Chapter 44: Power
The buzzing was a live wire in his veins. Reese swam up from a black, dreamless depth to the relentless thrum against his clit, a mechanical insect trapped under the steel plate of the harness. His body jolted, a fresh wave of oversensitivity crackling through his nerves before he was fully conscious. He was on his side, spooned against Roman’s solid heat, the arm around his waist a heavy, possessive bar.
“Awake.” Roman’s voice was a rasp against the back of his neck, more statement than question. The hand on Reese’s stomach slid lower, fingernails scraping lightly through the damp trail of hair, tracing the steel band locked around his hips. “It’s been buzzing for twenty minutes. You were twitching in your sleep. Like a dog dreaming of running.”
Reese swallowed, his throat dry. The vibration was a constant, low-grade torment, keeping him hovering on the edge of something, never letting him settle. “Feels like my heartbeat’s in my teeth,” he mumbled, his voice shredded.
Roman’s hand moved again, this time sliding between Reese’s thighs, his fingers finding the slick, stretched entrance where the smaller plug met his body. He pressed, just a hint of pressure. Reese gasped, his hips bucking forward instinctively, driving his clit harder against the vibrator. A broken sound escaped him.
“That’s it,” Roman murmured, his lips brushing Reese’s shoulder blade. “Just let it happen. You don’t have to do anything.” His finger circled the stretched rim, not entering, just smearing the wetness. “You’re so fucking open. Can’t even clench shut, can you?”
Reese shook his head, a weak negation lost in the pillow. He was. The plugs held him apart, a permanent, humiliating gape. The vibrator did its work, a ruthless, impersonal reminder of his own vulnerability. His cock, trapped and ignored beneath the steel, gave a futile, aching throb.
Roman shifted behind him, his own hard length pressing against Reese’s ass cheek. He reached around with his other hand, his thumb finding Reese’s nipple, pinching and rolling it to a stiff, painful peak. The dual sensations—the relentless buzz below, the sharp pinch above—scissored Reese’s awareness. A high, thin whine leaked from his lips.
“Gonna come,” he choked out, a warning, a plea.
“I know.” Roman bit the juncture of his neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but with a promise of bruises. “Come.”
It wasn’t permission. It was a command wired directly into his spine. The orgasm slammed into Reese with the subtlety of a train derailment. His body arched, a rigid bowstring, heels digging into the mattress as a raw, screamed curse tore itself from his throat. It wasn’t pleasure; it was a seizure, a violent, full-body spasm that left him shuddering violently, his vision speckled with white static. The vibrator buzzed on, relentless, dragging another weaker, sharper peak from him immediately after, a cruel aftershock that made his stomach muscles cramp.
As the convulsions subsided into tremors, Roman moved. He rolled Reese onto his back. The harness was a cold, heavy cage. Roman loomed over him, his blue eyes fathomless in the half-light from the gothic windows. He didn’t speak. He just looked, his gaze traveling over Reese’s sweat-sheened torso, the heaving chest, the dark marks beginning to blossom on his neck and hips. It was the look of a man surveying a conquered landscape.
Reese reached for him, his hand unsteady, and pulled him down by the back of the neck. He crushed their mouths together. The kiss was all teeth and desperate hunger, Reese licking into Roman’s mouth, tasting himself and sleep and that indefinable dark energy that was purely Roman. He broke away, panting, to mouth down Roman’s sternum, his tongue circling a nipple before biting it. Roman grunted, his fingers tangling in Reese’s hair, not guiding, just holding.
Reese worked his way lower, his lips and teeth charting a path over the hard planes of Roman’s stomach. He nuzzled the coarse hair at his groin, inhaling the musky, intimate scent. Roman’s cock lay thick and heavy against his thigh. Reese turned his head, pressing his feverish cheek against the hot skin. He kissed the base, a slow, open-mouthed press of lips, before dragging his tongue up the length of the shaft.
