Archive of Our Own ^beta

On the first day that Rome returns to campus he texts Pick a photo of a stray cat lurking around his faculty. In it, the cat is perfectly centered, head tilted to one side almost as if posing.

P'Pick, the text below it reads, I got more than just the tail this time. 😄

Pick is instantly overcome with nostalgia. He hadn't properly appreciated it at the time, the ability to see Rome throughout the day. Now there is just the sliver of morning spent sidestepping one another as they get ready for work and the too few evening hours before they tuck in to do it all again the next day. Ambitious weekend plans are abandoned regularly in favor of restful cuddling on the couch and in bed. Their relationship is comfortable, precious. Pick wouldn't trade it for the world. He does miss that feeling from long ago though, that itch he couldn't put a name to. When a smile or the briefest touch from Rome felt like electricity jolting through his whole body. There was a sense of promise then, that the world was a bright and limitless place.

Why couldn't you do that when you were on my team? Pick types back. For everything else that has changed about their relationship, this hasn't. He'll be teasing Rome until the day he dies.

Barely a second passes before Rome replies. Maybe I just wanted to lose and be punished. 😏

Pick shuts down that train of thought immediately. Nobody wants a vet with a boner. He tries to think of a witty response but it's as though his brain has been rebooted.

Rome sends another photo, out-of-focus with only the cat's butt in frame. It's every bit as shitty as the photos Rome took when they first met. Looking at it, Pick thinks he may burst at the seams from all the affection he feels. He's seriously considering making it his lockscreen when the follow-up text pings.

Is P'Pick going to punish me now? 😳

It's a good thing that Pick's lunch break is almost over and he'll have to put away his phone. He's starting to get whiplash from the rival stirrings of his heart and his dick.

I'll deal with you later. Pick means it as an admonishment but it prompts a string of heart-eyed emojis from Rome.

That day, for the first time in a long while, Pick leaves work exactly on time.

Convincing Rome to quit his job at the coffee shop and finish his final year of college took so much wheedling and badgering and prodding and debating that it almost felt like a second job to Pick. He hadn't known that it was possible to talk for so long on a subject, come at it from so many angles, and get absolutely nowhere. Rome's sticking point was that he wanted to contribute to their household, as though money was the only thing that mattered. His mere existence was a gift. Rome gave Pick a reason to crawl out of his comfortable bed and a home to look forward to returning to. He filled all the spaces in between with happiness. Rome said he didn't want to be a burden. It pained Pick that he thought he ever could be.

Pick wanted to say those things. Rome certainly deserved to hear them. But Pick knows his limitations, knows the words that are so lovely in his head come out mangled once they pass his lips. So instead he methodically and rationally argued his position. Rome's job prospects would be better with a degree. Rome would be more fulfilled and wouldn't be resentful at having to cast aside his ambitions. They would have a more harmonious relationship as a result. Pick chastised Rome for being short-sighted when they should be focusing on the long-term benefits. Pick hadn't expected to be successful. His previous attempts weren't and Rome was relentlessly stubborn when he wanted to be. Otherwise he would have given up on Pick long ago.

That time though, Pick must have chosen just the right words, framed his argument just the right way, because Rome's eyes became shiny and his lower lip trembled. He leapt onto Pick and clung to him so sweetly that Pick forgot to gloat about having finally won.

Money isn't everything but it turns out that it is still something. A month into their new arrangement Pick looks over their finances, deflates a bit at what he sees. Their resources haven't dwindled that much, not yet, but it is an objective step backwards. That's expected and only logical since Pick is the only one working now. They'll have to weather some hardship now to lay the foundation for a brighter future.

Pick decides to spare Rome the details and subsequently the worry. It will be easier to hide, now that Pick is paying for everything himself. They won't need to coordinate who's paying how much and for what. All Pick needs to do is conceal his bank statements from Rome and he's golden.

Changes will need to be made though. Cutting back on expenditures is one possibility. Pick imagines telling Rome they can't afford to eat out that night or see a movie that weekend or buy that new camera lens for his birthday. He imagines Rome's reaction, a resolute and understanding smile on his lips but disappointment in his eyes. Nope. Unthinkable. Never going to happen.

There's really only one option then.

Pick broaches the topic one evening as they are snuggling together on the couch watching a series, relaxed and well-fed and content. He waits until a commercial break and then says, as casually as he can, "I'm going to start working more hours next week. The clinic is really understaffed right now." That's not strictly speaking a lie, but is so irrelevant to Pick's decision that it feels like one.

He can feel Rome's body tense up immediately from where he is pressed against Pick's side. "I can work part time," Rome offers, twisting so that he can look Pick in the eyes. "I can help."

"What are you talking about, Shorty? I'm just helping out the clinic by working a little extra. We get after-hours emergencies all the time. Do you want those pets to die?" Pick knows it is a weak deflection, but it's all he's got.

