Don't Deny What The Body Wants

This isn’t love. We all have darkest desires, some are fulfilled why some aren't.

This is not a romantic story. Trigger warnings, raw language and explicit scenes involved.

As the night played on, Micah had forgotten how to breathe.

Was this what he really wanted?

Micah had said no.

He’d said it last night. He’d said it this morning. He said it now, with his teeth clenched and his wrists raw where the rope dug in. He said it with every nervous breath, every angry glance, every time his body tensed like it still believed escape was an option.

But his hips were still grinding.

And Roman was watching.

Silently. Patiently.

He sat on the edge of the mattress like a man admiring his new artwork. His shirt was still buttoned, dark cuffs folded neatly at his wrists. His expression was unreadable—eyes so calm it made Micah want to scream. There was no wild hunger in him, no breathless urgency. Just control. That was what made it worse. That was what made it unbearable.

Micah’s legs trembled where they were spread. The rope binding his thighs open wasn’t tight enough to leave bruises, but it was humiliating. More humiliating than if Roman had forced him with violence. Because he hadn’t.

He had waited.

Watched.

Touched.

Whispered.

And now Micah was dripping down his own stomach like he’d been the one begging all along.

“You’re quiet,” Roman murmured finally, his voice a smooth hum against the static of Micah’s panic. “That’s not like you.”

Micah’s lips were chapped. His throat is dry. He tried to look away but Luca’s hand found his jaw and turned it back, forcing him to meet those steady eyes.

“You said you weren’t gay.”

“I’m not,” Micah rasped.

Luca’s thumb brushed along his bottom lip, dragging it down slowly until Micah’s mouth hung open. Exposed. Vulnerable.

“Then explain this.” Roman shifted his hand lower, fingers grazing the slick mess on Micah’s stomach. He held it up between them, wet and glistening.

Micah’s face flushed deep crimson. Shame crawled down his chest in hot prickles. He yanked at the rope on instinct, hating how weak he felt.

“I told you,” he said. “My body doesn’t mean anything.”

Roman tilted his head. “Mm. Then let’s test that.”

He stood and unbuttoned his sleeves slowly, rolling them back to his elbows with clinical precision. Micah couldn’t look away. Every movement was quiet. Intentional. The kind that told you pain was optional but obedience wasn’t.

“I’m going to touch you,” Roman said. “And you’re going to tell me when it stops being your body and starts being you.”

“I won’t break,” Micah spat.

“I’m counting on that.”

Luca’s hands were warm. When he gripped Micah’s thighs, he didn’t squeeze, he cradled, thumbs pressing softly into the tender inside where skin twitched at every breath. Micah bit down on the inside of his cheek. He could feel it already—that horrible ache between surrender and rage. He hated him. He hated how gentle Roman was. How he never needed to force.

Because it meant Micah had no excuse.

The first touch was barely a brush.

Roman dragged his fingers over Micah’s cock like he wasn’t even trying to please him. Just observing. Testing. Like a scientist learning what twitch meant pain, and what tremble meant want.

Micah hissed through his teeth.

“Too much?”

“Fuck you.”

Roman smiled. “We’re getting there.”

Another stroke, slow, so slow, Micah wanted to scream. It wasn’t even pleasure yet, it was just heat and pressure and the unbearable knowledge that he was being watched. Studied. Controlled. His toes curled where his ankles were tied apart.

“You could’ve left any time,” Roman said softly. “The door was unlocked. I told you.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“But you never walked away.”

Micah tried to twist his hips, to shake him off, but Roman just pushed his thighs wider and leaned down. His breath hit Micah’s stomach first, hot and slow, lips dragging just above his navel.

“Do you remember what you said the first time?” Roman asked.

Micah’s eyes shut tight.

“You said I’d never get to touch you.” A kiss on his hipbone. “That you’d rather die.”

“Maybe I still would,” Micah whispered.

“But your cock’s hard again.”

Roman gripped it suddenly, not tight, but firm. Micah gasped, half in shock, half in betrayal. He wasn’t ready. His body was. That was the problem.

“That’s not consent,” Micah said. His voice cracked.

Luca’s hand stilled.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

For a terrifying second, Micah thought he might stop.

He didn’t want him to stop.

Not now.

Roman let go gently. He walked away. Micah’s heart punched his ribs in panic.

“I didn’t say to stop,” he choked out.

Roman turned back, eyes unreadable again.

“You didn’t say yes either.”

Micah swallowed hard. The silence between them hung sharp, like a blade waiting to fall.

Then...quietly, broken, Micah said it.

“Touch me.”

Roman came back instantly, like he’d been waiting for it. Like he knew Micah would say it eventually. He gripped Micah’s cock again, firm, deliberate, devastating.

Micah gasped, head falling back against the sheets.

“I hate you,” he whispered.

“I don’t need your love,” Roman said. “Just your surrender.”

His mouth replaced his hand. Slow, wet heat, swallowing him down with a patience that made Micah feel insane. No teasing. No breaks. Just pressure and tongue and rhythm until Micah was clawing at the ropes and biting back sobs.

It was too much.

Too good.

Too intimate.

His thighs shook. His fingers curled into fists. And when he came, he hated how hard it hit, how long it lasted, how fucking loud his body got about it.

Roman didn't move away.

He stayed kneeling there. Watching.

And Micah lay broken on the bed, panting, shivering, too empty and too full all at once.

“Say it again,” Roman said.

Micah didn’t respond.

“Say you’re not gay.”

Micah shut his eyes. “Go to hell.”

Roman leaned in, lips against his ear now.

“You came on my tongue, pretty boy. Hell already came for you.”