senselessviolets

[senselessviolets]

random will graham headcanons (childhood, teen years, college, etc.)

Rating T

WARNINGS:

Mentions of murder (canon typical), homicidal ideation, child abuse, alcoholism.

Author’s Notes:

Title says it all. Just some headcanons based off of the show, bits of Red Dragon and my own personal intuition because I'm THAT good. /s

He doesn’t know why his mom left because his dad refuses to tell him and would get furious anytime he brought it up as a child. 

He experienced corporal punishment from his dad but if asked, wouldn’t consider it to be abuse—no matter how emotionally traumatic it was for him. 

His dad George was a survey technician in the US Army Corps of Engineers. His mother Adaline had worked as a pharmacist before Will was born. 

He was never allowed pets growing up, hence why he now owns so many dogs.

With his undiagnosed ASD and constant moving around for his dad’s job, Will struggled to form any long-lasting, meaningful relationships in his youth.

His dad would occasionally write letters to Will and send him various gifts (Bourbon, aftershave, new lures) around the time of his birthday or the holidays. He stopped after Will was imprisoned and hasn’t written to him since. 

Will tried to approach girls he had crushes on when he was a teen but they were always dismissive of him or thought he was weird.

He lost his virginity in a clumsy drunken one-night stand in his sophomore year of college. She was his roommate’s ex and there was some drama over it.  

Will has experienced lots of frustration with the women in his romantic life who in his mind toyed with his feelings and strung him along. He was always so willing to commit himself to the right girl and even imagined himself as the kind to settle down and get married young but the opportunity never arose.  

Throughout his teenage years, he imagined often how he would kill his dad and was convinced he could get away with it.

Will dated a Law student in his junior and senior year of college and they had been going steady until after they’d slept with each other one night and Will had a hyperrealistic dream in which he strangled her in her sleep, dismembered her, and scattered her all around campus. This dream disturbed Will so deeply that he broke things off with the girl right after, providing little explanation as to why.

Will’s want to become a father and to protect and nurture his “strays” (Abigail Hobbs, Georgia Madchen, Peter Bernadone, his actual fucking dogs) is very much ego-driven. It’s not as genuine or wholesome as he might want you to think or how he even perceives it to be.

Will was pretty widely disliked at the police department he was a detective for as well as the FBI Academy.

His alcoholism developed as a way to numb his overstimulated senses and to cancel out the intrusive thoughts he has. As time has gone on, his reliance on liquor has only grown; a habit he picked up from his father.

Will is a notoriously harsh grader and is quick to shut down any dissenting opinions about his “style of teaching”.

He’s definitely had inappropriate thoughts/fantasies about a few of his students, ranging from shallow sexual attraction to full-blown abduction. 

He doesn’t own a television or a computer and begrudgingly owns a smartphone for his job. 

The majority of his interests and likes/dislikes are ones he got from his dad. His dad loved to fish. His dad’s favorite singer was Johnny Cash. His dad liked the color green. Will probably feels as if these are what he should like and if you actually asked him how he felt about ____ or if he really liked XYZ; he wouldn’t know how to answer. 

A huge part of the reason he loves dogs is that they do not know they are ‘kept’. As opposed to a human being who could recognize if they were taken from everything they know or forced to live the life of another; dogs don’t think that way and above all, they are undyingly loyal. 

^^ And yes, this is my way of saying I subscribe to the popular headcanon that Will has stolen some of his dogs.

Morally grey sweaty dog man.

I hate him.

Follow me on twt: @endlessviolets

<3

[senselessviolets]

Various Tim and Hawk's fanarts from christinastern

[senselessviolets]

I know you're alive.

[senselessviolets]

“stay soft”

Roman Roy x Fem. Reader

Rating E (Smut)

Word Count: 3.3k

AO3 Link

WARNINGS:

Mommy kink, smut, some plot, this man has MOMMY ISSUES™️, gentle femdom, titplay, breast sucking, so much dirty talk, Roman gets called “baby” a lot, no PIV, no uses of Y/N

Author's Notes:

The people have spoken—y’all want Roman being fucking babied in bed so that’s what the fuck I did and I have zero regrets. Totally gave up in the end but school’s been incredibly draining for me so I’m proud of myself for even getting THIS out.