"P'Pick." Rome fixes him with a withering glare that is too cute to be very effective. "I know that's not the real reason."

"No," Pick cuts him off before he can get started. "You are going to finish your year and you are not going to work. You agreed. Do not make me go through that again."

"Ok. I did agree," Rome concedes, melting back into Pick's arms. He tilts his head and looks up through his lashes in a way that makes Pick want to offer up his soul on a platter. "Promise me you won't work too hard."

"Uh," Pick agrees, rubbing his cheek against the crown of Rome's head, hardly believing his luck. This was easy, way easier than he imagined, almost too easy.

"And promise me you'll ask your dad for help if it gets too bad."

It is Pick's turn to stiffen, his ego struck a critical blow. The image of himself, broke, worn-down, and running to daddy for money chills him as though he were doused with ice water. "No," Pick nearly growls. Rome flinches at his tone. Pick tries again, this time softer, "I can handle it. Please trust me."

A variety of emotions flicker across Rome's face in quick succession. He wants to argue, Pick knows and braces himself for yet another debate, but ultimately Rome's expression softens, his smile showing dimples and crinkling his eyes. Pick releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"I do trust you," Rome says softly, touching the corner of Pick's mouth with a thumb before replacing it with his lips.

In the background the series blares on, unwatched.

Pick had hoped that focusing on school full-time would give Rome the opportunity to relax but that doesn't seem to be the case. It's true that Rome never complains and always smiles when Pick looks his way. There is a desperate edge beneath that smile that makes Pick uneasy though. Rome used to sass back at Pick all the time. Now he never does. Their home is spotless when Pick returns from work. He is sure it would be safe even to eat off the bathroom floor. He's received a staggering number of blowjobs recently.

Pick is so very grateful. He really is.

But it also kinda pisses him off.

It's as though Rome treats his labor and body as rent and is convinced he is forever on the verge of being evicted. It's as though Rome doesn't trust Pick's love or dedication to him at all.

So Pick takes on even more hours at the vet clinic, partly out of financial necessity and partly to escape the weird, tense atmosphere at home. How could he even bring up his grievances to Rome? You don't fuss at me enough. The house is too clean. You suck my dick too much.

Pick is working late one night, again, when his phone pings with a text from Rome.

Any idea when you'll be home?

Pick stares at the words for way too long. It's impossible to decipher the intended tone. Simple curiosity? A passive-aggressive reprimand? A plea for company?

Soon, Pick texts back before he starts filing things away. He needs to get home as soon as possible. It's his job to provide for Rome, not just food and shelter and material goods, but also attention and affection. He's been neglectful in that respect.

He makes it home in record time, having taken the speed limit as a mere suggestion.

"P'Pick?" Rome calls out, alarmed, as Pick shuts the door and shucks off his shoes. "How are you home already? How fast were you driving?"

Pick joins Rome in the kitchen which is, for the first time in weeks, a disaster. Pots and ingredients litter every surface. Something on the stove is hissing. Rome scurries about and wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of one arm.

"Fast," Pick admits. "Your text sounded like you wanted me home now."

Rome rounds on him and the fire in his eyes makes Pick take a step back. "Don't do that. Don't blame me for your recklessness. Don't put yourself in danger for no reason. I just wanted to know when to have dinner ready."

"Then just say that!" Pick shouts. Rome's face crumples a bit and Pick curses himself for his defensiveness. He takes a breath to calm himself. "How can I know what you mean if you don't tell me?"

The fight in Rome fizzles just as quickly as it was sparked. His shoulders sag as he wearily surveys the mess around him. "I'm not ready yet," he says forlornly. "You can go relax and I'll call you when I'm done."

Pick ignores Rome and shoos him away to get a look at the cookbook. "Let me help. It will be easier that way."

"No, P'Pick," Rome whines. "I wanted to do this for you. I wanted it to be a nice surprise."

Pick grabs Rome by the shoulder and hauls him close. Rome tries to slip away and Pick squeezes him even tighter in response. "It is a nice surprise and I appreciate it. But I'm going to help you. I don't want to sit around waiting. I want to spend time with you."

"Do you?" Rome asks, so bitter and so pointedly that he startles a gasp from himself.

Pick could cry from all the relief he feels. Beneath the bland, servile persona he has shown lately there is still his Rome after all.

The effect is somewhat ruined by Rome's immediate and frantic apologies. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." He spins around so that he can bury his face against Pick's chest. "I'm sorry," Rome repeats tremulously.

"I love you," Pick says, burying his nose in Rome's hair and breathing deeply. "I've missed you." Pick can feel Rome's tears starting to seep through his shirt. "I don't want a perfect housekeeper. I want you." Rome cannot stifle a sob and clutches at Pick more desperately.

