Archive of Our Own ^beta

“…and it’s all kinda set for the star of the show: President Jeryd Mencken.”

The wickedly sharp arch in Jeryd’s brow sets something alight within Roman. The unflinching behind Mencken’s eyes shows resolve as if his mind were made up before even setting foot in the decadent hotel suite bathroom. There is yet another pregnant pause in the two men’s conversation. This one is fuller and hangs thicker in the air. All Roman can do is simply shrug, somewhat nonchalantly but mostly in jest. Jeryd stands with a heavy sigh, rising from his position at the rim of the clawfoot tub. He takes a moment before stalking over to Roman who quickly catches on and meets him in the middle of the room.

Yep. Okay. This is when we do the thing.

Roman naturally is expecting a handshake, the same kind he watched his dad exchange with powerful men of influence his entire life. He briefly thinks back to the time Connor taught him how to shake hands properly. It was Thanksgiving, Rome was eight years old and Con had just turned twenty-something. There was some longwinded spiel about how handshaking extended back into Ancient Greece and was meant as a peace offering. Roman mostly tuned it out but the main takeaways were to make eye contact, smile, and have a good grip. While Roman wasn’t known for initiating physical contact of any variety, he was told he had a solid handshake his entire life—”even for being a slippery bastard” as Logan put it once.

However, he like everybody else in the world never really knew who was supposed to shake first which always led to its fair share of awkward interactions. Fortunately, Jeryd made the first move as most of the older men tended to do in Roman’s experience. He slowly lifts his arm, offering his large worn hand to Roman’s significantly smaller, manicured one. It’s a bit of a no-brainer, one of the easiest decisions he had made in a while. Their grip is solid. Roman almost forgets to count his “Mississippis”, yet another trick he picked up from Connor; a way to ensure you didn’t shake for too long. The way the room stills and their breaths catch in their throats, Roman’s positive he would’ve lost count anyway. Jeryd, for a moment, breaks the steady eye contact they’d been maintaining. Another hand is placed over Roman’s, affirming this union of sorts.

“I do see this going places, in fact,” he says in a low voice.

His tone is so deep; Roman swears he can feel it reverberate through his fingertips and ring out into the hollow of his chest.

“Pfft. Yeah, where to?” he chortles, struggling to find a witty comeback.

“...think that remains to be seen.”

Roman beams down to where their arms are joined. The duration of the contact is so drawn out, that it almost feels normal. Comfortable, even. Then suddenly, like the world’s most fucked-up, Freud-fueled tango–Jeryd has Roman doing a two-step backward into the marble vanity. The movement almost demands Rome to be the one pulling Mencken in that direction. But there is not a single doubt about it; he is not the one in control and God willing—it would stay that way as long as he should live. Rome grunts as the edge of the countertop slams into his lower back. The instant Jeryd releases him, his hand goes straight for his belt. Meanwhile Roman languidly sinks to the floor on his knees, reverting to a position Jeryd can only assume comes naturally to the younger man. There’s no tenderness between the two; hardly what one could call a yearning. It’s more of an obligation at this point. Of course, Roman is going to follow the older gentleman he just met into the bathroom. Of course, he is going to be at eye level with that older gentleman’s cock faster than you can say Jack Robinson. And of course, they are going to fall apart before one another in a dastardly reckless fashion.

It was practically written in the stars.

That is if the stars were instead jewels hanging from the gaudy sconce chandelier Roman now sits in front of. Previously, Roman might try to flee elsewhere mentally and retreat into the corner of his mind reserved as a getaway during violations and the like. But every sensation—Mencken’s fingers that now found themselves ensnared in Rome’s locks, the tile flooring causing his knees to cramp rather quickly, the sounds of a metal zipper and fabric being shifted and undone hastily—not to mention the set of stark gray eyes attempting to pry into his soul. All of these and more grounded Roman in this moment. It was wonderful, stomach-churning, and nostalgic all at once. By all accounts, the “real fun” hadn’t even begun yet and he was somehow dreading the moment it’d be over already. That’s because the two of them had unknowingly entered the plane of existence where Roman especially thrived. Being directly in service of a man much older than he, a man he could worship like the God he perceives his father to be, a man who could give him the answers he spent much of his adulthood searching for—a man whom he could do right by.

A man he could, for once in his fucking miserable life, make proud.

So when Jeryd first pushes his dick past Roman’s pink lips, he takes it and its considerable length like communion on a Sunday. Like it’s some sort of antediluvian ritual or a bad smoking habit he’s yet to break. Effortless. Reflexive. Poetic.

This is so fucked.

A brief flavor of something both sweet and bitter goes darting across Roman’s tongue as he takes more and more of Mencken into his mouth. He’s warm and velvety like the others, but his girth is unmatched. He nearly fills his entire mouth. Mencken’s slacks now hang loosely at his mid-thigh, the buckle of his brown leather belt clinking with any slight movement.

“Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ natural, aren’t you? Mm-hm. Yeah? Yeah. You know what the fuck to do, don’t you?” Jeryd bites through gritted teeth, “Yeah?”