Roman hissed, his hips jerking minutely.
Reese took him into his mouth slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, savoring the weight, the salt-precum taste, the silken skin over iron rigidity. He sank deeper, his throat relaxing through practiced will, until his nose was buried in coarse hair. He held there, letting Roman feel the tight, clutching heat, before pulling back with a wet, obscene pop. He looked up, meeting Roman’s gaze. “Tell me,” he rasped, his voice wrecked.
Roman’s hand tightened in his hair. “Suck it. Like you mean it. Like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”
Reese obeyed. He took Roman deep again, setting a punishing rhythm, bobbing his head, using his tongue to press along the frenulum on each upward stroke. He reached between Roman’s legs, cupping his balls, rolling the heavy weight in his palm. His other hand stayed on Roman’s hip, feeling the muscle jump and tense with each thrust into his mouth.
He could feel his own body betraying him again, the vibrator orchestrating another climb. His cunt, stretched around the plug, clenched and fluttered around nothing, sending useless pulses of sensation through his gut. A helpless moan vibrated around Roman’s cock.
“That’s it,” Roman gasped, his control fraying. “Feel it. Come on my cock while you suck me.”
The permission, the order, was the final trigger. Reese’s orgasm ripped through him, a silent, shattering implosion. His body locked, his mouth freezing around Roman, a tight, pulsing sheath as the waves of pleasure-pain crashed over him. He rode it, milking Roman with the rhythmic contractions of his throat, until the sensitivity tipped into a sharp, unbearable ache.
He pulled off, gasping, saliva and pre-cum slicking his chin. “Turn over,” he breathed, his voice barely audible.
Roman, for a miracle, complied. He rolled onto his stomach, his face turned to the side on the pillow. The scars on his back were a pale roadmap under the low light. Reese positioned himself between Roman’s spread thighs. He spat into his palm, slicking his fingers, then traced the tight furl of Roman’s asshole. It clenched under his touch.
“Relax,” Reese murmured, not gentle, but factual. He pressed a single finger in, past the initial tight resistance, feeling the incredible heat within. Roman groaned into the pillow, his hands fisting the sheets. Reese worked his finger in to the knuckle, crooking it, searching. He added a second, scissoring them slowly, stretching the ring of muscle. Roman’s breath hitched, his back bowing.
“More,” Roman gritted out, his voice muffled.
Reese added a third finger, his own breath coming short. The stretch was intense, the muscles gripping him like a vise. He fucked his fingers in and out, establishing a rhythm. He could feel Roman trembling beneath him, a fine, constant vibration of pleasure and strain. Reese leaned down, biting the meat of Roman’s shoulder as he pressed a fourth finger against the opening.
“Fuck, yes,” Roman hissed, pushing back against the intrusion.
It was a tight, brutal stretch. Reese worked his four fingers in slowly, relentlessly, his knuckles straining. When his hand was fully seated, forming a tight fist inside Roman, he stilled. Both of them were panting. Reese could feel Roman’s internal muscles spasming around his hand, a frantic, fluttering grip. The vibrator at his own clit chose that moment to shift to a higher setting, a sharper buzz that felt like a dental drill against his oversensitive nerves. He cried out, his hips stuttering, his own body clenching around the plugs.
The shared sensation, the brutal fullness for both of them, fused them in a feedback loop of intensity. Reese began to move his fist, pulling it almost all the way out before pushing back in, a slow, devastating drag.
“Oh, god, Reese—” Roman’s voice was shattered, unrecognizable.
Reese set a pace, a deep, punishing rhythm, his fist pistoning in and out. He used his other hand to reach under Roman, taking his cock in a firm grip, stroking in time with his thrusts. He could feel Roman hurtling toward his peak, the tension coiling in the body beneath him.
“Not yet,” Reese growled, slowing his strokes, easing his fist. He brought Roman to the edge, then pulled back, again and again. Roman was cursing, pleading, his words dissolving into inarticulate moans, his body shaking with the effort of holding back.