In the end the food chars while they embrace each other. They do the bare minimum of clean up and go out to eat at their usual restaurant instead, holding hands beneath the table the whole time.

It is noon on a Thursday and Pick is just beginning to eat alone at his desk. Rome had, once again, wanted to pack him an entire spread and Pick had, once again, been forced to negotiate down to a sandwich. Pick would actually love to have a delicious lunch box prepared especially for him by the man he loves, but he meant it when he said he doesn't want Rome to play housekeeper. Accept a favor enough and it becomes an expectation.

Pick has taken only a few bites when Jay raps at his office door and pokes her head in.

"Put that away and come to the break room," she says, waving a dismissive hand at the precious sandwich. Pick scowls as hard as his full mouth allows him. "P'Tankhun bought lunch for everyone as thanks for saving Mimi. There's probably enough for you to take some home to your mystery faen too," she adds with a smirk.

After a glance at the wall clock, Pick tenderly rewraps what's left of his food.

"I'm going to drop mine off at home real quick. I should be back before long but cover for me if I'm not?" Pick calls out as he hustles past her and down the hallway. He doesn't stick around to wait for her answer, hears only an annoyed huff before he's rounded the corner and is out of earshot.

Pick grabs a variety of dishes, all pre-packaged in individual portions, and hurries to his car, smiling the whole time. Rome only has morning classes on Thursday and should be home by now, is probably tidying or working on school projects. He rarely goes out to socialize anymore, even with Emma, and Pick feels a pang of guilt even as he wants to hoard Rome to himself. Still, this is a perfect opportunity to surprise and spoil Rome, who can't protest the expense because Pick didn't pay for it.

Pick reluctantly follows the speed limit the whole way home; he won't test Rome's patience on that front again so soon. The house is strangely quiet when Pick enters. Rome's shoes are sitting neatly in the entryway so he must be home but there is no sign of him in either the kitchen or the living room. After slipping off his own shoes and depositing the food on the table, Pick begins quietly stalking about, hoping he'll get a chance at a jump scare.

Instead, Pick is the one who receives a shock. There, in the center of their bed, lies Rome, gloriously naked with one hand working his cock and the other fisted in the sheets. His head is tipped back, eyes closed, mouth quivering in pleasure. He is so fucking beautiful. Any other time Pick would watch hungrily and try to etch every detail into his memory. Maybe tease him, maybe encourage him. Now, however, Pick's insides squirm with shame.

There's no denying their sex life has hit a lull recently. They are both constantly tired from work and school and the pressures they've piled on themselves. They've resorted to scheduling sex for nights when they have the most free time and are least likely to be exhausted. It makes for less spontaneity and passion, sure, but they've always had fun and Pick had thought it was enough.

Until now. Clearly Rome has been feeling deprived.

Pick clears his throat and Rome startles and quickly shields his cock with both hands. His eyes are open now but shy away from meeting Pick's. He looks uneasy. And guilty. Pick approaches Rome as he might an skittish animal at the clinic.

"P'Pick," Rome says, voice cracking. "What are you doing home now?"

"A client bought lunch for us all and I brought some for you."

It's the wrong thing to say. Rome's face positively crumples. He seriously looks like he might cry.

"Don't," Pick says, kneeling at the foot of the bed. He strokes one of Rome's legs soothingly; his chest hurts at the way it trembles beneath his touch. Pick swallows with some difficulty before continuing. "I haven't been taking care of you, have I?"

"No!" Rome exclaims, sitting bolt upright. "It's nothing. I was just horny. You take the best care of me."

Pick hums noncommittally and looks down at Rome's lap, where his hands still conceal his waning erection. Pick gently pries them away, kisses the inside of each wrist, says "Let me."

"P'Pick, the lube-" Rome protests as Pick descends and swallows his cock down to the base. Indeed there is some residual lube left, unflavored, but it would take a lot more than that to stop Pick. Its taste is offensive mainly in the way it masks Rome's own.

Pick hollows his cheeks and bobs his head with a determination that borders on desperation. He wants to be everything to Rome, tries so hard to be. He knows it's ridiculous to be jealous of Rome's hand. They're both men in their prime. Jerking off occasionally is only natural and to be expected. It would be weird if Rome didn't. Pick's pride doesn't operate on reason though.

Pick allows Rome's moans and sighs to mend his ego a bit, concentrates on the pleasurable feeling of Rome's fingers sifting through his hair. He wiggles his fingers beneath Rome's ass so that he can grope, lift, feed Rome's cock deeper into his mouth. Hardly any time at all passes before Rome is patting his head in warning and coming in spurts down his throat. Pick keeps sucking until Rome whimpers, oversensitive, then cleans him off with long, languid swipes of his tongue.

