Archive of Our Own ^beta

The transition from the one who protects to the one who waits was a special kind of hell.

Mok sat on the velvet sofa, a sharp, solitary figure in the center of a room that felt too large to be a home. His eyes were fixed on the digital clock. 2:14 am. The house was silent, save for the hum of the central heating, but to Mok, that silence felt like a physical weight pressing against his eardrums. It was a sterile, suffocating quiet— the kind that allowed the mind to build its own monsters.

He hated it. He hated the soft, expensive silk robe that Rome had draped over his shoulders, its fabric feeling like a leaden shroud. He hated the way his hands felt empty, the skin itching for the familiar, cold weight of a Glock 22 or the textured grip of a tactical knife.

For fifteen years, he had been the shield. He was the one who walked first into the line of fire, his presence a wall of iron and intent. But tonight, for the first time, Rome had looked him in the eye and said no.

"You’re not a guard anymore, Mok. You’re my partner. And I’m not sending my heart into a warehouse full of desperate men."

Mok let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. The sound echoed softly, dying against the plush curtains.

“Partner,” he muttered, his fingers digging into the expensive velvet until his knuckles turned white.

It felt more like being a bird in a gilded cage. He mocked himself for the way his heart stuttered at every distant siren or the restless rustle of wind against the glass. He was a trained killer, a man who had survived a dozen wars, yet here he was, pacing a five-million-dollar living room like a worried housewife.

The mission was big, a final sweep of a dissident faction that refused to acknowledge the new Arseni peace. It was dirty, dangerous, and exactly the kind of work Mok was built for. But Rome had been adamant. He wanted Mok clean. He wanted Mok safe.

Rome didn't understand that for Mok, safety was a secondary concern. The real danger was the suffocating fear of a world where the sun didn't rise because Rome Arseni wasn't in it.

His mind spiraled, a tactical loop of failure playing behind his eyelids. A jammed gun. A hidden sniper. A betrayal from within. He felt useless, his muscles pulled tight like an overtuned piano wire, his adrenaline spiking with nowhere to go.

He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the dark driveway. He caught his own reflection in the glass— he looked softer than he had a month ago. The sharp, predatory edge of his jaw was still there, but he looked... cherished. 

It terrified him.

Love had given the world a way to hurt him that a bullet never could.

“Please,” he whispered, his forehead leaning against the cold, unforgiving glass. “Just come back.”

Just as the clock flicked toward 3:00 am, twin beams of light cut through the darkness of the front gate. The heavy iron bars slid open, and two black SUVs roared up the drive, tires spitting gravel like gunfire.

Mok didn't wait. He didn't care about looking composed or staying "safe" inside the fortress. He bolted for the front door, his breath catching in his throat as he fumbled with the locks, his heart hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against his ribs.

He tore the door open, and the cold night air hit his face like a slap. His eyes were wide, scanning the vehicles as they screeched to a halt. The engines remained idling, a low, ominous growl that filled the silence of the hills.

Then, the doors swung open.

Mok’s breath hitched. Three of Rome’s men stumbled out, and the sight was a nightmare rendered in blood and soot. They were covered in gore, their suits— once as sharp as Rome’s own, torn to ribbons. One was clutching a mangled arm, his face a mask of grey shock. As the back door of the lead SUV slid open, Mok saw the slumped, unmoving shapes of two guards. Men he’d trained with. Men who were now nothing more than dead weight on the floor of the vehicle.

The world tilted. The metallic, cloying scent of blood drifted toward him— familiar, yet tonight, it felt like a death sentence.

Lafu, one of the senior guards, limped toward him. His face was streaked with soot, his expression hollow. He stopped a few feet away, his head bowing low, his shoulders shaking with the weight of what he had to say.

“Mok...” Lafu rasped, his voice breaking. “I... I'm so sorry. The ambush... we didn't see it coming.”

Rome.

Mok felt the blood drain from his extremities. His knees went weak, a cold, paralyzing numbness spreading from his chest until his lungs felt like they had collapsed under the weight of the silence. Fifteen years of waiting, and only one month of finally belonging, and it was gone.

But then, a shadow moved inside the van.

A hand gripped the door frame— a hand wearing a beaded bracelet that Mok knew better than his own heartbeat.

Rome stepped out.

For a split second, Mok’s heart soared. Rome was standing. He was even wearing that same arrogant, beautiful smirk, a grin so wide and bright it looked entirely out of place in the middle of a massacre. He looked at Mok, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if they were meeting at a gala rather than a graveyard.

“Mok, baby!” Rome called out, his voice a bit airy, a bit strained, but unmistakably his. “I missed you.”

Mok took a step forward, a sob of relief beginning to fracture his chest, but it died the second Rome tried to walk. The confident, predator’s stride wavered. As Rome moved into the amber glow of the porch light, the curated image of the invincible Mafia shattered.

Rome’s crisp white shirt was no longer white. From the ribs down, the fabric was a heavy, wet crimson. He was clutching his left side, his fingers buried in the silk as if he could manually hold his life together, but the blood was already winning— soaking through his expensive trousers and hitting the pristine gravel in thick, rhythmic drips.

“Rome!” Mok’s voice was raw, a sound stripped of all its usual professional polish.