[Gif creds: I forget. if it’s yours, lemme know!!]

Summary:

You are an equally wealthy childhood friend of the Roys and Roman in particular. After years of little to no contact with him, he and you decide to finally act on the mutual attraction you both share in the most ‘Roman way’ you can think of. 

“Okay, but like if we…fuckin’...if we fuckin’ do this, I will want…some things. But I’m not g’na fuckin’ beg or anything…call you mommy, ‘goo goo ga ga’…none of that shit. I will want you…to be there…and I will want you to ‘not be there’...if you catch my drift. I-I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ word or a single moan. I don’t want—I just don’t want it, okay. And this might sound bad—even though I’ve definitely said worse—but you would be just a-a means for me,” a voicemail blears in your ear as you are made aware of the four calls you missed in your slumber, “‘Kay? I dunno. Think it over. It’s not fuckin’ life or death. Until it is. And I kill you. And hide the body and burn the evidence…kidding! ‘Kay, love you, kidding, ‘kay, bye!”

This was uncharted territory for you both. 

You and Roman and the other Roy children were longtime family friends. Like Stewy Hosseni or a lesser example Ray Kennedy. What that meant was your incredibly loaded dad gave Logan Roy an ungodly sum of money in the nineties and had managed to stay on his good side ever since. At their status, that’s what qualified as ‘friendship’. Everything was a transaction at the end of the day. Like you suspected Logan and Caroline had bought their way into their kids’ hearts, to even be in the same room as these titans—to breathe the same air—you had to beg, steal, or borrow. Fortunately, you hailed from less-than-humble beginnings; your father being an incredibly successful venture capitalist-turned-philanthropist and your mother the heiress of a billion-dollar publishing company. 

But it was all just details. 

You were eternally grateful to be an only child, imagining an existence where you and your progeny were destined to forever claw at each other's throats—all for whatever scraps your parents were generous enough to leave you.

Unfortunate. ‘Pitiful’ felt more accurate. Every hollow soiree and vapid function served as a reminder. These were not your people. And they never would be. And yet—

“Heya! Well, you look less miserable than usual. Lemme guess, you finally ditched Loser What’s-His-Face and have taken up my longstanding advice of giving lesbianism a try,”

“Hi, Roman. No, I’ve actually been reminiscing about our younger years together. Remember the time you threw up in your mouth before presenting me my corsage the night of the winter formal? Seventh grade? Ring a bell?”

“That was because it only dawned upon me then that I would be getting Cody Keener’s sloppy seconds,” he answers, “I just couldn’t cope with that, I’m sorry,”

You slug him in the arm and he reacts overdramatically, as if someone stuck him with the pointy end of a knife. Onlookers included none other than Frank Vernon, Hugo Baker, and a close friend of your mom’s, Michelle Anne. This time, you and Roman had crossed paths at your father’s 70th birthday party. It was held at your parents’ penthouse on the Upper East Side and attracted a decent crowd. Faces you’d sworn you met pass you by as strangers come up to you, recounting memories of you who were only this tall. It was always a discombobulating experience but you continued to frolic and mingle nonetheless. 

In truth, this little ‘reunion’ was nothing but a facade. 

You and Roman had been talking for weeks now after years of no contact with one another. Brief texts turned into prolonged phone calls which by the end of the night became one-sided, pathetic voicemails expressing some sort of yearning for the other. It was becoming all-consuming and quite frankly, exhausting. And now it had finally come to blows. 

There was a plan, there were contingencies (of course, there were) but above all—there was transparency. And that was something you could hold onto. Oh, the many men who lied their way into your bed. And then here comes Roman, who’d made it abundantly clear he’d rather inhale glass than have you worm your way into his. So this scheme would not transpire at his place or yours. 

It would be occurring in a Central Park Suite at The Carlyle—just a quick jaunt from your parents’ place. He deigned to be a gentleman and handled the reservations as well as your transportation because you had to already be there. You were going to be lying on the bed, in some satiny sleepwear. No lingerie, no hosiery—nothing that could be construed as ‘sexy’. You were to look mundane, average, and bored. 