Pick tries to summon that sense of accomplishment he usually feels after he makes Rome finish. He can't quite manage it. Rome came too quickly, had done most of the work before Pick had even showed up. Pick should be pleased that he played a part, however small, in making his loved one feel good. He feels deficient though and furthermore stupid for feeling that way.

"Thank you, P'Pick," Rome purrs, one thumb tracing the shell of Pick's ear.

Pick shifts uncomfortably. "I barely did anything," he mumbles, picking at his fingernails sulkily.

Rome pulls him into a hug, noses at Pick's neck. "It felt so good, P'Pick. It really did." He pauses for a moment. The silence is loud, as though Pick can hear every word Rome turns over in his mind. "I'll wait for you next time, ok? Is that better?"

That absolutely does not make Pick feel better. He breaks free of the hug so he can hold Rome's cheeks in his palms, direct his gaze until it meets Pick's. "Don't say that," he objects. "Take care of yourself if you need to. Ask me if I'm here. But if I'm not . . . don't worry about me." I don't want to be the kind of person who makes you feel bad about feeling good, Pick thinks but doesn't say.

"It's better with you," Rome insists, moving close until his breath tickles Pick's face. "It always is."

Their lips have just barely brushed, tongues just barely met when Pick's cell phone begins to ring.

"Shit," he mutters. "I have to go back to work. Jay is going to kill me. I left the food on the table. Shit. How do I look?" He stands and surveys the state of his clothes, which are noticeably rumpled. The lab coat will hide most of the disrepair from clients but he steels himself to the inevitability of Jay and Neung teasing him.

Rome hops up, stands on tiptoes to give Pick a quick peck on the lips. "Thank you, P'Pick. I love you. Have a good day," he says, smiling so brightly that Pick has to turn away before it shatters his resolve to return to work.

"Uh. You too."

Pick finishes his sandwich on the ride back to the clinic, driving extra slow to compensate for steering with only one hand. He can sense Jay's displeasure even from the parking lot. No sooner than he's stepped inside, she materializes from behind and levels her best scowl at him. It fades almost immediately into a disbelieving smirk.

"Have a nice lunch?" she asks, raising her eyebrows way more than is necessary.

"Sure," Pick agrees mildly. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was bad."

She whacks him across the shoulder. "Yeah, right."

He does feel a bit guilty for leaving her in a lurch, so Pick works even harder than usual for the rest of the day.

After they've seen their last pet, as he is straightening his desk and gathering his things, Pick sees a missed text from Rome.

Can we tonight? Please?

Beneath it is a selfie, focused on the surreal shine of his lips. Rome claims he has no lip products, that what he shows in photos is all-natural, but Pick remains doubtful, even if he's yet to find evidence otherwise.

Pick's mouth quirks happily as he texts back, Insatiable.

Rome's response is near-instant.

Yes.

It's a Friday afternoon, an hour before the end of his shift, and each passing minute feels like an eternity. Pick is starting to seriously consider whether some scientific anomaly has stopped the passage of time altogether. It's his and Rome's dedicated date night and after months of spending it eating Rome's homemade meals and dining at cheap street food stalls, they are splurging on dinner at a fancy with a capital F restaurant. Not that Rome knows the precise details yet.

Yesterday Pick had confirmed that date night was still happening and had said lightly, as though the thought just occurred to him, that maybe it would be nice if they dressed up for a change. Rome had given him a flat look that conveyed he knew all too well what Pick was up to. Then he had smiled in a way that was both innocent and devilish at once and said, "That does sound nice. We could light some candles and I could cook all your favorites. I've gotten pretty good, haven't I?" He had fidgeted with his hands and looked up with an expression that on the surface appeared insecure and pleading for validation but which Pick knew was actually a trap.

"So good, baby. You deserve a night out." Pick had watched as Rome had bitten his bottom lip and his eyes had glazed over. Pick has never used cutesy pet names that often, has normally deployed them only as a countermeasure. He's found they retain their effectiveness better that way.

"That's not fair," Rome had pouted and glared and elbowed Pick in the side. He had caved to Pick's wishes though.

After an excruciating hour of admittedly not his most focused work, Pick has just left his office when Jay approaches him in the hallway.

"No," he preempts her. "Can't. I have plans tonight."

"I was just going to say have a good weekend," she grouses, shaking her head in disbelief at his rudeness. "Well, have fun with your mystery faen. Be sure to bring her by one day so we can meet her."

Him, Pick almost corrects automatically. There is a brief moment of relief that he didn't and then the familiar shame at feeling that relief.

On their date tonight, however, there will be no hiding what he and Rome are. As far as being open with his friends is concerned, Pick tells himself he is just working up to it.

It takes everything in his power not to floor the gas pedal on the way home. He is practically vibrating with anticipation by the time he's opened the door and taken off his shoes. Rome is sitting on their couch, already dressed, leg jittering up and down.