He moved with a lethal, desperate speed that no "partner" should possess, catching Rome just as his knees buckled. Rome’s weight crashed into him, hot, heavy, and smelling of iron.

“I’m fine... I’m fine,” Rome wheezed. His head fell onto Mok’s shoulder, his skin the color of cold ash. He was still trying to force that arrogant smirk, the one that usually suggested he owned the world. “Just a scratch... don’t be mad...”

“Shut up! Just shut the hell up!” Mok barked. The old guard instincts surged back, cold and sharp, even as his hands betrayed him with a violent tremor. He looped Rome’s arm over his shoulder, his own silk robe instantly ruined, stained by the spreading warmth of Rome’s blood.

He ignored the guards. He ignored the hollow-eyed men and the bodies in the van. His entire universe had narrowed down to the pulse thudding erratically against his neck. He dragged Rome toward the house, his mind a tactical map of every medical kit hidden within the mansion.

“Get inside!” Mok yelled over his shoulder, the command cutting through the chaos like a gunshot. “Secure the perimeter! If anyone followed that car, kill them!”

He hauled Rome across the threshold, the contrast of the dark blood against the white marble foyer looking like a visceral piece of modern art. He kicked the door shut, locking the world and its violence outside.

“Mok, baby,” Rome wheezed, his head lolling. A drop of sweat tracked through the soot on his forehead. “You’re being so... aggressive. I think I like it when you’re the one in charge of my body.”

“I said shut up, Rome!” Mok’s voice cracked. He kicked their bedroom door open so hard the stopper screamed against the wall. He steered Rome toward the oversized armchair— the one Rome had bought for the sole purpose of "watching Mok sleep."

Rome groaned as he sank into the leather, his hand finally slipping away to reveal the truth: a jagged, deep gash that was seeping far too fast.

Mok was a whirlwind of panicked efficiency. He tore through the vanity drawers until he found the trauma kit, his breathing coming in jagged, shallow hitches. He returned to Rome’s side, his fingers slick as he ripped open a pack of sterile gauze.

“I told you,” Mok hissed. The tears he refused to shed turned his eyes into burning glass. He used the shears to cut through the ruined remains of Rome’s shirt. “I told you I should have been there. I would have seen the flank. You’re a damn idiot, Rome Arseni!”

“But you look so... so hot when you’re angry,” Rome managed a chuckle, though it turned into a pained hiss as Mok pressed the gauze into the wound with punishing force. “Ow! Easy, babe. Is this how you treat a hero?”

“A hero?” Mok’s face was inches from Rome’s. He was covered in his partner's blood, his hair a chaotic mess, looking like a man possessed by a beautiful, terrifying rage. “You almost died! I sat here for hours deciding which suit I’d have to bury you in! You don’t get to be a hero— you get to be a corpse if you do this again!”

“You’d pick the red one, right?” Rome’s teeth were stained pink, but his eyes were bright with a dizzying, delirious affection. “You love me in red.”

“I will kill you myself!” Mok yelled, slamming a roll of bandages onto the side table. “I am the best guard this family ever had, and you left me here to rot in silk while you got gutted! Do you have any idea—”

Mok’s voice finally broke. The anger, the shouting was all just a thin, transparent veil over the absolute terror that had been eating him alive. He bowed his head, his hands moving with frantic, tight precision as he started to wrap the bandage around Rome’s waist.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered to the blood-stained gauze. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Don’t leave me behind.”

The playful smirk finally died. Rome looked at him and saw the raw, jagged hole his absence had left. He reached out with a bloodied hand, his fingers staining Mok’s jaw as he forced him to look up.

“Mok—”

“No! Don’t ‘Mok’ me! You’re reckless and arrogant and—”

Rome didn't let him finish. He surged forward, ignoring the white-hot flare of agony in his side, and captured Mok’s mouth in a hard, silencing kiss.

It wasn't a worshipful thing. It was a "shut up and listen" kiss, tasting of copper, salt, and adrenaline. Rome’s hand was firm on the back of Mok’s neck, pulling him in until their foreheads crashed together. Mok made a muffled sound of protest, but his hands— still clutching the bandages— latched onto Rome’s shoulders, his body finally sagging as the weight of the night finally, mercifully, broke.

Rome pulled back just a fraction, his thumb tracing the curve of Mok’s cheek. He smeared a faint trail of blood across the pale skin like war paint, a visceral mark of ownership and survival.

"Calm down," Rome whispered. His eyes, usually bright with predatory mischief, were dark and intensely focused now. "I'm home. I'm alive. I’m here."

Mok didn’t snap back. The defensive, sharp-tongued protector had vanished, leaving behind something dangerously raw. He didn't even look at the bandages he was still clutching. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to collapse into himself. The silence in the room stretched, heavy and suffocating, until a single, hot tear trailed down Mok's face, carving a path through the red stain on his cheek.

"Mok?" Rome’s voice lost its playful edge. He reached out, tilting Mok’s chin up with a gentleness that felt foreign to his large, calloused hands. "Hey. Look at me. I’m okay. It only looks worse than it is, I promise."