Roman would enter and you would be still and let him do as he pleased. While you’d had this endeavor nailed to a T, you’d be lying if you said the prospect of him going off-script—doing things rougher, harder, doors off the hinges, letting his darker impulses get the better of him—didn’t make your knees buckle a bit. 

So once the candles had been blown, the birthday wishes made, and goodbyes were said—you were to slide into his black Range Rover SV while his secondary chauffeur Crispin brought you to your destination. In your duffel was your change of clothes and a few other goodies. It had crossed your mind—once, twice how exceedingly easy it would be to bail right about now. Crispin could drop you off on the side of the road like some floozy and then your personal chauffeur could pick you up and drive you back to your cozy brownstone for a mundane evening spent by yourself—alone. That was the part that struck a pang in your stomach. That was the truly unbearable part. That, and the heat between your thighs which was starting to become really inconvenient. 

…

Now was not the time to get cold feet. 

You had already slid your sequin cocktail dress off and exchanged it for your satin sleepwear. Like the pretty kept thing he’d instructed you to be, you lay flat across the plush hotel mattress, awaiting his arrival, legs swinging to and fro like an eager teenage girl.

Maybe he’d be the one to pussy out.

At least then you’d have yet another thing to hold over his head for the foreseeable future. In your phone’s front-facing camera, you inspected the makeup you’d done earlier that evening for the party and it still seemed sufficient. Your lips seemed a bit drab. You roll off the bed and I sift through the contents of your bag, searching for the mauve lip color you’d brought along. Dabbing it onto the purse of your mouth while gazing into the mirror of the room’s modest vanity—you begin to lose track. 

This isn’t it and you know it. 

You know it. 

So fucking do something about it. 

Examining the time on the wall clock, you decide to hastily shake off your striped satin pj set and tear through your duffel for the sheer lace slip and matching long gloves. Not liking the unkemptness of your long hair at this particular moment, you palm your bag for one of the chignon French hairpins that had sunk their way to the bottom—a go-to for you since your younger years. The best you can muster is a half-up, loose, more-than-messy low bun because suddenly, a knock on the door can be heard. Your heart leaps into your throat and you shove your duffel bag into the armoire in a hurried panic. The click of the hotel room’s keycard lock comes next and you spring to the door as to be the one to open it. You and Roman meet each other’s gaze through the crack of the half-open door, you two beam down at your hands, enclosed over both sides of the handle. He is very noticeably startled, not expecting you to answer the door.

“C-Come on in,” you stutter, gesturing into the hotel suite with a gloved hand. 

Roman’s mouth goes dry. It is not all that often the family jester is able to be truly caught off-guard. This absolutely was one of those times. He shuffles into the room with tepid steps and doesn’t turn around to face you until he hears the door click shut. With a blank, nonchalant expression—he shrugs, prompting you to provide some sort of explanation. Of which, you do not possess. 

“What?” you say. 

“What’s…all of that about?”

“Yeah, sorry…wasn’t really feeling the pajamas tonight. I opted for something I felt was a little more fitting. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,”

He definitely fucking does mind actually. But any frustration at being caught unawares expresses itself in the form of big beautiful hazel eyes beaming at you with fear and uncertainty. His lips are parted, unable to form the words he can’t even begin to think of at this particular moment.

“So…,”

“...so…?”

“So…lay down,” you finally say.

Roman is able to briefly channel the smarmy assholeishness he usually hones with a sarcastic scoff and smirk. He shakes his head to himself before his gaze finds the floor. 

“...I’m sorry, maybe you just didn’t hear me right the first time,” you say, crossing over until you are eye-to-eye with him and your competing breaths can be felt, “...or maybe I should’ve been a bit more specific.”

You lean in until your lips brush the outer shell of his right ear and he stops breathing. 

“Roman. Lay the fuck down on that bed. Now.”

He quickly scrambles onto the bed, resting on his back while slightly sitting up. There is a tentative eagerness in his demeanor as if the last hints of resistance in his muscles had yet to dissipate.