"P'Pick!" he calls out and leaps up, striding quickly over to hug Pick. Rome looks . . . amazing. He's wearing a midnight blue button-up shirt and black slacks that both cling to his form and accentuate the cinch of his waist and the curve of his ass. His lips look otherworldly. Pick wants to parade Rome around as his to the whole world. He wants to keep this view all to himself. He wants Rome to wear this every day for the rest of his life. He wants to rip every stitch off his body this instant.

"Shorty, why are you trying to sabotage my plans?" Pick tries for chastising but his words just come out breathless.

"What do you mean?" Rome asks, tilting his head exaggeratedly. He can't suppress the hint of a smirk though.

Pick pulls Rome to him by his belt loops, looks him up and down, licks his lips. "I want to eat you alive."

"I thought we were going out, P'Pick." Rome can't keep the confused act up, devolves into giggles halfway through.

"Watch it," Pick warns as he pinches Rome's ass hard. But Rome just moans and his eyelids flutter and Pick nearly runs to the bedroom to change because he made plans and they are going to happen, dammit. Rome's bright laughter echoes behind him.

Hidden in the furthest recesses of his closet is the outfit Pick had chosen for tonight: dusk blue trousers and waistcoat, white button-up, and coral tie. He hopes with every fiber of his being that Rome hasn't stumbled across it while doing laundry. Pick's been strategically saving it for the perfect opportunity to unveil. He washes up, combs his hair, gets dressed, then bounds back into the living room.

Rome's jaw falls slack when he sees and he moves toward Pick as though in a trance. "Where did you get that?" he asks as he runs a finger down the line of buttons on the waistcoat. "How long have you had that?" Rome's eyes are wide and hungry as he steps back, looks Pick up and down.

Pick can't help but to preen under the attention. "Do you like it?"

"Do I like it?" Rome asks slowly, as though it is the stupidest question he's ever heard. He glances down at himself and frowns. "Will this be ok?" He sounds doubtful and self-conscious, which is the very last thing Pick wants.

Pick folds Rome into his arms, plants a kiss on the crown of his head. "Of course it's ok. You look so damn good. Everyone will see you and wish they were me."

The way Rome's face transforms at those words, the way it glows with happiness, the fact that Pick caused that to happen, he'll never get used to that.

Sitting at their table in the back corner of the restaurant, in the soft glow of candlelight, it is relatively easy for Pick to forget about how they must look to outsiders. Under the table, their feet are pressed lightly together. They can't keep their eyes off each other as they sit in comfortable silence while delicate shamisen music plays in the background. It is a memorable, magical night. That is until the server hands them their menus.

Pick watches helplessly as the contentment on Rome's face vanishes, contorts into anxiety. Rome is almost certainly running some misguided calculations about how his own worth compares with these prices. Despite the expense, Pick had his heart set on this place: a sophisticated counterpart to the more casual Japanese restaurant they frequented so often when they first met. In his mind it is a reminder of where they came from and a promise of where they are going.

"Be sure to eat well," Pick tells Rome, who is still fretting over his menu. "This may be the last meal we can afford for a while." It's his way of trying to break the tension, but like so many of Pick's ideas, it is a bad one. Rome's eyes go wide and the corners of his mouth dip unhappily.

"I'm just joking, Shorty."

Pick is spared from the full force of Rome's glare by the arrival of their server. He lets Rome order first under the guise of politeness but with the actual motive of stopping any nonsense Rome might try to pull.

Indeed, Rome sheepishly orders the gyoza appetizer as an entree. It's the cheapest thing on the menu that might charitably be called a meal. Does Rome think he's sly? He isn't.

"We'll start with that," Pick says, loud enough to command the server's attention away from Rome. "And then we'll both have the seasonal kaiseki." He smiles and hands the server his menu, hoping to detract attention away from the way Rome is staring daggers at him.

"I can order for myself, thanks," Rome grits out through a forced smile, like a ventriloquist.

"Doesn't seem like it," Pick says breezily. He has to suppress a grunt of pain when Rome kicks his leg hard.

"I can come back if you need more time," the server offers, placing their menus back on the table and awkwardly backing away.

"P'Pick, you embarrassed me," Rome gripes, his cheeks flushed red. Even pissed off he looks incredibly cute. Pick doesn't dare tell him that though.

Pick reaches for Rome's hand across the table, strokes his thumb along the knuckles. He waits until it relaxes in his grip before he speaks. "You can order for yourself so long as you get what you really want. But if I think you're just trying to save money then I'll order twice as much for myself."

"P'Pick!"

"Rome," Pick interrupts, speaking with all the gravity he can muster. "I want to spoil you. Let me spoil you, at least once in a while. You spoil me. You clean the house, you cook for me." He leans over close to Rome and whispers, "You can't keep your mouth off my dick."