Mok finally met his gaze, but his eyes weren't full of the relief Rome expected. They were full of a deep, aching hurt fracture in his soul that made Rome’s heart twist harder than the jagged hole in his side.

“Hey… Mok—“

"Is it because I’m not enough?" Mok’s voice was barely a whisper, cracked and stripped of its iron.

Rome blinked, the air in his lungs stalling. "What? Baby, what are you talking about?"

"The mission. Leaving me here," Mok said, the words beginning to spill out in a desperate, jagged rush. "I sat here for hours thinking... maybe you don't trust me anymore. Maybe now that I’m not 'the guard,' you think I’ve gone soft. That I’m just something fragile you have to hide away."

"Mok, no—"

"I was trained for this, Rome." Mok’s voice rose, a volatile mix of pride and agony. "I spent my whole life being the best because I wanted to be the one who could stand beside you. I don't want to be the one waiting in a silk robe while you’re out there bleeding out! I’m not just a trophy. I’m your partner. If you’re in the fire, I want to be in the fire with you."

Rome stared at him, the realization hitting like a physical blow to the solar plexus. He had thought he was being romantic. He had envisioned himself as the benevolent king providing a "peace" Mok had earned through a lifetime of violence. He hadn't realized that by "protecting" Mok, he was actually stripping away the very foundation of the man's identity— the worthiness of standing by his side.

"I didn't think you'd want to go back to that," Rome said softly. His hand slid to the nape of Mok's neck, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling in the space between them. "I wanted to give you a life where you didn't have to look over your shoulder. I thought... I thought I was protecting you."

"I don't need a protector, Rome," Mok breathed, his eyes searching Rome’s for a truth he could hold onto. "I need you to see me. I want to fight side by side with you. Not behind you. Not at home waiting for a phone call that might never come. If we're together, we're together in everything. Even the blood."

Rome let out a long, shaky breath, the weight of his own arrogance finally settling on his shoulders. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Mok’s forehead, sealing the wound of the ego.

"You're right," Rome murmured against his skin. "I was an idiot. I was trying to keep you clean, but you're already part of this world. You're the best part of it."

He pulled back just enough to look Mok in the eye, his expression solemn, the playfulness replaced by a vow.

"No more missions alone. No more hiding you away. If I’m going into the lion’s den, you’re the only one I want at my back. We do this together. Side by side. Deal?"

Mok’s chest expanded with a breath that finally felt full, the knot of insecurity in his gut finally unraveling. He nodded, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Deal."

Rome didn't wait. He pulled Mok in for another kiss, this one deep and certain. It wasn't fueled by the frantic panic of a few minutes ago— it was a seal on a promise. It tasted of salt, blood, and a future where they finally faced the world as equals.

The shift was instant. The promise darkened into a demanding, visceral hunger. Mok’s hands, still stained with the copper-scent of Rome’s blood, tangled deeply in Rome’s hair, pulling him closer as if trying to merge their very heartbeats.

Rome groaned into Mok’s mouth, a low vibration that thrummed in his chest. His hands didn't stay still, the medical supplies were forgotten, clattering to the floor as his palms slid up Mok’s thighs, his touch searing even through the silk. With a sudden, forceful tug, Rome guided Mok to straddle him, pulling him up until Mok was settled firmly on his lap.

Mok let out a sharp, hitching breath at the solid heat of the man beneath him. He adjusted his weight, his knees bracketing Rome’s hips, and leaned down to reclaim Rome’s lips. The balance had finally shifted. Rome’s large hands locked onto Mok’s waist, his fingers digging into the soft skin just above the waistband of his pants, pulling him flush against his chest.

"You're mine," Rome muttered against Mok’s skin, trailing his lips down Mok’s jaw to the sensitive cord of his neck. He inhaled the scent of him— soap, sweat, and that underlying hint of iron. He began to bite and suck with a feverish intensity, marking him. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," Mok gasped, his head falling back. "Always yours."

The friction became a punishing, beautiful rhythm. The adrenaline from the night had curdled into a raw, sexual heat that demanded an outlet. Rome’s grip on Mok’s waist tightened, his knuckles turning white as he tilted his hips up to grind against Mok.

Mok let out a strangled moan, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed back, his hands roaming frantically over Rome’s broad back. He wanted the clothes gone. He wanted to feel every inch of the man who had almost been taken from him.

Rome let out a guttural sound, his movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. He gave one sharp, forceful upward thrust of his hips, trying to close the final gap—

"Fuck!"

The sound wasn't a moan. It was a sharp, hissed intake of breath that ended in a choked cry.

Rome’s entire body went rigid. His head snapped back against the chair, his face instantly draining of color. The sudden, violent movement had sent a white-hot spike of agony through his side, the fresh wound screaming under the pressure.

Mok snapped out of the haze instantly. He scrambled to his knees on the chair, his hands hovering over Rome’s shoulders, eyes wide with a renewed, frantic panic.

"Rome! Rome, I’m sorry— shit, I forgot!" Mok’s voice was frantic as he looked down. The clean white bandage was already blooming with a fresh, bright red star where the wound had been cruelly reopened.

Rome was panting, his eyes squeezed shut, his fingers digging into the leather armrests so hard the material creaked in protest. He let out a shaky, pained laugh that was more of a wheeze than a triumph.

