openmisc | John/Roman

John/Roman

John’s apartment in LA is more than anything he ever had in Atlanta or New York. California is an entirely different beast, and while he had been there to visit several times, it’s a whole new world trying to live there and work. He has his money, he has his experience, but he has none of the reputation that comes with the Seed name. Thus, John Seed has flourished. The smooth talking lawyer with charisma for days is a force to be reckoned with. He takes cases as they come, talks people out of prison and takes their money just as easily. He’s able to pay the rent on his own place. He’s able to live.

He never forgot his time on the Barge, though. That, he knows, would be an insult to Iris and the work that she did. He doesn’t expect Roman to join him, though. So when he sees him on the street as he’s simply on his way back from work, he pauses.

Blinks.

Surely fucking not.

“Roman?” he ventures, sidling up closer to him on the crowded street.

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"I have an image to maintain," he reminds him, not moving away. In fact, he moves closer, watching the numbers on the elevator very carefully.

"I go to church on Sundays, but - no more cult shit."

And there's something comforting about being able to go to church and just - exist. Once upon a time, John Seed had a normal relationship with God and his own spirituality. That's something that the Barge had only started to heal, and he's trying to reconcile that now that he has his life back.

"Don't worry. I won't make you come."

So John's good. He's doing good. He's fully healed, sure, but there's something else that takes Roman a split second to put into perspective: he's growing. He's transforming, maybe, even if he's definitely the same batshit tattooed guy that broke Roman's nose on their first meeting. He's finally become himself.

Weird, how he doesn't feel jealous. Well--he does a little, but it's not full blown envy: it's something else, something Roman can't exactly touch on. He's not sure he knows how. He's not sure he knows what, just that his heart skips a beat at the way John holds normalcy with a soft reverence that Roman has never heard before. It's beautiful. John's beautiful. It's touching. He needs to ruin it before it becomes too sincere.

"Really? I was kind of hoping you were. I mean, that is mostly why I'm here."

This elevator ride is taking too long. Roman's seriously thinking of pressing the emergency stop button anyway. Fuck, he just might.

"Oh? And I thought you were here because you wanted me to tell you how pretty you look."

He likes this banter. He likes this friendship. He likes this.

The elevator dings before either one of them can make a bad choice and he steps out, instantly away from him but the air of wanting is left. He lingers too long when they pause and he walks too closely. No one else will notice a damn thing, but John feels it. He's aware of every movement Roman makes. He's aware that he can't touch him. Not even a glancing bit. Not until they reach his office.

He gets them through the front with a charming smile. "Friend of mine," he tells the receptionist as they breeze through, into the office with wide windows.

"I insisted on a corner office and a pretty assistant," he explains in a mutter.

Roman waggles his fingers at the receptionist, grin wide as he slips through just like that--he's precious cargo, he's a friend of John's--and seems to have the supernatural ability to keep pace with John and not fall out of step despite having no idea where they're going. Roman's always, always felt at home in office buildings as much as he complains about them being a cage. He's spent his entire life under halcyon lights and heavily air conditioned floors, and an office building is an office building is an office building.

Maybe this one's a little bit better than others, though. John's in it.

"She's cute," he observes. "She let her hair down from that bun when you demand a blowjob?"

The only thing that sucks is that John isn't touching him. But Roman isn't either, not really, because of that silent understanding they both seem to have, a mutual agreement. Neither of them want to fuck up what John has. Roman giggles.

"Hot."

John laughs as he rustles the blinds, closing them shut with a snap. Three different sets of blinds. Snap, snap, snap. Then he turns on his heel to Roman with a laugh, opening a cabinet to reveal a very expensive set of glasses and a bottle of bourbon. In fact, everything in the office is expensive. John might be redeemed, but he never lost his love of the finer things. Plush, upholstered chairs. Mahogany desk. And yes, a corner view.

"She doesn't," he scoffs. "She doesn't like to redo it. She'll touch up her makeup, at least. That lipstick isn't the sort that stays. I really should just get it for her myself."

He wants so desperately to take him, to push him up against the wall, to bite down into his shoulder and claim him.

He picks up a glass with delicate fingers, deliberately drawing out the moment.

John's made a name for himself, and that's something Roman feels a strange tickle of proudness about. The ol' bastard did it, got away from his family, from all that toxicity, and he's here with a swanky view ranking in the millions. Impressive. That desk looks like actual wood, even, not the cheap bullshit you get on amazon. Roman's not a woodworker by any means, but he knows subtle taste and quiet luxury like the best of them, his clothes being a prime example.