Reese was trembling uncontrollably himself, the vibrations dragging endless, weaker orgasms from him, one after another, until he was sobbing with overstimulation, his vision blurry, his body slick with sweat. He was a instrument of sensation, played by Roman’s will and his own relentless hardware.
“Now,” Roman finally begged, a raw, broken sound. “Please, fucking now.”
Reese gave it to him. He slammed his fist in deep, grinding the heel of his hand against Roman’s prostate, and stroked his cock with a furious, tight twist.
Roman broke. His orgasm wasn’t a release; it was a cataclysm. He screamed into the pillow, his body seizing, back arching impossibly high as he came in long, pulsing ropes over Reese’s hand and the sheets. Reese kept fucking him with his fist, through the intense, painful oversensitivity, and Roman’s cries pitched higher, a second, smaller orgasm ripped from him almost immediately, his body convulsing around the invading hand.
Finally, Reese stilled. He slowly, carefully, withdrew his hand. Roman collapsed, boneless, onto the bed, his breathing ragged, shuddery things. Reese fell beside him, the world spinning. The vibrator was still buzzing, a maddening drone against his ruined nerves. He fumbled for the remote on the nightstand, his fingers numb, and pressed the button.
The silence that followed was absolute, ringing. It was the loudest sound Reese had ever heard.
For a long time, the only sounds were their slowing breaths. Gotham’ neon glow painted alien shapes on the ceiling. Reese’s body felt both hollowed out and impossibly full, the harness a cold, sobering anchor to reality.
Roman stirred first. He turned his head on the pillow. In the dim light, his face was stripped bare, devoid of its usual calculated mask. He looked exhausted, wrecked, and utterly present. He reached out, his fingers finding the locking mechanism at the front of Reese’s harness. There was a series of soft, precise clicks.
The steel bands loosened. Roman carefully, gently, removed the plugs. The sensation of emptiness was profound, a sudden, vulnerable rush of cool air. Reese whimpered, a small, involuntary sound.
Roman discarded the harness onto the floor with a heavy thunk. He pulled Reese against him, skin to sticky skin. He said nothing. He just held him, one hand spread possessively over the small of Reese’s back, the other cradling his head. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, a lonely sound in the sleeping city. In the dark room, amidst the wreckage of the bed and themselves, there was only the warm, steady beat of a heart against an ear, and the silent, unspoken pact written in sweat, bruises, and spent breath. The war outside would wait. For now, the only territory that mattered had been reclaimed.
For now, the only territory that mattered had been reclaimed.
Morning arrived as a brutal audit of the night before. Reese’s first attempt to sit up sent a lightning bolt of wrongness from his core to his skull. The world dissolved into swirling gray spots. He collapsed back onto the sweat-stiffened sheets with a grunt, his body reporting damages from every nerve ending. His cunt felt raw, a hot, open ache. His clit was a screaming point of hypersensitivity, just the brush of the sheet against it a flinch-inducing shock. The deep, bruised feeling in his ass was a constant, throbbing reminder of Roman’s plug.
“Easy.” Roman’s voice came from the doorway. He was already dressed in dark slacks and a turtleneck, leaning against the frame with a mug of coffee. He looked fresh, sharp, and unbearably composed. Only a slight stiffness in his own posture, a carefulness as he shifted his weight, betrayed his soreness. His eyes, though, were alive with a dark, gratified light. He watched Reese struggle like a man admiring a complex trap he’d built and sprung. “You look like you went twelve rounds with a freight train.”
“Feels like the train won,” Reese muttered, his voice a gravelly wreck. He managed to roll onto his side, moving with the deliberate care of someone navigating broken glass. Every internal muscle protested. He finally pushed up to his elbows, then, after a steadying breath, to his feet.