Rome's cheeks are practically incandescent as he kicks Pick in the leg yet again. "I can't believe you said that," he mutters.

That's fair, Pick thinks even as he says, "Nothing to be ashamed of, Shorty. Who wouldn't want to brag about it if their faen was this cute?" Not so long ago, Pick himself wouldn't have. The old Pick would have been embarrassed to be seen out in public with Rome like this. What an idiot he was.

His heart drumming wildly in his chest, he lifts Rome's hand to his mouth, kisses the back of it. Rome looks positively dumbstruck, eyes suddenly glassy. Pick's whole world narrows down to this table, to the two of them. So of course it is at that moment that their server returns. Pick resists the urge to snatch his hand away and instead lowers Rome's gently.

"I think I will have the kaiseki after all," Rome says, gazing adoringly at Pick the whole time. He rubs his calf against Pick's, near where he had kicked it earlier. And if it aches, just a little, Pick will never let it show.

It's a Saturday evening and Pick, freshly-washed, is sitting on their bed, waiting for Rome to finish his shower. In his hands he turns over the soft cotton rope he bought a few weeks earlier. It's been hard finding time alone to practice his knots. Eventually he had been forced to ask Rome to go on an emergency grocery shopping trip for him, claiming a sudden and intense need for Snowy Milk rice crackers. Rome had been only too happy to oblige and Pick had felt a little guilty about creating yet more errands for him. When Pick had later asked if he could choose the 'menu' for their Saturday night escapades, Rome, always so eager to please, had enthusiastically agreed.

He knows Rome is going to take issue with his plans, but Pick's only real regret is that he has to trick his faen into letting himself get pampered.

Rome emerges from the bathroom clean and bare and flushed pink. He sees the rope in Pick's hand and his eyebrows edge upwards. He probably thinks that is the whole surprise. It isn't.

"Come here," Pick says, setting the rope aside for now. "Lie down on your stomach." Rome does as instructed and together they ensure his neck is comfortable enough where it is turned to one side.

"Where do you need my hands?" Rome asks, nodding at the rope.

"Not yet," Pick says as he slings a leg across so that he is straddling Rome's thighs. He palms Rome's ass, so perky and enticing, and tries not to give into the temptation of just sliding his dick into the crease and humping until he comes. Instead he drapes himself slowly over Rome's back, takes Rome's hands into his, slots their fingers together. He sucks at one of Rome's earlobes, tugs it with his teeth, before brushing his lips across the short, fuzzy hairs along the nape and then repeating the process on the other side. Rome's back is pressed stickily to his chest. Their bodies heave in unison.

From there he journeys down Rome's spine, kissing every vertebrae until there are none left and then licking a stripe back up. He releases Rome's hands so that he can use his own to map along Rome's shoulderblades. Rome is small but well-defined and Pick takes time to admire the contrast between the breadth of his shoulders and the tiny circle of his waist. Pick drags his hands down Rome's back, curls his fingers around Rome's waist, sees how close he can get to making his fingertips touch. Rome moans and begins to grind himself against the mattress.

"Stop," Pick commands, slapping Rome's ass in reprimand. It jiggles at the touch and Pick has to close his eyes for a few moments to refocus. Though it pains him, Pick bypasses Rome's ass for now and runs his hands down the thighs, squeezing to test their give. He slides down some to give himself room to kiss and suck at the tender skin at the back of the knees. From there he moves on to the calves, rubbing his hands up and down to ruffle the fine hairs there. Pick gathers one of Rome's feet in his hands, uses one index finger to trace the spaces between the toes, cups the heel, thumbs along the arch.

"P'Pick. What are you doing?" Rome asks, stuttering with how hard he's breathing.

"Appreciating you," Pick replies, just as he drops a kiss on the ankle bone.

"P'Pick~"

"Alright," Pick says as he lowers Rome's leg back down to the mattress and gives the other foot a quick, apologetic squeeze for neglecting it. "I'll hurry up." He shifts positions and grabs Rome's ass, spreads the cheeks, circles the entrance a couple of times with one thumb. Then Pick does something he's never done before. He bends over and runs his tongue up and down and around and pushes ever so slightly in.

Rome howls; the sound of it makes Pick's cock twitch and spurs him to redouble his efforts. He was worried about the taste but thankfully Rome is meticulous about prep so it just tastes of salt and skin. Pick thinks back to all the things he likes when Rome does this for him, tries to replicate them. He has to fight to keep Rome spread open for him; the spasms of his body keep causing him to clench. Pick keeps going until it seems as though Rome might be at his limit. While reducing his faen to a squirming, wailing mess does wonders for Pick's ego and the hardness of his dick, he doesn't want to finish things, not yet. He still has so much more planned.

