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sideysvault · 1 month ago

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ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִInnocuous Games ִ ་༘࿐

Pairing: Roman Roy x fem!reader

Wc: 2,030k

Tags: [sfw] Mentions of mature themes, sexual innuendo, slightly toxic relationship, friends with benefits, angst with fluffy ending.

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Once, they only slept together once. Friends for eight years, and it was all tainted by those unstoppable fleeting passions.

The two of them, alone, lonely, drunk. The bathroom of the rented villa was excessively decorated, and the warm crystal lights seemed to swallow the room whole. The thought had crossed her mind before, of course. Numerous times.

And God knew that the November slip did not count as sex. It was so chaste that even the most religious among us would not be able to classify it as a sin.

The second time, in her apartment late in the afternoon, which he usually preferred to sleep in, with the poor excuse that his driver lived closer and that he liked the New York transplant decorations. There had been a little too much champagne; and they fell off the sofa laughing a few times too many; and they had wound up on the floor; and the next thing they knew was that their hands were already all over each other. An innocent, comprehensible mistake. One that was ended by the sudden need of the man to put space between them.

But then it happened again. And again, and again. And eight years of friendship were ruined by the irremissible stain that mutual masturbation and strange sexual encounters left behind.

The both of them knew it was a bad idea, that it would only end with poorly said excuses and the broken pieces of their bond. But it wasn’t enough. It never is, is it? And the worst part of it all was that it wasn’t a matter of fleeting -albeit strong- desire for pulp contact. The woman felt that being just his friend was not enough anymore. Needing him far beyond the realms of which she could obtain. She needed him like a mean, neglected child begging for love.

The late nights at his apartment, the whispered secrets and the allusive but always earnest sweetness that he sometimes gave her would never be enough. Because even in that bathroom, with its dim lights and its artificial scents she was already convinced: If he dared to ask, the woman would give herself completely. Two broken pieces coming together.

All she could think about, between the lascivious eyes and the contained gasps, was how his hair would look in the early mornings, how would his coffee taste in the afternoons, and how words of tender love would roll out his tongue. A life with Roman.

——

It had been your best kept secret. A buried and shameful desire you had inexplicably felt since the day you had met him. And now that the line had been crossed, it roamed unleashed between the air that filled the space between you two. It deeply sadden you, being so close to what you desire, knowing that at best you’d only receive his strange patterns of affection and subtextual love. The realization only deepened with every encounter you had with Roman. And it began burbling and burning inside you. Making waves, twisting itself, and unwinding just enough to let you breathe.

The only way to erase the feeling was to drown it with other casual relationships with boring men. The latest provider of stability was a retired Florida lobbyist who wanted to take his chance in the Manhattan real estate scene.

And there you were. In your thirties, proclaiming your love to the brocker to anyone who’d listen, humiliating yourself and playing high school games in hopes that Roman would hear the news. You hoped that he’d finally push you away in a fit of rage and jealousy, that he’d say something hurtful enough to get you out of your torturous enamourment. Or maybe that he’d act indifferent enough for you to finally realize that you’d been nothing but a victim of imaginary romantic affections.

Your brain was working hard to convince its heart that you both just enjoyed to mirror each other, to see your own sickness reflected on someone else. That it was nothing but a sick, meaningless fantasy projected onto a strong but simple friendship.

Deep down, however, you knew your true intentions were different. It was your earnest wish: that some rainbow colored, gonna-happen and not-to-be-mocked day he would confess his feelings to you and be able to have a somewhat conventional and fulfilling relationship with you.

The games finally came to fruition. And in typical Roy extravagance, he decided to start the conversation on the most inappropriate of places.

His sharp and very public office with glass see-through windows. He was pretending to read his emails, doing work, for once. And he didn’t even bother to raise his gaze from his phone when he muttered “So, uh, is it true? Are you in love with the guy or something?”

You sighed, and for a fleeting moment considered telling him the truth. But today was not the day. Instead you distractedly responded “Uh, yeah sure. How could I not be? We've been seeing each other for a while now”

Your response apparently tickled something in the pit of his stomach, because he squirmed on his sit and made an ugly face as he continued his rant

“Come on! The guy is a prick. Just another model-fucking brocker. And from Miami of all places. You believe that make-believe story of early retirement? The guy is probably under investigation, hiding from a trip to the grand jury.” He called your name in an exasperated sigh “They are all the same. You are not some bimbo bitch, you know this”

“Fuck off, Roman. You are so fucking predictable” He really wasn’t, but you still let out a laugh that could only be described as unamused “What about it? You are just another rich suit on the east end and no one’s bitching and complaining about it”

Making your most annoying baby voice, you continued to mock him as you moved closer to him

“Model-fucking brocker. What a clever boy you are, Rome, seriously.”

All of this was going on in the space of a rich shade of brown leather furniture and Italian wooden desks.

Finding it hard to remember how much you enjoyed watching his dark viridescent eyes spark while he thought of another clever comment, how he had stood up for you, shakingly but firm in his conviction of protecting you as much as he could. How at closed doors, he became a cynical no-nonsense type of man early at dawn, only to melt away around the same time dusk came into sight. It was hard to remember it all, remember this was your plan all along, when he acted so dense.