He makes a small noise in the affirmative as he sees the bourbon get placed into view, making grabby hands like a toddler, fully aware the blinds are closed so they can have their own privacy. It never really felt like they had full privacy on the barge. Probably because the barge was way too fucking crowded. Probably because Roman had been even more of a bundle of anxious nerves on the barge about this shit somehow than back home. Whatever. It's them.

Fuck the rest.

"You would know about makeup, you nancy," he teases, and his eyes are absolutely riveted on those alarmingly elegant hands, peppered with tattoos that Roman's envied. There's something about how strong the commit to ink John has that Roman admires. Even if it's because John's fucking batshit.

That's fine. Maybe Roman's batshit, too. His brows lift, and after a few paces to close the gap between them, Roman has no issues taking up John's space just to be as annoying as possible while he pours.

"You know the booze goes in the glass if we're going to drink it, right?" he whispers. Just a reminder. He moves a hand up to wrap around John's hand so they're both holding the glass. It's stupid, but it's a nice excuse to touch him.

"Like you actually have to pour it."

John doesn't move. His feet are frozen to the floor, his legs stiff. There's nothing but the feeling of Roman's hands on his. He keeps gloves on for court, every bit of ink covered for the sake of professionalism. Because of that, he's starved for any sort of touch, any kind of attachment.

But there's a deeper part of him that knows it's because it's Roman, that there's nothing more that he wants. He steps closer. "Then you pour it out, Trust Fund," he mutters, glancing down, eyes then flicking up to meet it. "Do a goddamn thing for yourself once in a while, hm?" He doesn't let go of the glass. Doesn't pull his fingers away from Roman's.

"Or you could kiss me and get it over with."

It's difficult for Roman to bite back a remark, but by God he does it. Mostly because John has stepped into his personal space and the room is practically crackling with electricity and actually? He deserves this.

The shorter man leans upwards, decides he's doing this because he wants to, not because John Seed told him to, and presses his lips greedily onto John's. The hand that was on the glass almost immediately drops as he grabs at that stupid expensive shirt and pulls him even closer as if it's some sort of way to say fuck you, Roman already moving hips as close to the other as possible. He doesn't care about anything but proximity, a sting of adrenaline rushing through him.

The glass clatters against the rug, but John's so far gone that he isn't thinking about it. He just returns that kiss, the beginning of the end for him. It's been so fucking long since he's kissed anyone; he plays and he toys and he teases, but he hasn't actually been with anyone else since the Barge. This will be his undoing.

One hand snakes around his waist, tugging him closer, demanding now. "How much did you get fucked while I was gone, hm?" he hisses softly, pulling away from the kiss just enough to grin down at him. "How much dick did you suck before you got to graduate?"

It's the words, it's the grin. Roman feels almost punch drunk from the one-two combination, that grip on his hip an old, familiar weight that's reminding him exactly how much he missed what's his.

And John is his, His with a capital H, and Roman breathes out and offers a sneer, looking right into John's eyes as his hands move from that shirt down to the other's belt, undoing it with complete precision like he'd been dreaming of the moment they parted ways.

"You wanna know if you match up, Jesus Freak?" He challenges. It's a button to push, one that's easy to do since they both know nothing compares. "Maybe you won't like the answer."

"I know I will love the answer. I just want to know how much to take out of your hide," he mutters, making no move to stop him from undoing the belt. Or anything, really. He's closed the blinds and the only things that can see him now are the birds, and they certainly aren't going to gossip.

He traps Roman's face in his hands, fingers pressing into his jaw. "You're such a fucking slut, Roman Roy. But I've missed your evening pictures." That time when Roman texted him directions, told him what to do, and John was spread out in his bed taking those orders so perfectly - fuck. He thinks about that far too often.

The force behind those fingers, however light the pressure is, sends a thrill to Roman's body as the smug smirk retreats into something else, flitting in between micro expressions as he eases the other's belt open with a satisfying, if subtle sound.

Fuck. He missed this.

"Norton helped me out at first. And Angelo." His hands are dipping down now that he has access, sliding fingers down to brush at John's cock through the fabric of his underwear, reveling in it.

"You'd hate Angelo," he murmurs, leaning into the other's hand on his face, looking directly at John with confidence he never seems to find with anyone else.

John lets him see how much that affects him, how much he's missed this. He closes his eyes a moment, but regains his composure, grinning as he keeps one hand on his jaw and the other around his waist. "Oh? What's his sin?" he mutters, that grin turning a touch warmer.

He rocks his hips forward, almost imperceptibly, encouraging him along.

"Did you let him fuck you?"

"No," Roman's temporarily distracted by that grin, that stupid mouth on John's stupid face. How good it looks like this, not on the barge but in a corner office with a view.

"I asked Norton and him to fuck and I watched," he explains. His voice is as casual as he can make it, which isn't very when his lips are half-parted and his voice is gravely with excitement, palming John's cock for a few brief squeezes before he finally dips his fingers behind the waistband.

