tongue slowly tickling and tracing your lips, and partly because you hardly have any breath left after that kiss. “Oh, Romeyrabbit. You’re just silly. Silly, silly boy.”

He’s about to retort, but your hands are in his hair and he allows it. He’s okay with being some fucking stupid ‘Romeyrabbit’ and ‘silly boy’ if you take off this dress. So he crumples, nuzzles into your touch, and tries tugging off your dress.

“Okay, okay,” you respond, paying no mind to his puppy dog eyes the moment you pull away to take off your dress. “You, too!” You demand, and he quickly obeys, unbuckling and unzipping, slacks on the floor in seconds, tugging his socks off along with them.

He watches while still standing. He knows he looks stupid, just standing there and gawking at you, but — Venus of Townley is in his bedroom tugging down her dress and slipping off her shoes.

Taking too-big, clumsy steps, he walks with his bare feet in only his navy blue Calvin Klein briefs to go behind you and take off your bra with clammy hands. He tugs it down your shoulders and lets it fall down your arms. It’s not sexual, it isn’t anything at all; it’s him, it’s you, it’s a quiet, cool bedroom on Valentine’s Day.

Panties are next and then it’s all off. He keeps his briefs on, usually does, though he may take them off at some point through the night. But this is enough. He leans into the crook of your neck from behind, his nose nudging at your ear.

“Mmbed,” he mumbles what seems like a childish demand. “Beddy-bye.”

You hold his hand where it’s wrapped around your tummy, draw it up to your lips, and kiss the back of it. He sways with you in his arms — well, less of swaying, more of yanking you side-to-side with a playful growl. You giggle, let out a ridiculous laugh. You can feel his grin on your skin.

In bed, it’s soft, and the sheets feel as expensive as they are. Your noses touch, and he nudges them together when you start to fall asleep during the ceremonial staring contest ritual that has apparently just begun. But soon, you drift off and he doesn’t nudge you, just lets you. You make little “mmn,” noises in your sleep and his lips quirk up at them. He stares. He watches you sleep, if only for a few minutes. It’s a weird thing to do as is. But he likes it, the two of you entangled and him being able to just love you, watch you, observe you as you are. It is Valentine’s Day, after all. It begs the question of what the whole fucking holiday is about if not just this.