After one last lick he pulls off and eases Rome onto his back. Pick rubs a thumb along one cheek, wet with tears, and Rome nuzzles his face into the palm.

"Are you ready for the next phase?" Pick asks. "Or do you need a break?"

"I'm so ready," Rome gushes.

Pick gathers Rome's hands, cradles them in his own, is overwhelmed by how much a simple touch can make him feel. These hands are so dear to him; they do so much for Pick every day.

"Keep these here," Pick says as he guides Rome's arms above his head, begins binding them the way he learned online, careful to keep the rope further up the forearm to prevent it from settling in the dip of the wrists. He allows himself a lingering moment of admiration for the sight of Rome all trussed up before moving down towards the foot of the bed. Rome's torso is enticing but Pick avoids it for now. There will be time to indulge in it later when Rome is cooling down.

Pick squirts some lube into his palms, warms it quickly, and then eases one finger in. Rome is so fiery hot and tight around it that Pick's cock jumps against his belly, as though it too is desperate to be inside. Pick wastes no more time before adding another finger and then another. Rome is well-accustomed to this and Pick's patience right now is in very limited supply. Pick works Rome's prostate steadily but softly, a constant tease that causes Rome to plant his heels and roll his hips as he seeks stronger stimulation.

"Hey! Stop that or you won't get my mouth," Pick scolds. Rome pouts but does as he is told.

As a reward for his obedience, Pick leans over to lick Rome base to tip and then suck him down. He tries various techniques as a way to mix things up, swirling his tongue, swallowing Rome deep, paying special attention to the head. His every effort feels clumsy to him, as though there is not enough space in his mouth to accomplish the things he wants to do, but it must be good enough. Rome is emitting a symphony of delicious noises and Pick is so turned on that he grinds his erection along one of Rome's legs.

"P'Pick!" Rome cries out and Pick closes his eyes, swallows the come that floods his mouth. Once he had been wary of the taste, put off by its bitterness. Now it just tastes like a job well done.

Afterwards, Pick stares transfixed at Rome, at his fevered cheeks and splotchy chest, at his long eyelashes clumped together with tears. He's never seen anything so beautiful as this precious body that houses the soul he loves.

Pick glances up and their eyes meet. "You look so fucking good like this."

Rome shivers. "P'Pick. What are you doing?"

In lieu of an answer, Pick charts the clearly-defined outline of Rome's abs with his fingers, presses down to feel how the hard muscle below resists. He'd be very envious of how fit Rome is if he didn't also reap the benefits of having Rome in his bed. Pick latches onto one nipple, sucking and nipping gently, rolling the other between one knuckle and thumb.

"P'Pick~" Rome whines, his arms twitching against their confines.

Pick releases the wet, abused nipple just long enough to reply calmly, "I'm going to see how many times I can make you come."

"P'Pick! Please let me do something for you."

Pick bristles. Why is Rome still acting as though he needs to earn his keep? Pick chose this, didn't he? Rome doesn't need to do anything for him. He's with Rome because he loves him. He wants to share his entire life with Rome for that reason and that reason alone. Why does Rome find that so unbelievable?

Pick sits back, shakes his head in frustration at Rome. "Don't you get it? This is for me." He has to stop, throat suddenly tight. When Pick continues, his voice is thick and pleading. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? How sweet you sound? Do you have any idea how I feel when I make you come? When you smile at me?"

Rome's eyes are glued to Pick. His lower lip won't stop wobbling. "P'Pick-"

You make me feel like I could step across oceans, Pick thinks nonsensically. Like I could crush boulders with my bare hands. Pick struggles to find words big enough to hold all the emotions he feels. Every comparison his mind can supply is absurd and yet insufficient. In the end, he settles for pressing the length of their bodies together and resting his forehead against Rome's. He fervently wishes that all his thoughts and feelings could simply seep into Rome through where they touch. It's too much for him to translate them into words, too much to say them aloud.

"P'Pick. Untie me," Rome begs, tilting his head up to rub his nose against Pick's. "Please. I want to touch you."

Had Rome given any other reason, Pick would have ignored him and carried on with his mission to wring as many orgasms from him as possible. But if there is one thing Pick won't do, tonight of all nights, it is deny Rome what he wants. So he carefully unwraps the rope from Rome's arms, then turns them over to check for bruising or abrasions. There are some reddish marks left behind, but otherwise they look fine.

"Do they feel ok? They don't hurt?"

"They're fine," Rome affirms, using them to pull Pick back down to him. One hand strokes up and down Pick's back while he threads the fingers of the other in Pick's hair. "You did good."

"That's my line," Pick counters. He wants to kiss Rome so very badly but he is mindful of all the places his mouth has recently been. Apparently it isn't an issue though, because Rome uses his hand on Pick's head to guide their lips together, shows no reservations about licking his way into Pick's mouth. They kiss as though they are starving and this is their only source of nourishment.