"Don't... don't stop," Rome gasped, even as his body trembled with the cooling shock of the pain. He forced one eye open, looking down at Mok with a gaze of pure, frustrated longing. "I can... I can handle it."

"Are you an idiot?" Mok breathed. His heart was still racing, but the adrenaline of the fight had been eclipsed by a sharp, clinical concern. He gently eased himself off Rome’s lap, ignoring the weak, fumbling protest of Rome’s hands trying to tether him back.

"No, come back," Rome pleaded, his voice a strained rasp. His fingers hooked into the silk of Mok’s robe, a desperate attempt to mask the agony etched into the sharp lines of his face. He looked utterly wrecked— pale, slick with sweat, and bleeding but his eyes were still burning with that stubborn, relentless hunger.

"No. You’re bleeding again," Mok said, his voice reclaiming its iron. He swiped Rome’s hands away with the practiced ease of a man who had spent a decade disarming opponents for a living.

"Mok, please... it’s just a sting. Don’t stop now," Rome groaned, his head thudding back against the chair. "I don’t care if I bleed out as long as I’m touching you."

Mok paused. He looked at the fresh bloom of red spreading through the bandage, then up at Rome’s desperate, beautiful face. A new kind of resolve settled in his chest. Rome wanted him? Even through the blood and the haze of pain? Fine.

"Just stay still," Mok commanded. His voice dropped into a low, steady register tone of a man who expected absolute, unquestioning obedience. It made Rome’s breath hitch. "Don't move a single muscle, Rome. That's an order."

Rome blinked, his hands falling limp against the armrests, his eyes wide. "Mok?"

Mok didn't answer. Instead, he slowly sank to his knees between Rome’s spread legs. He moved with a deliberate, feline grace, his eyes never breaking contact. As he settled onto the floor, his face was level with the heavy, pulsing evidence of exactly how much Rome wanted him.

The shock hit Rome like a physical blow. His pupils dilated until the dark nearly swallowed the iris. "Holy shit... Mok, what are you doing?"

"I'm being your lover," Mok whispered, his gaze dropping to the heavy silver buckle of Rome’s belt.

Mok’s hands, usually so utilitarian and swift, were suddenly devastatingly slow. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cool metal. He heard Rome’s heart skip fast, an uneven thud in the quiet room. With a sharp click that sounded like a gunshot in the silence, Mok undid the buckle.

Rome let out a strangled, half-smothered sound, his head falling back. "Mok... you don't have to..."

"I want to," Mok interrupted, his voice thick with fifteen years of repressed starvation.

He slid the leather through the loops, the sound of it whispering against the fabric making Rome’s knuckles turn white against the chair. Mok moved to the button of the trousers, his knuckles grazing the radiant heat of Rome's skin. He felt the tremor running through Rome’s thighs— the powerful, deadly head of the Arseni family was shaking under a guard's touch.

Good.

Mok lowered the zipper slowly, the rasp of the metal the only sound over their synchronized, heavy breathing. He peeled the fabric back, his hands steady even as his own blood felt like it was reaching its boiling point. He was taking the initiative for the first time in his life, and the power of it— the way he could make the great Rome Arseni gasp and tremble just by existing, was intoxicating.

He looked up at Rome, a small, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "You wanted me, right?"

Rome could only nod, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on Mok with a look of pure, unadulterated worship. "God, Mok... yes."

Mok didn't look away. He leaned in closer, his breath hot and damp through the thin, expensive cotton of Rome’s boxers. Rome’s length was right there, tenting the fabric, straining against the confines. It was heavy and pulsing, a physical manifestation of a decade spent in the shadows.

Rome hitched his breath, his hips jerking involuntarily as Mok’s face hovered just inches away. "Mok... please..."

Ignoring the plea, Mok tilted his head. He watched the way the fabric darkened at the tip, a small patch of dampness spreading as Rome’s body betrayed him. Slowly, with a deliberate, agonizing lack of haste, Mok pressed a lingering kiss right to the head— still covered, still muffled by the cotton.

Rome let out a sharp, fractured curse, his back arching off the leather. "Fuck, Mok... look at me, don't..."

But Mok was already looking. He kept his eyes locked on Rome’s, his gaze dark and heavy with a newfound power. He swiped his tongue over the darkened silk, tasting the salt and the heat through the barrier. The contrast of the cool room and the burning heat of Rome’s body made Mok’s own head spin, but he didn't stop. He took the length into his mouth as much as the fabric would allow, swirling his tongue around the head while maintaining that suffocating eye contact.

Rome was a mess. His hands were tangled in the leather of the armchair, his knuckles white, his breath coming in jagged, pathetic little whines. "Mok... you're killing me... just... please..."

Mok pulled back, a thin string of saliva connecting his lips to the damp cotton. He saw the way Rome’s chest was heaving, the way his eyes were hazy and unfocused, completely at Mok’s mercy.

"I told you to stay still," Mok whispered, a low, vibrating command.

He reached for the waistband. With one smooth, decisive motion, he hooked his thumbs into the elastic and dragged it down Rome’s muscular thighs.

