3:33AM Roman (rommulas) x Fem!Reader
synopsis: It’s supposed to be a quick drop-off at Hollis’s loft, but when Roman Leal asks you to stay for “one more listen,” the night turns into something else entirely
warnings: smut, unprotected p-in-v, oral (f receiving), mild choking, praise kink, studio sex, Roman being a cocky soft dom who speaks Spanish when he’s turned on, post-nut clarity tears (his, not yours), lmk if i missed any :)))
wc: 2.3K
You weren’t supposed to still be here.
It was supposed to be a quick favor: drop off the hard drive with the final stems for “Static Hearts (Remix)” at Hollis’s loft, say hi, leave.
But Hollis had passed out on the couch two hours ago, blue hair fanned across a pile of empty White Claws, and Roman—Rommulas, whatever the fuck he wanted to be called tonight—had looked up from the mixing board with those stupid sleepy brown eyes and said,
“Stay. Just one more listen.”
One more turned into six. Six turned into him dragging the couch closer to the speakers so you could both lie down while he tweaked the low-end on the perreo drop.
Somewhere between the third and fourth Red Bull, his head ended up in your lap, curls tickling your bare thighs because Chicago decided summer was canceled and you were in the tiniest skirt known to man.
Now it’s 3:33 AM. The only light is the purple glow of the monitors and the city bleeding in through the loft windows. The beat is gone—just the hum of the fridge and Roman’s breathing, slow and deliberate, like he’s scared to break whatever this is.
He turns his face up to you, cheek still pressed to your thigh.
“You ever think the silence after a drop is louder than the drop itself?”
You run your fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp the way you’ve wanted to for months.
“You’re high.”
“Little bit.”
His hand slides up your calf, slow, testing.
“But I’ve wanted to touch you since you walked in wearing this fucking skirt.”
Your breath catches. He notices—of course he does—and his mouth curves into that half-smirk that’s been ruining your life since you met him.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs, but his thumb is already tracing circles on the inside of your knee, inching higher.
You don’t tell him to stop.
His hand slips under the hem of your skirt, calloused fingertips brushing the lace edge of your panties. You’re soaked—he groans when he feels it, low and wrecked.
“Joder, bebé…” (fuck, baby)
He sits up fast, knees hitting the rug, pulling you down so you’re straddling his lap on the studio couch. The same couch where he recorded the ad-libs for “No Me Importa.” The irony isn’t lost on you.
His mouth finds your neck immediately—hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your head fall back. He smells like clove cigarettes, vanilla vape, and whatever expensive cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. You fist his hoodie, black, oversized, probably stolen from Hollis, and yank it over his head. His chain glints in the purple light, cross pendant swinging between you.
“Been thinking about this,” he rasps against your collarbone, teeth scraping. “Every time you send me voice notes critiquing my mixes… fuck, your voice. Wanted it moaning my name instead.”
You roll your hips and he hisses, hands gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. “Roman—”
He cuts you off with a kiss—messy, desperate, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to taste every lie he’s ever told himself about staying professional. You feel him hard through his grey sweats, thick and hot against your core, and you can’t help grinding down again.
“Quiero comerte viva,” (i want to eat you alive)
he growls, flipping you so fast your back hits the couch cushions. Your skirt is bunched around your waist now, panties dragged down your thighs and flung somewhere toward the mixing board. He spreads your legs wide, eyes dark.
“Look at you. So pretty when you’re not pretending you don’t want this.”
He doesn’t tease—he dives in like a man starved, tongue flat and licking a stripe up your pussy that makes your back arch off the couch. You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the moan; he rips it away.
“Nah. Let me hear you. Studio’s soundproof, baby. Scream all you want.”
He eats you out like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do—sucking your clit, sliding two fingers inside you and curling just right, whispering filthy praise in Spanglish against your thighs.
“Tan mojada pa’ mí… taste so fucking good… gonna ruin you for everyone else—”
Your orgasm hits sudden and hard, thighs clamping around his head as you sob his name. He doesn’t stop—just slows, licking you through it until you’re shaking and trying to push him off because it’s too much.
He crawls back up your body, mouth shiny with you, and kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue. You reach for his sweats, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, tip already leaking. He groans when you wrap your hand around him, stroking once, twice.
“Condom?” you manage.
“nah, don't have.” His voice cracks like he’s 19 again and not the guy with 300 million streams.
he lines up, rubbing the head through your folds until you’re whining.
“Roman, please—”
He pushes in slow, eyes locked on yours, watching every inch disappear inside you. The stretch burns perfectly; you both moan at the same time.
“So tight, mierda—made for me, weren’t you?”
He bottoms out and stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. You clench around him on purpose and he laughs, breathless.
“Brat.”
Then he fucks you like he produces—relentless rhythm, every thrust hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. One hand wraps loosely around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, grounding you while the other pins your hip to the couch.
You lose track of time. Of everything except the slap of skin, the creak of the couch, the way he whispers “te ves tan bonita así” every time you fall apart around him again.
When he gets close, his thrusts go sloppy, hips stuttering. “Where—fuck—where do you want—”
“Inside,” you gasp, nails digging into his back. “I’m on the pill, just—please—”
That undoes him. He buries his face in your neck, moaning your name like a prayer as he comes, hips jerking through it, filling you up. The feeling of him pulsing inside you tips you over one last time, and you cling to him, trembling.
After, he doesn’t pull out right away—just stays on top of you, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, your forehead. Soft now. Vulnerable.
You feel his breath hitch against your skin.
“Hey,” you whisper, cupping his face. “You okay?”
He laughs, wet and shaky. “Yeah. Just… nobody’s called me Roman in months. Not like that. Not while—” He cuts himself off, hides his face in your neck again.
