Short Stories: A dream that evokes a certain mood [Roderick Version]

Roderick is angry.

You can feel it even before he steps into your office—an undercurrent of tension so intense that it seems to charge the air with his heavy presence the moment he crosses the threshold.

Why he's angry is one question...

What he's doing in your office so late at night, alone and without his team, is an entirely different one.

You try to speak, but for some reason, the words catch in your throat, refusing to form.

Roderick watches your attempt silently, his eyes clear, crystal gray now gleaming with an unsettling brightness that makes your blood run cold yet draws you in—deep, raw, and all-consuming.

You watch him back, involuntarily touching your throat as you lean back against the desk behind you. Your hand clutches the edge tightly, but you remain still, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

"No one gave you permission to speak," he finally says, his voice deliberate and chillingly slow. Each word echoes with the heavy rhythm of your heartbeat as he begins to close the distance between you.

He stops just inches away, his expression is unreadable as his eyes remain locked on yours, studying you in silence.

The longer you hold his gaze, refusing to turn away under the heaviness of his stare, the more you feel it—a suffocating authority emanating from him, pressing down on you with one single purpose.

But you resist it—resist him. He sees it in your eyes, and your defiance is enough to compel him to act.

With surprising speed and force that leave you no chance to react, he grabs you by the throat, pinning you against the desk.

You stifle a gasp, the clatter of falling objects barely perceptible over the thunderous pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. His firm grip forces a shaky exhale from you, and you freeze as his solid frame presses against yours with urgent intensity.

"What should I do, I wonder..." Roderick murmurs gently against your lips as your palms push against his wide chest, creating only a small space between you.

You try to answer him, but the words refuse to come out—another attempt that causes the corner of his lips to twitch upward. His grip relaxes just enough for his thumb to trace the contour of your jaw with unexpected tenderness, his gaze lingering on your lips.

"Go on..." His eyes slowly lift to meet yours as he leans even closer. "Ask me. To stop, or..."

He doesn't finish his sentence, not with his words.

His other hand travels down the contour of your body, forcing you to let out another shaky breath.

Everything inside you burns and trembles, but you stubbornly hold his gaze; both of you know you can't ask him anything.

After all, Roderick hasn't given you permission to speak.

But you can push him away. You could, if you wanted to, and both of you know it.

What Roderick does is wait for you to acknowledge it—the effect he has on you—torturing you, filling you with his presence, and showing you who's in charge. And more than that… doing everything to make you demonstrate it.

As if to confirm your thoughts, his hips push forcefully against yours, and you bite your lower lip, tasting the sharp sting of blood as you stifle a moan.

For a fleeting moment, his irises glow with a dark, unsettling intensity that your resistance seems to provoke. It's a glimpse of the raw, hidden depth within him, igniting a searing fire of desire through your veins.

Your racing heartbeat reveals your tension just enough for him to release his hold on your neck, only to close the remaining distance between you. His body presses against yours with such insistence that it's obvious he doesn't intend to let you go or allow any escape.

Not that you would want to. What you want is—

You shudder as he finally loses patience, his large, firm hands roaming your body with a purpose that is both unnerving and electrifying. His touch is insistent, almost rough, more of a claim than a caress, forcing you to remember this moment and who's in control—now and ever after.

But the invincible trails his touches leave aren't enough for him.

He leans in, and just when you think he's about to kiss you, his jaw brushes against yours, trailing lower agonizingly slowly.

When you can finally feel his breath on the side of your neck, your throat is burning with the urge to call his name and beg him to stop torturing you and claim what you both know is already his.

But begging... No, that's not what Roderick needs—not what he wants from you. He wants you to let him have it—to let him have you.

You sense it in the unexpected gentleness of his lips brushing against your skin—Roderick—in the sweep of his tongue—R-Roderick—and in the light graze of his teeth, just before they can sink deeper.

You close your eyes and finally give in, whispering his name aloud as you brace for the pain that never comes.

.

.

.

You open your eyes, still feeling the lingering taste of his name on your lips, a flicker of heat fluttering in your chest while your breath remains heavy with anticipated desire.

The stark, demanding brightness of his cold eyes still haunts you, even though you're surrounded by nothing but the darkness of your room.

What you saw was just a dream.

All the pleasant feelings left by his image become mixed with bitterness, and you slowly rise, desperately trying to shake the aching desire to feel his body pressed against yours, knowing there's no way to make it real.

.

.

.

Roderick is angry.

You can feel it even before he steps into your office—an undercurrent of tension so intense that it seems to charge the air with his heavy presence the moment he crosses the threshold.

Why he's angry is one question…

How to handle the bitter realization that his gaze—the only thing real from that dream—will now evoke the heaviness of a touch that never actually happened and probably never will…

That's an entirely different one.