The room tilted. He braced a hand on the carved bedpost, head bowed, waiting for the vertigo to pass. The simple act of standing upright sent a fresh, nauseating wave of pain-pleasure radiating from his groin. He could feel the ghost of the plugs, the memory of the vibrator, like a phantom limb of overstimulation.
Roman set his coffee down and walked over. He didn’t offer to help. Instead, he stopped in front of Reese, his gaze traveling down Reese’s naked, trembling form, cataloging the vivid bruises on his hips, the bite marks on his neck and shoulders, the general air of devastation. He reached out and traced a particularly dark bruise with his thumb.
Reese flinched. The touch was almost too much.
“Good,” Roman said, a slow smile spreading. It wasn’t kind. It was proud. “I can still see my hands on you.”
“You and everyone else,” Reese managed, attempting his usual sarcasm. It fell flat, emerged as a breathless rasp. He took a shaky step toward the bathroom, his gait awkward, wide-legged.
Roman’s smile didn’t fade. He followed, leaning in the bathroom doorway as Reese gripped the marble sink, head down, just breathing. “Need help?”
“Fuck off.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The shower was a trial. The water hitting his abused flesh was a thousand tiny needles. He braced his forehead against the cool tile, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, just enduring it. He could feel Roman watching from the steamy room, a silent, pleased spectator to his wreckage.
They didn’t leave the master suite all day. Meals were brought by a silent, eyes-lowered servant on a wheeled cart—soft foods, broths, strong coffee. Reese ate little, his body humming with a strange, exhausted static. He mostly lay on the rebuilt divan by the gothic windows, a blanket over his lap, watching the gloomy Bristol sky threaten rain.
Roman worked at the onyx desk, conducting his business via encrypted calls. His voice was its usual controlled, ruthless instrument, but every so often, Reese would see him shift in his chair and a faint, almost imperceptible wince would tighten his features. A private smile would touch Reese’s lips then. He wasn’t the only one marked.
In the late afternoon, Roman finished a call and came over. He stood over the divan, looking down. “Can you walk?”
“I’m not paralysed,” Reese said, though the thought of moving was profoundly unappealing.
“Prove it.”
It was a challenge, simple and clear. Reese pushed the blanket off and stood, slower this time, the spots in his vision fewer. He took a few steps. It was a pathetic, careful shuffle. Roman watched, that same possessed gleam in his eye. He loved this. He loved the physical proof of his ownership, the tangible evidence of the helplessness he could carve out of Reese’s defiant body.
“Happy?” Reese asked, stopping.
“Getting there.” Roman closed the distance, his hand coming up to cup the back of Reese’s neck, his grip firm, anchoring. “You’re mine like this. All the way down to your bones. You can feel it, can’t you?”
Reese didn’t have a sarcastic reply. He just nodded, leaning into the hold. He could. The soreness was a brand. The weakness was a chain. And perversely, it felt like a foundation. Roman’s thumb stroked his jaw. “The doctor’s sister got her package today. A vial of his favourite experimental neuro-toxin. A note suggested she consider her brother’s hobbies before calling the cops.”
Reese huffed, a faint sound. “Creative.”
“The warden has taken a sudden, indefinite leave of absence from Arkham.” Roman’s voice was a low, satisfied purr. “It begins.”
The world was still turning. Their war was moving. Reese looked past Roman’s shoulder at the city’s distant, grey skyline. The respite was over. The echoes of the night still screamed in his muscles, but a different kind of tension was coiling in the room—one of strategy, of imminent violence, of the mask waiting in its box. He turned his head, pressing his lips to Roman’s palm.
“Good,” Reese said, echoing Roman’s earlier word, and meant it.
“Good,” Reese said, echoing Roman’s earlier word, and meant it.
The vibration of Roman’s phone against the onyx desk was a sharp, intrusive buzz. Roman glanced at the screen, his expression shifting from satiated possessiveness to focused intensity. He answered, putting it on speaker. “Talk.”