“Good. Now can you unbutton your shirt by yourself or do you need my help?”

“...I-I-I need your help,” he mindlessly babbles, “P-Please. Please, can you help me?”

You click your tongue at his wanton request, attempting to maintain your composure. It was after the first ‘please’ that you knew you were going to willingly give everything in you to this man right then and there. 

The safeguards? Fuck the safeguards. 

The time for self-preservation was about five or so minutes ago before his knuckles had rapped gently on the heavy wooden door. Without breaking eye contact, you straddle him effortlessly, both knees on either side of his hips. You aren’t certain because all the blood had flooded to your ears and you were unable to hear much over the thumping of your own heartbeat but you swear you hear a quiet ‘oh god’ slip out of him. Your fingers find the buttons on his grey button-down and your wrists noticeably begin to shake as they undo them.

For fuck’s sake.

Up until this point, you had conjured the impression that you were the one in control here and that there was nothing he could say or do otherwise. But now the true vulnerability of the situation had begun to set in. The playing field had been leveled. 

His fingers enrapture yours and he steadies your grasp as you both work to unbutton his shirt. Roman swallows, anxiously. You get more than half of the way there before he gives up and presses his face firmly to yours. 

It’s a declarative kiss. 

It’s long-lasting and when the two of you eventually break it—you know there’s no going back. Those hands of his, wracked with nerves, find their way to your hips. He slowly drags the lacey fabric up so your upper thighs are exposed. Once you can feel the soft flesh of your hips exposed to the cold air, you grab his wrists and he freezes. 

“Ah-ah-ah, I don’t think I remember saying you could do that,”

“I-I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t—I’m sorry,”

“So many apologies, they just keep on coming,”

“I’m…,” he deeply exhales out of his nose. 

“You’re what? Wait, lemme guess,” you goad, “Sorry?”

He bobs his head up and down, face full of embarrassment.

“Hm…think I’m a little sick and tired of those ‘sorrys’, sweetie. You and that mouth of yours. Oh, that fuckin’ mouth of yours. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of headaches it’s caused me in what, the two decades I’ve known you? What are we gonna finally do about that mouth?”

Roman looks up to you, hanging onto your every last word. 

“I-I don’t know, j-just tell me what to do. I can make it up to you, I-I promise,”

You genuinely take a moment to mull it over, though the growing hardness pressing against your most intimate place admittedly was making it hard to think.

“...I think…we need to find another use for that mouth of yours—something to keep it busy, hm? How does that sound, my sweet baby?”

You swear his face goes pale as he assumes you mean your cunt. While the thought had crossed your mind (many, many times in fact), knowing Roman—you know that would be too much. And that you would lose him forever somewhere along the way and you didn’t even want to begin to think about that. 

You tilt your head, staring longingly at that poor little boyish face of his. Your clothed index finger traces its way slowly from the exposed flesh of his tummy, up to his ribs, across his collarbone, along his Adam’s apple, over his bearded chin— finally stopping at his pinkish bottom lip. You pull it down, making him pout for you. 

“Open for me,” you utter softly. 

Roman obeys, his tongue moving upwards in his mouth when he swallows. You continue to tease around his mouth torturously, the lace creating a delicious friction against his beard. The heat of his pants against your lone finger makes you stir inside. 

“Now, close your eyes—mouth still open,”

He noticeably resists before relenting, his eyes flutter closed. You drop one of the spaghetti straps of the slip off of your shoulder, exposing yourself. Your nipple pebbles in the cool air conditioning of the room. You awkwardly lean your torso inwards, inching your breast closer to his mouth. For a brief second, his eyes flick open, taking in the scene. Catching your drift instantly, he swallows as much of the soft flesh as his mouth will allow, moaning into it. The most obscene sucking sounds soon fill the room. Roman whimpers into your skin, letting his head fall limp against your chest. You wrap your arms around his neck, cradling his head. His brown fluff of hair is too tempting for your hands to not tangle themselves in. 

“There, you go…you’re so good. You’re so good for me, aren’t you? Yeah?” you sigh, tilting your head backward.