Roman’s hum of a response is muffled by Mencken’s cock. Turns out eye contact was, in fact, key. Due to the rest of the Roy clan being mere feet away from the two—only separated by a short stretch of hallway—Jeryd remembers to quiet his grunts and groans of pleasure. It doesn’t take much of Mencken’s dick sliding in and out of Roman’s mouth for an overwhelming mix of drool and precum to gather around the corners of his lips. It takes even less for the mess to spill over and dribble down his bearded chin. The filthy sloppy noises that overtake the classy dressing of the bathroom are divine. They are also a dead giveaway and Jeryd knows this. Not only are the slick, gargling sounds increasing in volume but the mess that has come with it has become…untenable.

“God, you’re fuck—oh, you’re fuckin’ filthy. You like to make a mess, don’t you? Hm? Like to make big fuckin’ messes your old man has to come clean up for you, huh? You’re so fuckin’ spoiled. You’re so fuckin’ rotten…there’s nothing left to even ruin, is there?” Jeryd interrogates.

It’s that line that makes Roman’s eyes roll back into his head and his pants grow taut. He would palm himself or maybe shift his thighs to give him any ounce of friction at all but that was encroaching on being too much. He would suffocate himself on the cock belonging to a man twenty years his senior sooner than he would grant himself any form of pleasure in front of a partner because of fucking course, he would.

This was Roman Roy, after all.

“Fuck. Fuck. This mess, babe.”

The petname stirs something in Roman. He briefly imagined Jeryd calling the prostitutes he (allegedly) paid to pump and dump that. Regardless, it wasn’t a term of endearment he was used to being called. The only two other individuals who’d called him that were a short-lived college girlfriend and Tabitha. Oh, Tabs.

Would she even bat an eye at this shit?

Roman figured not.

“I mean, fuck. This mess…tsk-tsk…this mess just won’t do. Can’t keep goin’ like this if you’re just gonna…y’know. You don’t mind if I…just…?” Jeryd asks, breathless.

Before Roman can register any of what he’s saying, Mencken has now fully taken his head into his hands, fingers digging into the back of his scalp. He sets a vicious pace as he begins to fuck Roman’s throat raw. The briskness causes Roman to gag almost immediately but Jeryd doesn’t let up. For leverage but more for balance, Rome’s hands find the backs of Mencken’s knees. Were he not in such a hurry to finish, Jeryd might slap his hands away and further plow into Roman’s skull, not giving a solitary fuck if he could even keep himself upright. If the noises coming from these two weren’t completely obscene before—they were now downright abhorrent. It was a cacophony of coughing, gagging, sloshing, spluttering, and Rome’s whines that come out in the smallest of squeaks with every rut of Mencken’s hips.

The sight of the tears welling in Roman’s sweet big brown eyes that threaten to brim over is what makes Mencken finish. He forces Roman so far down onto his cock, he doesn’t taste a single drop of his cum, only feeling the hot spurts shooting down his throat. The ragged way Mencken has to suppress his growl only sounds more animalistic and inhuman. Roman attempts to tap out by patting Jeryd’s hip once–twice—almost three times—before he releases him. All of the blood rushes to his head in an instant and an aftertaste that burns is present on his tongue. He attempts to cough it away, proving unsuccessful but he figures it’s nothing a swig of cold water won’t fix.

“Wait,” Jeryd says, seeing Roman start to rise, “Don’t,”

Roman ceases all movement, now propping himself up on one knee. Jeryd gestures for him to bring his face closer to his dick again. Fearing he may be gearing up for a second round, Roman looks up to him with apprehension, still panting and reeling from the first one.

“C’mere,” he says under his breath, “Just stick out your tongue, trust me,”

Begrudgingly, Roman brings his face to Jeryd’s cock as he was told, presenting his aching wet tongue. Jeryd simply slaps the head of his still firm but softening cock against the flat of Rome’s tongue several times. Then he sighs the heaviest of sighs as he takes the remaining wetness on his dick and rubs it all along Roman’s flushed red face. He gives it a small kiss the second it ghosts over his lips. Finding the charade no longer as amusing, Jeryd gives him two more solid taps on his cheek before he pulls away and puts himself back together. Roman lifts himself to his feet using the countertop to support his weight. Jeryd clears his throat, his back turned away from Rome as he buckles his pants and makes himself decent. Roman keeps a watchful eye on him in the mirror as he rinses his mouth in the sink and dries his face with a fresh paper towel.

It’s when Mencken pivots on his heel that Rome quickly looks away, resuming what he’s doing and going back to business as usual. Jeryd gives him several hearty pats on the back, mirroring the ones he just gave him on his face with his cock.

“So, if I was to…say, butter up your old man. Stick out in his mind, dare I say ‘do the dance’, or something or other…what might one do?” he asks, candidly.

Roman takes a moment to gather his thoughts, deciding to ask Jeryd a different question in return.

“Not sure,” he smirks, “Thirsty?”.