Rome’s cock sprang free, thick and angry-red, pulsing with a life of its own in the dim light of the bedroom. A single bead of moisture glistened at the tip, catching the light like a stray diamond. Rome let out a long, shuddering groan, his head falling back as the cool air hit his skin. He looked utterly undone— vulnerable, wounded, and completely laid bare before the man who used to stand three steps behind him.

Mok reached out, his thumb catching that stray bead and smearing it over the head with a slow, circular motion. He watched the way Rome’s stomach muscles rippled in a sharp, involuntary contraction.

"Now," Mok murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, seductive purr. "Let’s see how long you can stay still for me."

Mok didn't rush. He wanted to savor this… the taste of a man he’d spent half his life thinking was untouchable. He leaned in, the tip of his tongue tracing the very base of the length, swirling around the heavy weight before dragging it slowly, agonizingly, all the way to the tip. He licked the bead of moisture there, his eyes flicking up to catch the way Rome’s jaw was clamped shut, his teeth grinding.

Then, Mok opened his mouth.

He took just the head in, swirling his tongue around the sensitive ridge. The heat was overwhelming. Rome’s hips buckled, a guttural, choked sound tearing from his throat as the world outside the room finally ceased to exist.

Reflexively, Rome’s hand shot out, his fingers tangling in Mok’s dark hair to guide him deeper, to pull him in with the frantic desperation of a drowning man.

But—

Slap.

Mok didn't even break the seal of his mouth. He reached up and sharply struck Rome’s hand away from his head. He looked up, his glasses slightly crooked, his eyes flashing with a sudden, predatory fire— a silent, stinging reminder of his earlier command. Stay still.

Rome froze. His hand hovered in mid-air, a useless limb, his face a mask of shock and total submission. He swallowed hard, his chest heaving as he was forced to simply watch, a captive to the man kneeling between his knees.

Mok began to move. He was slow at first, his eyes never wavering from Rome’s. He took more of him, the friction of his tongue and the rhythmic suction of his throat creating a sensory overload that was too much for a man who had survived a massacre only to be dismantled by a gaze.

And then—

“Rome— Fuck—”

Rome didn't even have time to offer a warning. His entire body spasmed, his back arching so violently off the leather it looked painful. It was over in seconds. Rome Arseni broke. A choked, high-pitched sound escaped him as he came, the force of his release hitting the back of Mok’s throat with a weight that made the other man’s eyes widen.

They both froze. The only sound in the room was the ragged, desperate panting of a man who had been completely undone. Rome’s face burned a deep crimson, his ears glowing, his eyes wide with a mix of raw embarrassment and pure, unadulterated shock.

Mok slowly pulled back, his lips slick and glistening. His mouth was literally full of the life Rome had just surrendered. As he swallowed, a thick, white trail leaked from the corner of his mouth, dripping down the curve of his chin and onto his neck.

Mok didn't look disgusted. Instead, he let out a small, triumphant hum, a dark, lustful smile spreading across his face as he wiped his chin with his thumb and licked it clean.

The sight was the final nail in the coffin of Rome's composure. He stared at him, the way Mok looked so satisfied, so hungry, with the evidence of Rome’s loss of control smeared across his skin. The sheer, raw carnality of the image sent a second, unexpected jolt through Rome’s cooling nerves.

"Mok— wait—" Rome gasped, but the body was faster than the word.

Before Rome could even process the first wave, he came again. It was a messy, desperate splutter that landed across Mok’s cheek and the bridge of his nose.

Rome’s face went even redder, if that were possible. He slumped back into the chair, his hands flying to his face to cover his eyes. "God... Mok, I’m sorry. I didn't— I haven't—"

Mok just laughed, a soft, genuine sound as he reached up to touch the heat on his face. He looked at Rome, his eyes softening into something infinitely tender.

"It’s because you looked like that," Rome groaned from behind his palms, his voice muffled and thick with humiliation. "The way you looked at me... the way you swallowed... I'm pathetic."

Mok leaned forward, pressing a messy, salt-tasting kiss to Rome's knee. "Hm? Didn’t expect you to be this cute."

Rome trembled, like, actually trembled. For the first time in his life, his body was vibrating apart. It hadn't happened during the ambushes, or the abductions, or when he’d stared down the barrel of a rival’s gun. But now, under the steady, focused gaze of his partner, he was coming undone.

"Mok—" The mafia heir let out a small whimper as Mok took him back into his mouth.

Again, Mok didn’t let his eyes wander. They stayed locked on Rome’s dilated pupils, steady and unblinking. He made sure to take him fully, the heat of his throat enveloping a man who was now so sensitive that the mere glide of a tongue felt like a live wire. Rome’s knuckles were white as he forced his arms to stay pinned to the rests, honoring the silent law Mok had laid down.

After a few more deep, rhythmic pulls that had Rome’s head lolling back in ecstasy, Mok finally pulled away. He stood up slowly, the movement fluid and deliberate, staring down at the dazed man in the chair.

Mok reached for the tie of his silk robe. He untied it with a slow, heavy tug, letting the dark fabric slide off his shoulders and pool onto the floor. Then, the pajama pants. He stepped out of them one leg at a time, leaving him completely bare in the dim, golden light.