After enough time has passed that their lips begin to sting, Rome pulls back. "I need you inside me, P'Pick," he says huskily. When Pick reaches for the lube to slick himself, Rome digs his nails into Pick's back. "Now," he demands.

"Bossy," Pick teases, but he uses one hand to line himself up and pushes in without delay. They both moan heartily as he sinks in to the hilt in one thrust. Rome feels so sublime around him that it seems miraculous that he doesn't just come instantly. Pick rocks his hips, steadily building momentum. He wishes he could jerk Rome off and hold himself up at the same time. Instead, he presses their bodies close, Rome's erection caught between, and lets the friction of their bellies do the work.

Pick is determined to make Rome come again before he does but that is seeming less and less likely. He is fighting against the pressure building inside himself and the rhythm of his thrusts has begun to falter when Rome taps at his shoulder and says, "Let me ride you."

He had intended for Rome to lie back and do nothing but be spoiled, but right now Pick could use a reprieve so that he can regain his composure. "Untie me, fuck me, let me ride you. You sure are demanding," he quips even as he rolls them over.

Rome braces his hands on Pick's chest as he rolls his hips with a hypnotic rhythm. His cock bobs against his belly and Pick reaches for it, jerks it at a matching tempo while his other hand kneads Rome's ass.

This position does have its advantages. Pick has full view of Rome's gorgeous chest. It also has its disadvantages, namely that Rome is able to see Pick's. Rome leers at it as though he doesn't know better and Pick nearly shakes from the effort it takes not to curl himself up and hide.

"P'Pick. You look so sexy," Rome says while squeezing Pick's unimpressive pecs. Rome looks at him with such adoration that Pick's vision goes watery and his chest feels tight. "You feel so good. I'm so lucky to have you."

Those are my lines, Pick thinks as tears leak from the corners of his eyes. He'd be embarrassed to be seen like this if Rome hadn't been crying as well.

"Come inside me, P'Pick," Rome commands and Pick is helpless to do anything other than obey.

After he's ridden out the wave of pleasure, Pick remembers that he's failed in his goal to make Rome come first. Pick speeds the movement of his hand, uses the exact amount of pressure that Rome favors, and rasps out, "Come on me, Rome. Mark me."

Rome gasps as he shoots all the way to Pick's collarbone. When he lifts himself off Pick's softening dick, Pick's brain is nearly fried by the sight of his own come dripping from Rome in gobs. Rome begins to lap up his own release from Pick's chest, maintaining eye contact all the while, and licking his lips decadently after every few swipes. Seriously, is he trying to give Pick a heart attack?

"You're such a freak," Pick murmurs affectionately, just before Rome's lips meet his. He can taste Rome's come, tries to lick every trace of it from Rome's tongue and mouth. Pick could stay like this all night, but Rome apparently has other plans. He pulls away to ogle at Pick's torso, his smile lopsided as he thumbs at Pick's nipples.

"What are you doing, Shorty?" Pick asks anxiously.

"It's my turn now," Rome declares as he runs his hands up and down Pick's sides before rubbing circles on the belly. Instinctively Pick sucks his gut in. It was never his best feature and it is even less so now, given his lack of time for exercise and his tendency to stress eat.

"Don't do that," Rome chides, frowning and eyebrows knitted together. "Don't hide. Please." He lays his cheek against Pick's belly, rubs his face against it like a cat. "This is mine now. You can't hide it from me. Mine."

"Yours," Pick agrees and lets his body relax.

"P'Pick~" Rome begins. His coaxing tone immediately puts Pick on his guard. Pick senses where this conversation is going and his suspicions are soon proven correct. "There must be more that I can do for you. You don't let me do enough for you."

"It's not a competition," Pick argues, even though he totally wants to win. He does take a moment to consider his actual answer after Rome grumbles in frustration. "I liked when you sent me those cat photos your first day back," Pick says, because this is a great opportunity to dissuade Rome from going overboard in his attempts to please. And also because it is true. Those photos are a source of comfort to Pick whenever he's feeling discouraged. They remind him why he does what he does. "I like knowing that you're happy and having fun and . . . thinking of me."

Rome slides up, draping one arm across Pick's chest and nestling his head in the crook of Pick's neck. "I'm always thinking of you, P'Pick," he says earnestly. "But I'll see what I can do."

That next Monday at noon, just as Pick is taking the first bite of his sandwich, his phone pings with an incoming text. He hurriedly opens his messages to find a photo Rome took of himself, laughing as he tried to wrangle a disheveled tabby cat into his lap. Thinking of you. 🥰, the text below reads.

Pick grins so wide it hurts and makes it his new lockscreen.