“Mr. Sionis.” The voice was crisp, devoid of emotion. “The DA’s office has declined to prosecute. All charges related to the Wayne Enterprises shipment have been formally dropped. The witness recanted. The evidence has… disappeared.”
A slow, cold smile spread across Roman’s face. It was the expression of a spider feeling a final thread snap, completing its web. “Finally. It took them long enough.”
“The judge needed convincing. We provided compelling motivation. It’s done.”
The line went dead. Roman set the phone down. The silence in the wake of the call was different now, charged with a victorious, crackling energy. He turned from the window, his blue eyes finding Reese, who had managed to stand without leaning on the divan. The news hung between them, a tangible thing.
“Hear that?” Roman asked, his voice a low hum.
“I heard.” Reese shifted his weight, the movement still careful. A faint, answering smirk touched his own lips. “Guess they remembered who owns the courthouse.”
“They remembered fear.” Roman crossed the room in a few strides. He didn’t touch Reese. He just looked him over, as if appraising an asset. “We’re going out. To celebrate.”
Reese’s eyebrow quirked. “In my current condition? I walk like I’ve been riding a bear backwards.”
“You’ll manage.” Roman’s gaze was uncompromising. He went to a wall panel, pressed a hidden latch, and a section of mahogany swung inward, revealing a walk-in vault instead of a closet. Inside, alongside weapons and files, were garments. Roman pulled out an outfit and tossed it on the bed. “Wear this.”
It was a pair of black, tailored trousers made of a thin, liquid-looking silk. They were cut low on the hips. The shirt was a deep crimson mesh, sleeveless, more a web of threads than a proper garment. Laid beside them was jewelry: a heavy platinum collar, thicker and more ornate than the one Reese always wore, a matching cuff for his right wrist, and several severe-looking rings.
Reese picked up the mesh shirt between two fingers. “This is practically theoretical.”
“It’s what I want to see you in,” Roman stated, already selecting his own severe black suit from the vault. “The collar. The cuff. All of it. Now.”
The process of dressing was its own kind of trial. The soft trousers whispered over his bruised hips, the sensation oddly magnified by his raw nerves. The mesh shirt felt like nothing and everything against his skin, each thread a faint reminder. The new collar locked with a solid click at the nape of his neck, a heavier weight. The cuff clasped snugly around his wrist, echoing the ghost of the handcuffs from the night before.
Roman finished adjusting his own tie, his mask conspicuously absent. He was choosing to be Roman Sionis tonight, not the symbol. He approached, his eyes doing that inventory again. He adjusted the collar with a slight twist, his knuckles brushing Reese’s jaw. “Perfect,” he murmured. “You look exactly like what you are. A prized possession on display.”
“Charming,” Reese deadpanned, but he held Roman’s gaze.
“Let’s go.”
The drive to the Iceberg Lounge was smooth in the armored town car. Reese stared out at the bleary neon of the Bowery, each pothole sending a subtle ache through him. He was hyper-aware of the jewelry, of the skimpy clothes, of Roman’s solid presence beside him. It wasn’t humiliation. It was a stark, possessive claiming, and a part of him, the part that had craved Roman’s unapologetic ownership since the beginning, resonated with it.
The Lounge was in full, glittering swing. The cool, blue-tinged light and the ambient jazz washed over them as they were ushered past the line, past the bouncers who dipped their heads in silent deference. All eyes tracked them. Whispers cut through the music like knives. Sionis. Black Mask. Out without the mask. And who’s that with him?
Roman guided Reese through the crowded main room with a hand on the small of his back, the touch proprietary and steering. They were shown to a secluded booth in the tiered section overlooking the dance floor, a position of power. Roman sat first, draping his arm along the plush back of the seat. Reese slid in beside him, the mesh shirt stretching taut across his shoulders.
A waiter appeared instantly. “Mr. Sionis. The usual?”