Rome was speechless. He’d seen Mok before, but never with this much intent— never this much raw, unfiltered power.

Mok moved toward the chair, his eyes dark. He carefully stepped over Rome’s legs, mindful of the jagged wound, and settled onto Rome’s lap. He straddled him slowly, the friction of their skin sending a jolt of pure fire through the room. He leaned in, his chest pressing against Rome’s, his breath hot against Rome’s ear. He didn't say anything about the fifteen years they’d lost, the way he sank onto Rome, fitting their bodies together perfectly, said everything.

"Rome," Mok whispered, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Rome’s neck, pulling him into a deep, possessive kiss.

The kiss was heavy, tasting of the lingering heat of Rome’s own release, but Rome didn’t flinch. He was too busy drowning. His arms stayed pinned to the armrests, his biceps bulging with the Herculean effort of not grabbing Mok and bruising him.

Mok pulled back, his lips swollen. He heard Rome let out a small, desperate whine— a sound of pure deprivation.

Without a word, Mok lifted his right hand. He didn't look away as he slid two of his fingers into his own mouth. Rome watched, transfixed, as Mok sucked on them slowly, his tongue swirling around the digits until they were slick and gleaming. It was a silent, ritualistic preparation.

Rome’s Adam’s apple bobbed sharply. "Mok... you're..."

"Hush," Mok breathed.

The air felt thick, almost sacred. Mok was the only deity Rome recognized now… a pale, scarred angel sitting on his lap, preparing to bridge the final gap. Slowly, Mok lowered those two wet fingers. He reached beneath himself, his eyes never breaking contact.

Rome watched him, his mind screaming that this was too much for a mortal man to endure. Mok was opening himself. On top of him.

“Shit, Mok…”

It was a holy sort of torture. Mok’s expression shifted, a small gasp escaping him as he began to prep. Rome’s face flushed a deeper crimson as he watched the concentration on Mok’s face. Then, the hand withdrew. Mok shifted his weight, his knees bracketing Rome’s hips, positioning himself over the hard, pulsing length that was still weeping for him.

Mok took a deep, shaky breath, his fingers digging into Rome's shoulders for balance. He began to lower himself, scissoring himself open slowly, agonizingly, to take Rome in.

Rome’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "God... Mok... Mok..."

Mok didn't stop. He let out a strangled, broken sound as he finally took him in completely. He was a feverish red from his chest to his hairline, his breath coming in jagged pants. For a moment, he just sat there, frozen, his body trembling with the sheer, overwhelming weight of the union.

He tried to raise himself up, his muscles screaming, but the friction was so intense he could only go a few inches before he collapsed back down. His vision swam with white spots. He gripped Rome’s shoulders so hard his short nails dug into the skin.

"Slow," Rome rasped, his voice a low, vibrating growl of encouragement. He still hadn't moved his arms, but his eyes were devouring the sight of Mok’s struggle. "Just breathe, Mok. You’re doing so good."

Mok gritted his teeth and tried again. This time he found the strength to push up and sink back down in one fluid, agonizingly slow motion.

“Ahh— too deep.” The sensation was so sharp he lost his footing, leaning forward fully. He buried his face in the crook of Rome’s neck, his arms wrapping around the mafia heir’s shoulders as he let out a long, shaky moan.

Rome didn't break his promise to stay still, but he couldn't help the way he tilted his head, pressing his lips to Mok’s sweat-slicked shoulder, leaving a trail of hot, desperate kisses.

"That's it," Rome whispered against his skin. "Just like that. You've got me. You have all of me."

Mok found a rhythm, though it was far from the orderly precision he usually moved with. It was messy, it was desperate, and it was perfect.

It was sloppy. It was a messy, wet, and uncoordinated dance of two souls who had spent a decade wanting and not a single hour having. Every time Mok sank down, a needy, jagged moan escaped him, his hips stuttering as he fought for the angle that would make the world disappear.

“Rome— Mhm,” Mok was a moaning wreck, his sweat dripping onto Rome’s chest, his control evaporating into a frantic, chaotic heat. He was trying so hard to remain the one in charge— the  one providing the pleasure, but the sensation of Rome filling him was making his brain short-circuit.

"Am I... is it..." Mok tried to ask, his voice fracturing as he hit a particularly sensitive nerve.

"It's perfect," Rome assured him, his voice thick with a cocktail of agony from his side and pure, unadulterated bliss. "You're doing so well, baby. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

Mok let out a sob of relief, his pace turning desperate. The wet, rhythmic slap of their skin echoed through the quiet of the fortress. The measured precision he usually carried was gone, dissolved into a primitive urgency. Each time he slammed down, a broken, high-pitched sound tore from his throat, his fingers clutching Rome’s shoulders as if anchoring himself in a gale.

"Rome... Rome!" Mok cried out, his back arching, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief.

The climax hit him like a physical blow. He shattered, a long, vibrating moan filling the room as he came, the heat of it staining the space between their chests. He collapsed forward, his forehead thumping against Rome’s shoulder, his entire body twitching in the heavy, hypersensitive afterglow.

The silence that followed was thick with the scent of sex, salt, and the iron of Rome's blood, broken only by Mok’s shallow, ragged wheezing.