You swear you can feel your hips gyrating on their own. Roman’s fingers have ensnared themselves onto the flimsy fabric of your slip, gripping it so tight you think it might tear. Not that you’d give a shit if it did. 

“Y’know what I think? I think you act the way you do all the fucking time because you’re just waiting for someone to come and put you in your place, is that right? Yeah? You’re a brat ‘cause you want someone to do this to you? Hm?”

He releases your nipple and an almost pornographic line of spit drools from his mouth. Roman’s lips are plump and rosy, kiss-bruised and swollen. You find out just how warm they’ve become when his wet mouth comes to meet your own in a kiss so messy, you know you’ll touch yourself thinking about it later.

“I-Is this good? A-Am I being a good boy for you?”

“Mm-hm, you’re being a very good boy for me. My good boy. Mommy’s good boy, right?”

“Yes, fuck, yes—” he sobs, moving onto your other breast.

His voice is shrill and wrought with desperation. You only ever heard it get this high-pitched when he was making a mocking impression of you or some other woman. And now here he was, making these noises all on his own. The edge of his bottom teeth catches your nipple in just the right away. You squeal, jolting upwards in his lap and laughing at the surprise sensation. He soothes the sensitive skin with the flat of his tongue immediately after. 

“That’s it. There’s my boy, there’s my sweet baby boy,”

All of the sudden, his hands leave your slip and fly to the buckle of his belt. Roman undoes his zipper and shimmies down his slacks enough to pull his dick out. He jerks it quickly with his eyes wound tightly shut in an attempt to get himself completely hard. 

“M-Mommy, c-can I see ‘it’? P-Please, god!” Roman begs out.

Your current position leaves his cock hidden by the hem of your slip. All you can see is the silhouette of his fist in the fabric pumping up and down speedily—relentlessly. He could easily just lift the skirt himself and look at your bare pussy, just as he hungrily wants but he doesn’t. 

He waits. He waits for you to give him permission. 

“See what, sweet boy? Say it, use your words for me. You’re a big boy, you can do it. I know you can,” 

Your hands cup his face and you rest your forehead on his. The skin is taught and slick with sweat. A vein above his brow becomes visible as he strains into his own palm. 

“What do you want, Roman?” you reiterate, trying to regain his attention.

“Fff-fuck! Your p-pussy, I wanna see y-your pussy!”

“All together. Say it all together. Say ‘Mommy, can I please see your pretty pussy?’” 

“Mommy, can I please see your pretty pussy?��

His eyes finally open and they aim downwards, expectantly. 

“Is that all you want, pretty boy?”

“N-N-yes!”

“Is that all you want?”

“No! No, I wanna cum, I-I wanna f-f-finish! W-Wanna finish on it,” he whines.

“All together, baby…”

“Mommy, can I please finish on your pretty pussy?! Please!”

It’s on the last syllable of his sentence that he erupts. Only as he’s cumming is he able to look at your cunt. You swiftly move the fabric up and his load catches the edge of it, the rest of it coating your exposed pussy. Roman falls backwards limp onto the pillow and you roll off of him and the bed and onto your jelly-like legs. The two of you don’t look at each other, occupying opposite sides of the room while you make yourselves decent. You shed your stained garment, using it to wipe your cunt clean. You fling it onto the hotel carpet and don’t think twice about it. 

“Mind if I…borrow that…for a bit?” a weak voice croaks from across the suite. 

You turn your head and smirk, still topless.

“All yours.”

Briefly, you catch a glimpse of Roman from behind, buttoning up his shirt. You pull up your dress, sweatier than before when you had taken it off. You expected there to be a palpable shift between the two of you, had everything gone according to plan. You figured the next RECNY ball that was just around the corner might be a bit awkward but it was nothing a few sarcastic quips and some alcohol couldn’t fix.

“My guy’s still waiting out front, so that’s my not-so-stealthy getaway. I can have Crispin pull around in twenty if I guess, I dunno, you wanted to shower the stank off of y…”

Roman’s words trail off as he becomes caught up in the sight of you; your cocktail dress zipped up halfway, your hair in an even messier updo than before, one heel on with the other remaining to be seen. It left him dumbfounded, feeling impulsive, like he could leave everything behind then and there and things might turn out alright. 