You hold him tighter. The monitors have gone to sleep; the loft is completely dark except for the city glow. Somewhere down the hall, Hollis snores.
Roman finally pulls out, grabs some tissue papers to clean you off, tosses it toward the trash and misses completely. Neither of you care. He grabs a throw blanket, drapes it over you both, and curls around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
“Stay till morning?” he mumbles into your hair.
You press a kiss to his collarbone, right over the little tattoo of a compass that never points north.
“Left to right, baby,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiles against your skin—small, real, nothing like the smirk he gives cameras.
Outside, Chicago keeps moving. Inside the studio, for once, the static finally goes quiet.
—
You wake up to the low hum of the fridge and Roman’s heartbeat under your ear.
It’s still dark, maybe 5:15 now. The blanket is half on the floor, his hoodie is your pillow, and he’s tracing lazy circles on your bare hip like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he stops touching you.
His voice is rough from sleep and screaming your name an hour ago.
“You’re real, right? Not some fever-dream collab my brain cooked up?”
You laugh into his chest. “Pretty sure I’m real. You still have my panties somewhere near the kick drum.”
He groans, embarrassed, then rolls so he’s hovering over you again, hair falling into his eyes. “Round two, then? Gotta make sure.”
You pretend to think about it. “Only if you say ‘drippysoup, my best friend’ first.”
He snorts, drops his forehead to yours. “Fuck off,” he whispers, but he’s grinning, and then he’s kissing you slow and filthy, morning breath and all, like he’s trying to memorize the taste.
This time there’s no rush. He peels your skirt the rest of the way off, mouths his way down your body like he’s mapping every inch he missed earlier. When he gets between your thighs again he doesn’t tease—he just looks up at you with those ridiculous puppy eyes and says, voice wrecked,
“Want you on my tongue again. Can I?”
You barely nod before he’s licking into you like he’s starving, slower this time, savoring. Two fingers slide in easy; he curls them and sucks your clit at the same time and you have to bite onto your wrist to stay quiet. He moans into you when you do, hips grinding against the couch like he can’t help it.
You come with his name muffled, thighs shaking so hard he has to hold you down. He crawls back up, licking his lips, smug and soft all at once.
“My turn,” you breathe, pushing him onto his back.
He’s already hard again—nineteen and famous has its perks. You mouth your way down his chest, tongue flicking over the little silver cross that rests in the hollow of his throat. When you wrap your hand around him he jerks, curses in Spanish so fast you only catch every third word.
You take your time. Swirl your tongue around the tip, sink down slow, hollow your cheeks the way you’ve imagined for months while listening to his voice notes at 2 AM. His hands fist in your hair—not pushing, just holding on for dear life.
“Baby, por favor—fuck—your mouth is unreal—”
You pull off just to watch him fall apart, stroking him with your hand while you speak against the head of his cock. “You write all those dirty lyrics but can’t handle this?”
He laughs, broken.
“Shut up and let me come down your throat or I’m writing a diss track.”
You do. He does. His whole body arches, thighs trembling, and he whimpers—actually whimpers—your name like it hurts.
After, he drags you up, kisses you deep so he can taste himself on your tongue, then flips you again so you’re chest to chest, legs tangled.
The quiet settles back in. Real quiet this time. The kind that makes people say things they can’t take back.
He’s the one who breaks it.
“I don’t know how to do this part,” he admits into your neck. “The after. People leave. Or I leave first. It’s easier.”
You run your fingers through his hair. “I’m not people.”
He makes this sound—half laugh, half sob—and hides his face again. You feel wet hit your shoulder. Not a lot. Just enough to know the cocky Rommulas mask is fully off right now.
“I’m scared,” he whispers. “Tour starts in nine days. Album drops in three weeks. What if I fuck this up too? What if I’m only good at the chase and I ruin you like I ruin everything else?”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes wet, and he’s never been more beautiful.
“Roman Leal,” you say, using the full government like it’s a spell. “You’re not ruining anything. We’re just getting started.”
He stares at you for a long second, then kisses you soft—nothing like the desperate clash from before. This one feels like a promise.
Eventually he reaches for his phone on the coffee table, checks the time, winces. “Hollis is gonna wake up in two hours and find us naked on his couch. He’ll never shut up.”
“Let him cry about it,” you mumble, already half-asleep again.
Roman grabs the abandoned hoodie, tugs it over your head so you’re swimming in it. It smells like him—cloves, vanilla, studio sweat. He pulls the blanket up, spoons you from behind, arm locked tight around your waist.
“One more thing,” he murmurs against the back of your neck.
“Mm?”
“Next single. The one I’ve been scared to finish. I want your voice on the hook. Not a feature—just… you. Whispered. Like this.”
He presses a kiss behind your ear, then another, softer.
You smile into the dark. “Left to right, baby.”
He hums, already drifting. “Left to right.”
The city starts waking up outside—first trains, first delivery trucks, first hints of grey in the sky. Inside the loft, the monitors finally power down completely.
For once, the static is gone.
But the night isn’t over. When the sun actually comes up, he’s gonna bend you over the mixing board and make you ride him while the master channel peaks in the red. He’s gonna record the sounds you make and turn them into the outro of track 7. He’s gonna tattoo the time stamp—3:33 AM—on the inside of his wrist the day the album drops.
And you’re gonna let him.
Because this thing between you? It’s not a one-time glitch.
It’s the whole damn song.
taglist: @alebrasil0101 @datgirlwholuvsanime33 @theirlgarfield @soundlyluckygunslinger @meliorsm @cowsforkenji @itsagoodluckkiss
a/n: the random spanish parts remind me of ash trevino speaking spanish for no reason, ALSO i didn't know if my usual taglist wanted to be tagged here but like eh whtv im not making 1000 different taglists