Then, the chair creaked.

For the first time all night, Rome moved. He broke his vow of stillness. His large, heavy hands finally left the armrests to lock firmly around Mok’s waist.

"Ah! Nghh," Mok let out a sharp, sensitive yelp, his body jolting. Even the light pressure of Rome’s palms felt like fire against his overstimulated skin. "Wait... Rome, stop... I just..."

"I know," Rome whispered, his voice a dark, predatory rumble that vibrated through Mok’s very ribs. He pulled Mok closer, his thumbs digging into the dips of his hips. "But I’m not done with you yet."

Mok’s eyes were hazy, his head spinning. He tried to obey, tried to lift his hips to restart the rhythm for Rome’s sake, but his legs were lead. He managed one weak, shaky bounce before his muscles gave out, and he slumped against Rome with a frustrated whimper.

"I can't... I’m sorry... my legs..." Mok panted, hiding his face in the crook of Rome's neck, sounding completely spent.

Rome’s grip tightened, his hands sliding from Mok’s waist to his thighs, hoisting him slightly. The change in Rome's energy was instantaneous— the patient, worshipping martyr was gone, replaced by the man who ran an empire with an iron fist.

"You did so well, Mok. You took such good care of me," Rome murmured, his lips brushing against Mok’s burning ear. He shifted, ignoring the dull, rhythmic throb in his side, his eyes darkening as he looked at the vulnerable, panting man in his lap. "But it's my turn now. Can I take charge, baby? Will you let me take it from here?"

Mok looked up, a dazed mix of submission and absolute trust. The dominance he’d wielded only moments ago had melted away, leaving him wide open and shivering. He couldn't find his voice; he simply nodded, his fingers tangling weakly in Rome's shirt as he surrendered the lead.

Rome’s gaze turned feral.

He didn’t waste another second. He stood up from the chair with a guttural grunt, his core muscles screaming as he lifted Mok with him. He didn’t pull out but he kept Mok pinned to his torso, their bodies fused together as he carried him the short distance to the bed.

"Rome... your side... the stitches..." Mok mumbled into his chest, his voice slurred. He was worried, but his body was betraying him, his legs hooked tightly around Rome’s waist to maintain the depth.

"Forget the stitches," Rome rasped, his eyes fixed on the bed. "I’d rip every one of them out for this."

He lowered Mok onto the silk sheets with a surprising, haunting gentleness, hovering over him like a dark cloud. Mok looked utterly ruined— his skin flushed, his chest heaving, his eyes searching behind lopsided glasses. Rome reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he slid the glasses off Mok’s face and set them aside.

He brushed Mok’s damp hair back, exposing the raw vulnerability of his features. Rome leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Mok’s temple, then to his tear-streaked eyes. Finally, he gave a tiny, teasing peck to Mok's heart-shaped mouth, which was hanging open in a silent plea for air.

"My beautiful, brave beloved," Rome whispered, his voice dripping with a mix of devotion and lethal intent.

The tenderness evaporated in an instant. Rome grabbed Mok’s ankles, hoisting his legs high until they were draped over his broad shoulders. The position opened Mok up completely, leaving him exposed and helpless under the weight of Rome’s gaze.

"Rome, wait—" Mok started, but the word was severed by a sharp, strangled cry.

Rome didn't go slow. He drove back inside with a singular, violent thrust that bottomed out, hitting Mok’s center with a force that made the headboard crack against the wall. It was nasty, raw, and completely devoid of the gentlemanly restraint Rome had tried to maintain.

"Ah, nghh— God! Rome!" Mok’s back arched off the bed, his toes curling against Rome’s bare back.

Rome began to ram into him with a relentless, punishing pace. He wasn't just making love, instead, he was marking every inch of territory. The sound of their bodies meeting was loud and wet, a carnal rhythm that drowned out Mok’s sobbing moans. Rome’s hands moved to Mok’s throat, not to squeeze, but to hold him steady as he delivered thrust after thrust, each one deeper and more demanding than the last.

Mok was a wreck beneath him. His head thrashed on the pillow, his hands fumbling for purchase on the sheets as Rome’s dominance completely overwhelmed him. He could only sob Rome’s name, his body shaking with every heavy blow.

“Rome, Rome, Rome… Rome— Ah!”

Rome’s eyes flared, the sound of his name being cried out like a prayer driving him over the edge. He reached down, his large hands locking firmly around Mok’s ankles. With a grunt of effort that strained the muscles of his back and ignored the stinging protest of his wound, Rome lifted Mok’s lower body, folding him back until his ankles were almost touching the headboard.

It was an extreme, punishing angle. Mok’s breath left him in a sharp, wheezing gasp as he was forced open even wider, his body a trembling curve of surrender. Every thrust from Rome hit deeper than before, bottoming out against Mok’s core with a devastating precision that made Mok’s vision go white.

"Rome! Don't— please! Too deep—" Mok sobbed, his voice breaking. His fingers clawed at the air, eventually finding Rome’s forearms and clinging to them as if they were his only lifeline in a storm.