“Um…d’you maybe wanna just come with me…I dunno. Back at my place, I mean. And don’t make it into…it’s not a thing. Th-This is not a thing. But, yeah, we could order in whatever you, you could stay over, I-I got spare rooms–”

“Roman—”

“—it-its not like a big deal or anything, y’know? This isn’t, this wasn’t ‘a thing’. Fuckin’ labels and everything, I m—”

“Roman! That all sounds fine; I just would like to exit one of the nicest hotels in the damn city not looking like a two-bit whore, yeah? Come and zip me up,”

“I mean, if you ask me—I think it’s a rather fitting look,” he says, echoing your previous words.

“ROMAN!” 

“Alright, fuck, fine!”

End.

{ Feedback is welcome! }

Follow me on twt: @endlessviolets

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[senselessviolets]

So wait...you're telling me that there were going to be originally seven seasons of Hannibal before NBC axed it...? But surely all of those seasons couldn't have been about the adventures of Will and Hannibal the Cannibal; The Silence of The Lambs does exist after all. Fuller and Co. had to have known that there was no way they could outdo or even rival the movie adaptation...so wouldn't it have been neat if they had just gone 'fuck it'?

Do Silence of The Lambs but keep Will around. Why not? He's a fan favorite and Hannigram is canon. Maybe have him 'teach' or mentor Clarice (who WOULD be played by a biPOC actress, I don't make the rules), similar to the role Hannibal served narratively for Will in season 1. Maybe he's some outside influence who pulls the strings and tries to lead Clarice away from the truth, like Hannibal did with Will and the Chesapeake murders, in hopes of helping Hannibal break out of prison and running off with him once and for all.

With how much of the show deviates from the original novels already, the idea of there being this third player (Will) in a story so many are already familiar with is just very fucking intriguing to me. It would create so many damn good opportunities to subvert the audience's expectations, especially if the season(s) that were going to incorporate Lambs had heavy marketing playing on the iconic visuals and bits from the movie.

NBC, you will never see heaven.

[senselessviolets]

Bernard Shaw - The Adventures of The Black Girl in Her Search for God - Constable & Company Limited - 1932 (designed and engraved by John Farleigh)

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Primavera (or Spring, detail, 1492) - Sandro Botticelli - Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence, Italy

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Always an angel, never a god.

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Hannibal 1.09 Trou Normand

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Random things of note from the S2 scripts;

**When I was on vacation a few months back, I decided to bring one of the script books with me and chose season 2. Since I had a lot of downtime and was able to really delve into it & study it, I jot some random shit that stuck out to me in my Notes app. I stumbled across that note today. Enjoy.

Roman has a lot of lines with the recurring use of the word “nemesis” in regard to Kendall. Like it practically becomes another motif.

Sophie and Iverson were gonna be with Kendall for a portion of the season. 

In a cut scene, Iverson is struggling to stay afloat in a pool and Kendall instantly dives in to save him so he doesn't have a repeat of the wedding w/ the waiter.

There was an incident where Roman used a blowtorch on his friend’s sportscar and graffitied it with the word “faggot” (projection me thinks).

Gerri & Karolina (and presumably Cyd) were excluded from the hunting in Hungary bc of them being women.

Logan mentions Shiv having cracked at one point; this might be whatever breakdown she had before dating Tom that’s alluded to later in S4.

Frank cries after sex apparently.

That's all, folks.

[senselessviolets]

"My father made a mold and forced me into it" Adam said. It was a bad casting but I couldn't be remelted. Nobody can be remelted. And so I remained a bad casting."

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Enfants Riches Deprimes SS25 + The Secretary (2002)

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”okay but are you normal about-“ no. I’m an insane pervert.

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Steve Buscemi for the New York Times / shot by Finlay Mackay, 2007

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trying to groom an old guy "youre so mature for 50"

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JOSEPHINE BAKER in SIREN OF THE TROPICS (1927) dir. Mario Nalpas and Henri Étiévant

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Kim Addonizio, “The Singing”, Tell Me