“The usual. And a bottle of the ’89 Lafite. Bring the steak, the way I like it. Rare.” Roman’s eyes never left the room, scanning the crowd like a general surveying a battlefield. He finally looked at Reese. “Order.”
Reese scanned the menu, a prop in his hands. “The sea bass. And a glass of the pinot.”
The waiter vanished. The music swelled. Reese felt the weight of a hundred stares. A woman in a silver dress at a nearby table was staring openly, her gaze lingering on the collar. Reese met her eyes, held them for a beat, then slowly looked away as if she were beneath notice. He leaned closer to Roman, his voice low. “I think my outfit’s causing a diplomatic incident.”
“Let it.” Roman’s hand came up, his fingers toying with the platinum band at Reese’s neck. The touch was casual, blatant. “They need to see. They need to understand what victory looks like.”
The wine came. Roman tasted it, nodded. When the glasses were poured, he lifted his. “To the swift application of pressure.”
Reese clinked his glass against it. “To scared witnesses.” He took a sip, the wine rich and dark. He felt exposed and armored at the same time. The cold air of the lounge raised goosebumps on his arms, the mesh doing nothing to stop it.
Their food arrived. Roman cut into his steak, the center bleeding a deep red that matched Reese’s shirt. He ate with precise, controlled motions. Reese picked at his fish, his appetite still shaky from the day’s aftershocks, but the normalcy of the act—cutting food, taking a bite—was grounding.
“So what’s next?” Reese asked, pushing a piece of asparagus around his plate. “Now that you’re officially not a fugitive.”
“Official is a paper shield,” Roman said, chewing slowly. “It just means the next moves are bolder. The warden is gone. The doctor is… preoccupied. It sends a message. Now we press the advantage on the docks.”
He spoke of territory, of shipments, of violent realignment. It was business, but Reese heard the thrill beneath it. This was Roman restored, planning his next conquest. The nightmare vulnerability of the previous nights was sealed away beneath a veneer of absolute control, and Reese had been the instrument of that sealing.
As they finished, a large man in an expensive but ill-fitting suit approached their booth. He had the thick neck and wary eyes of mid-level muscle. He stopped a respectful distance away. “Mr. Sionis. A word? From the Penguin. He saw you come in.”
Roman didn’t look at him. He finished his wine. “Penguin can make an appointment. I’m dining.”
The man hesitated, his eyes flicking to Reese, then back to Roman. “He said it’s about the new port authority commissioner.”
“And I said,” Roman’s voice dropped, quiet and lethal, “I’m dining with my companion. The next word you speak will be your last. Nod if you understand.”
The man nodded, once, sharply, and retreated.
Roman finally looked at Reese. A genuine, cold amusement glittered in his eyes. He leaned in, his voice for Reese alone. “See? The world falls back into line.” His hand rested on Reese’s thigh under the table, a hot, heavy weight through the thin silk. “And you are the reason I’m here to see it.”
The drive back was quiet. The adrenaline of the public display was ebbing, leaving the deep fatigue and persistent ache in its wake. Back in the Bristol estate’s cavernous foyer, Roman locked the doors behind them. The grand silence of the house swallowed them whole.
He turned to Reese, reaching out to unclasp the heavy platinum collar. It joined the everyday one on a side table. He removed the cuff. His hands were deft, sure. “You did well tonight.”
“I mostly just sat there,” Reese said, his sarcasm automatic but softened.
“You existed exactly as I required.” Roman’s fingers traced the line where the collar had been. “That is everything.”
They ascended the stairs, the events of the night—the legal victory, the public claiming, the subtle power plays—settling around them like dust. In the bedroom, with the ghost of the harness still lingering in the air, Roman pulled Reese close, not in passion, but in a solid, wordless clasp. Outside, Gotham glittered, a chessboard waiting for its next move. Inside, the king and his most valued piece stood united, the game already advancing in Roman’s mind, their victory a living thing in the space between their bodies.