"Look at me, Mok," Rome commanded, his voice a low rumble that cut through the panic. He leaned over him, his chest pressing against Mok’s folded knees. "Look at how much of me you’re taking. You’re so tight, so perfect. Don't fight it."

Mok’s eyes snapped open, blurry and wet. He watched Rome’s face— dark, focused, and utterly obsessed. Every time Rome rammed forward, Mok’s frame jolted, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream.

"That's it, baby," Rome encouraged, his voice softening into something dangerously endearing as he watched Mok’s body begin to spark with a second, premature climax. "You can do it again. Give it to me. Come for me again, Mok. Just let go."

"I... I can't... it's too much!" Mok cried out, the words fracturing against the headboard. But his body had already defected. The friction at that deep, punishing angle was hitting a spot that made his nerves feel as though they were being ignited.

"You can," Rome whispered, his lips grazing the shell of Mok’s ear as he quickened the tempo, his thrusts becoming shorter, more relentless, more possessive. "I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go anywhere. Just come for me, baby. Show me how much you love this."

The encouragement was the final, devastating push. Mok’s head snapped back into the pillow, a high, thin wail escaping him as he shattered for the second time. His internal muscles clamped down hard. It was a series of frantic, rhythmic pulses that sent Rome’s own control spiraling into the abyss.

Rome let out a guttural, animalistic roar, his grip on Mok’s ankles tightening until the skin paled beneath his fingers. He delivered three more deep, heavy lunges before finally burying himself as deep as possible. His own release hit with a force that left them both gasping for air in the wreckage of the silk sheets.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sounds of their ragged, overlapping breaths. Rome’s grip on Mok’s ankles finally slackened, letting Mok’s legs drop heavily onto the mattress. With a low, exhausted groan, Rome collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of Mok's neck and letting his full weight settle over the smaller man like a fallen titan.

Mok let out a soft, breathless oof but immediately wrapped his arms around Rome’s broad shoulders, pulling him close. He was still vibrating from the intensity, his skin slick and hypersensitive, but the only thing that mattered was the solid, heavy heat of the man who had finally made him feel whole.

As they lay there, the adrenaline began to ebb, replaced by a thick, honeyed exhaustion. Mok’s fingers trailed down Rome’s spine in a slow, wandering caress, but then— he paused.

He felt the steady, spreading warmth pooling between their stomachs. At first, he closed his eyes and smiled, thinking it was merely the messy, liquid aftermath of their shared release.

But then, he reached up to caress Rome’s face. His hands were still shaking violently, his fine motor skills shot. As his fingers brushed against Rome’s jaw, he felt a wetness that didn't feel like sweat. 

It felt heavier. Slicker.

He pulled his hand back into the dim, golden light. His fingers were coated in a dark, visceral red.

"Rome?" Mok’s voice was suddenly sharp, the hazy pleasure evaporating into a pure, cold panic. "Rome, look at me!"

He pushed Rome gently but firmly onto his side, the movement drawing a pained, liquid hiss from the mafia heir. Mok sat up, his heart doing a frantic double-time as he looked down at Rome's torso.

The white sheets were a massacre. The bandage he had so carefully applied earlier was gone— completely shredded and soaked through. The jagged gash in Rome's side had reopened, and with every heavy, satisfied heartbeat, fresh blood was weeping onto the silk.

"You idiot! You absolute, reckless, arrogant idiot!" Mok’s "guard" voice was back, loud and frantic. He scrambled off the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor as he searched for the trauma kit he’d discarded in the heat of the moment. "I told you! I told you to stay still! You moved! You carried me! You... you folded me like that! Do you have any idea how much pressure you put on your internal stitches?"

Mok was a whirlwind of angry, terrified energy, hovering over the wound with fresh gauze, his face a mask of clinical fury and raw concern. "If you die because you wanted to be 'dominant,' I am going to kill you again, Rome Arseni! Do you hear me? You’re bleeding like a stuck pig!"

Rome, despite the ghostly pallor of his skin and the genuine, stinging bite of the wound, let out a weak, bubbling laugh. He reached out with a trembling hand, trying to catch Mok’s wrist.

"Mok... honey... breathe," Rome wheezed, a cheeky, lopsided smirk playing on his lips. "It’s just a little... decorative leaking."

"Decorative leaking?! Rome, I can see the muscle!"

"Worth it," Rome murmured, his eyes hooded and full of a dark, satisfied glow as he watched Mok work. "I’d lose every drop of blood in my body if it meant hearing you scream my name like that again. Best mission... I've ever been on."

Mok stopped, a fresh bandage clutched in his hand, and stared at him. He wanted to be furious— he wanted to scream until his lungs gave out, but the sheer, idiotic devotion in Rome’s eyes made his chest ache with a weight heavier than the silence. He let out a long, shaky sigh and leaned down, pressing his forehead against Rome's.

"You're going to be the death of me," Mok whispered against his skin.

"No," Rome replied, his voice soft and certain, even as his pulse slowed into a peaceful rhythm. "I'm the one who's going to live for you. Now... kiss me and patch me up, baby. We have a lot of missions left."

Mok didn't argue. He leaned down, his lips meeting Rome's in a kiss that tasted of salt and copper, a silent promise that from now on, they would bleed, fight, and live— always side by side.