“Stop doing that baby voice on me. You know It gets me going”

”God, Remy. You are HRs worst fucking nightmare, disgusting sick freak!”

“You are only getting me harder. Please go on” He got up the couch and started making theatrical moans and graphic gestures over the coach.

Last thing you expect from an uptight office administration is a fine sense of humor. And you’d be right. They don’t.

Roman doesn’t.

Suddenly tired of the childish bickering that would usually make you smile, you dropped on the sofa, with heavy shoulders, and suddenly feeling that the bun on your hair was too tight, the fabric on tour sweater started itching your skin, and the collar began to strangle you.

The man takes notice. He sits besides you on the sofa, and unbuttons the first two tiny pieces, the ones nearest at your neck. An unexpected smile adorns your face, and he looks down at your neck, the little beams of sweat forming around the warm skin, he looks at you in the eye, a bit more serious, when he tells you “Hey, I get it. I could see how this messianic older Patrick Bateman could wow even as tough a cookie as you. Oh my, yes.”

A laugh is heard. Roman seems relieved. You get closer to him and playfully bump him on the shoulder with yours.

Things are quiet for a beat. But they can’t stay silent forever.

“You are not in love with him”.

“I am”

“No, you are not.”

Murmullo something under your breath, undoing your hair, preparing for the reason why you’ve been enduring this conversation in the first place.

“Please, Remy. What is this? We did not even have sex”

“Of course we do!”

“Jerking off in the same room as each other once a month doesn’t count, for the love of God!”

“You aren’t in love with one of those Manhattan parasites. Fucking transplants, with their, uh, petrodollars, and, uh south money. The fucker probably even needs a month in advance reservation to get into fucking, uh, Cantinori.”

You laugh. How innocent of you to think this was a good strategy in the first place.

“Shut up. It doesn’t matter. It's not that serious, okay? Will you get off my dick now?”

“Never. You know it. I’m a sick puppy and I’ll follow you around forever even if you only feed me with scraps”

Your head rests on Roman shoulder now. Not caring about the curious, judging eyes watching from beyond the glass. Rolling your eyes, and then closing them for a second. You can smell his aftershave, the scent they use at the cleaners, his cologne. The eyes still way their knowing eyes, but, with the Roys, they probably had seen worse.

“Speaking of, I’ll fucking take you to Cantinori. Right fucking now. No peasant reservations. Hell, I’ll take you to that horrible hippie place you like. What’s it called? Fucking Buddakkan?”

You laugh, again. You were drunk on his scent and tired, your eyelids tickled and threatened to close themselves. “Oh forget it. Don’t be so insecure.”

“Oh, fuck off. You are just trying to fuck me over. We both know it.”

You suddenly don’t feel so tired anymore. Looking up, with big, doe eyes, embellished with the sweet look of hope. Like a child, begging for love.

“It’s working, okay? I’ll do better”

You smile. For the first time since this started, he sounds sincere. He gives you a chaste, small kiss on the side of your temple. When he retreats, the feeling still burns on your skin.

Giving him a kiss on the cheek in return, you feel its warmth. And it’s redder than you remembered it to be.

——

The tallest building of Manhattan, 200th on Amsterdam Street, with its rectangular grid windows, and the light, rough looking concrete on its exterior, with its golden door, and the mirrored elevator that always seems to be too cold to the touch.

In the private penthouse of the building, the natural light fills the space, and it bounces off several antique mirrors, instead of its usual blue iridescent artificial lights. The wine cellar is usually emptied out on Saturday mornings, its contents laying over a table set for two, with takeout sharing the surface with the sound of chatter, laughs and clattering dishware.

The small hot tub that lays on top of the turf, is just deep enough for lounging and contemplation. Naked bodies lay in it inside it, merely caressing each other, mindlessly, tenderly, without an ounce of sin in its touch. Adding the cold air that is always contrasting the warm water of the tub, and fingertips wrinkle before anyone disturbs the serenity of the scene.

The patio has a privileged view of the city and its bright blue sky. Two black sofas with a concrete table in-between. Although the townhouse is in the middle of a concrete city , recently there has been plenty of greenery as lines of Star Jasmine, Oak Stars and Lavender decorate most of the patio.

In the master bedroom lies the two of them, coffee has been made by the man, because he is a light sleeper, and knows the woman adores to drink something right after getting out of bed. The sheets are warm, slightly humid with sweat, evidence of the previous night. And he can barely see her face in between her arms and hair, but he smiles as he leaves a kiss over her shoulder, and holds her tighter.

200th in Amsterdam street is finally being lived in.

Notes: This was based on this Ao3 request! I had so much fun. I’ll never get over my RR phase I fear. I haven’t been posting much because I took a gap year and I’m studying to get into my dream college and taking care of my grandad. Please take care everyone! Writing in here has become my safe place. Thank you for that.

- Sidey xxxo

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