"Angelo's sin? Envy. Slept with Neal, once. Astarion, sort of. Thought of you every time."

"I bet you looked good," he says, voice deep with want. He can't hide it now, his playfully feigned indifference crumbling with each movement of Roman's goddamn fingers.

"I haven't fucked anyone since I came back," he confesses, which is the easiest confession he's ever made.

"Hard to get in the mood when all I see is your fucking face."

Roman looks surprised at that, hand still cupping the other's cock, a brief moment of panic on his face despite their rather intimate stance together.

"No one?" John sounds smooth when he says it, confident. It's unexpected.

"I thought we had a like--you know, we could..."

His grip gets tighter, a warning to not stop his hand or move it away. "Don't worry. I wanted you to fuck other people. So you'd realize just how fucking good you have it."

And he grins a lecherous grin, dragging his face close to kiss him

God, that kiss tastes so fucking good. Roman leans up into it, tilting his face to further angle himself, the familiar pressure of John's hands on his jaw nothing but pleasurable. He's temporarily unable to speak, thoughts and words drowned out as he pulls apart just enough to nip at John's lower lip.

He's not going anywhere. His other hand pull sharply on those finely tailored pants, tugging them down for easier access to John.

"I thought of you every time," he admits it only because John did, too. "Thought of your legs wide open for me."

John leans back against his desk, his hand on the table to balance him out. "You and your fantasy of pushing me around. I should bend you over this desk." Not that he's exactly prepared for him here. It wasn't something he was anticipating so closely.

This will have to do.

He lets go of his jaw. There's always a part of him that longs to mark him in some way, even if it's just a bruise, and he's please to see little faint red marks. They'll fade, but he still feels a thrill in his chest.

Roman's back, John's back, and John's stupid fucking mouth saying those dumb as hell words are causing his heart to sing. Fuck. This is better than anything the barge gave him. This is John. John is his.

"Yeah, but you're not gonna," Roman challenges because it's fun, and he likes the look on the other's face, watching as he slips a hand down John's pants, fingers pushing past the underwear to cup at his cock.

"Not when you're not prepared." Roman moves his hand, smirking as he glides his thumb down the other's shaft, curling his hand to better stroke.

He has a really great retort planned, but that goes right out the window as Roman brushes his finger along sensitive skin.

"Fuck."

That's all he's got before he's kissing him again. He lets it happen, lets his brain short circuit for a moment before he pulls back with a sharp intake of breath.

"You're right. I'm not. So let me suck you off instead."

There's a pain that comes with stopping, and John is aching for it.

It would be difficult to hide Roman's delight even if he wanted to, but hearing John say 'fuck' like that is basically capitulation in Roman's book. He feels like they're on even ground now.

"Since you know where that yappy mouth goes," he agrees, and while it comes off as flippant he's giving the other one last grab of his cock before taking his hand away to undo his own belt and pants. He slides them down just enough to free his own erection, the cool air pleasant, already hard as he sits right on top of John's desk, smirking. He's just as needy and desperate as John, but this is a completely different level.

It's even more fun.

He picks up the glass of whisky, too, watching the other intently.

From the outside, it might seem like John holds all the power in their relationship, that he is constantly bossing Roman around, telling him what to do, taking control. But that's smoke and mirrors. John is ever eager to please, to shed off the man that makes a thousand decisions in an hour for everyone else. He wants to turn off the pressure behind his eyes.

He keeps his eyes on Roman's as he settles onto his knees, his trousers still open. He puts a hand on his desk and touches his tongue to his cock, just once, before he takes him deeply, eyes closing.

John might not have done this in a while, but it's like riding a bicycle. Some things are never forgotten.

There's a sight, John on his knees like he's praying, all supplicant and gorgeous and God, Roman's missed him so much. The other's eyes close as those lips wrap around his cock and Roman sighs happily.

The lawyer's mouth is wet and hot and Roman lifts his hips slightly towards him, hand moving down to run through John's hair, gripping it firmly to keep the other in place.

"There we go, good boy," he mumbles, and brings the glass up to take a drink with his other hand. If he's going to enjoy himself, he may as well do it fully.

Edited 2024-01-30 20:22 (UTC)

He worships Roman as dutifully as he does God, though with much more primal enjoyment to it. He raises his eyes to him, just in time to catch the delicately lifted glass, a picture that he's certain he will remember forever.

He slides his hand down the front of his own trousers, unable to stop himself from getting a little relief. Each movement sends a shockwave of pleasure shuddering through him, and he is desperate to relieve some of that.

As a treat, a small treat, he moans in the back of his throat, desperate to hear that approval in his voice again. He lives for it.

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