senselessviolets

[senselessviolets]

[senselessviolets]

Asleep

Roman can't sleep, so he fucks you to tire himself out. 2.6k Tags - it's a mixed bag today, guys. stepdaddy!roman, smut, somno kink, unprotected piv, roman roy jerking off, daddy kink, blowjobs, dirty talk, cunnilingus, creampie, comeplay, masturbation, does roman roy want to be your father or fuck you, both, general fucked up-ness, biting, bruising, alcoholic mom mentions, roman roy getting a little emotional and teary-eyed, mentions of roman's balls for that one anon who knows who they are A/N - howdy!! it's been a while since we've heard from stepdaddy but i've been on a somno kick and well, here we are. I planned for a stepdaddy somno fic to come later but I’ve outlined the rest of the series so…whoops. Anywho, i missed this weirdo so much and i hope you enjoy ♡ love ya love ya. Also this is like loosely proofread so if you see glaring issues, let a girl know 💀

Stepdaddy!Roman Masterlist

It’s so cold. You’re not sure what it is about your room in particular, but when it gets cold out, your bedroom seems to take the hardest hit. Roman won’t let you keep a space heater in there, citing your inability to ever blow out your scented candles or turn off your heat tools for your hair. He doesn’t trust you to not accidentally start a fire in his house. 

You cup your palms and bring them to your mouth, then blow hot air into the little space you create with your hands. It helps momentarily, but your toes are still numb. 

Sliding out of bed, you tiptoe out of your room and into the dark hallway. Next to your mother’s and Roman’s shared bedroom is a guest room, which is where Roman sleeps. Your mom spends a lot of nights on the couch, but sometimes she comes to bed and wakes Roman up in doing so, who already has a difficult time staying asleep. It’s just easier for him to have his own space, for a multitude of reasons. 

After opening the guest bedroom door, you find Roman sleeping on his side, moonlight casting a gentle glow on his pale skin. As you approach him, you see better his toned biceps, his soft and slim middle, how that curve deepens between his ribcage and his hips. The difference in width between his forearm and his wrist. Roman’s such a beautiful man. 

Carefully, quietly, you slip under his covers and inch yourself closer to him on the sheets until your tummy is pressed against his back. You wriggle your arms underneath his and tuck your feet between his legs, then squeeze him tight. Roman’s body heat soothes you immediately as you press your cheek against his bare shoulder. 

Reprieve is only momentary. A split second, maximum. Roman jolts awake, hissing at the feeling of your cold hands and feet on his warm body. He’s groggy and confused, and pushes you away frantically. He knows it’s you when you cuddle up to him again and he can smell you as you wrap your body around him once more. “Jesus Christ, kid. You’re fucking freezing, get away from me.”

“So cold,” you mumble, nuzzling closer to him. Roman’s on his back now, and you’re resting your head on his chest. You’d crawl inside his skin if you could. 

“It’s rude to invite yourself into people’s beds, do you know that? Or did you miss that memo.”

“Mhm, I missed that one,” you yawn. 

Roman chuckles. It’s sort of nice being woken up like this, by you, despite how unpleasant your cold extremities feel. Roman’s heart swells in his chest as he pulls you a little closer, pressing his nose against your hair. “C’mere and fucking give me these,” he huffs, taking your hands in both of his as he rubs them gently. “Before you give me frostbite.”

“I’m surprised it bothers you this much.” You wiggle your feet, rubbing them up and down on Roman’s legs to generate some friction. “I figured you’re so cold and heartless on the inside that you wouldn’t even notice.”

“Mm. That’s clever.”

Once Roman warms your hands enough, he lets them go and you wrap your arms around him again. Hands tucked under his torso, your head rising and falling a little with each of his rhythmic breaths. You’re curled up like a cat, soaking up all of him at this moment. The faint smell of his cologne and sweat, his warm breath on your skin. How soft he is. He’s tugged up your sleep shirt a bit, and his long fingers are now gently scratching up and down your back, soothing you right to sleep. 

“This is all I am to you, huh? Just a fuckin’...human radiator-pillow hybrid thing.”

“Mhm,” you answer on autopilot, farther from conscious than unconscious. Roman can hear in the way you’re breathing that you’re dead to the world. He chuckles again, smiling as he looks down at your sleeping form. He kisses your nose and your forehead, then traces your facial features with his free hand, smirking at how your nose crinkles and your brows knit together. Your pouty lips. If you were awake, you’d call him an asshole for tickling you. 

Roman puts two fingers on your chin, tilting your head back so he can kiss your lips. “Goodnight, baby girl.”

He just watches you. Watches and admires. He’ll go back to sleep in a few minutes, but for now, Roman savors the quiet, peaceful moment. You’re so limp, but clinging to him almost desperately. Roman knows it to be true by now, that you need him. Because you’re letting yourself need him, just like you used to. And inversely, Roman loves to feel needed by you. He feels valuable, he feels protective, masculine as he wraps his arms tighter around you. His arms are so much stronger when he uses them to hug you tight. 

It’s been a long, long time since you’ve slept with him like this. Curled around his body, limbs entangled. It used to be a somewhat regular occurrence. 

It started out when Roman would be going to bed, and as he walked past your bedroom he’d hear you whimpering and making other noises of distress. He’d let himself into your room to stop you from tossing and turning and thrashing, and then would hold you close as you babbled incoherently about your nightmare until you fell back asleep. Roman wonders if you remember that at all. It’s not like it was talked about.  

And there’d be moments similar when you were younger, you’d have a fight with your mom that’d leave you in tears. Awful, screaming fights, that even scared Roman a little. He’d listen to it happen, safe from a different floor or separated by doors and drywall. How scared you must’ve been. Your mom would be drunk and belligerent, aggressive. When you left, she’d follow. 

Roman always, always felt guilt for never sticking up for you. He carries that guilt even now. But when the screaming would end, and you’d tiptoe into your bedroom and cry alone, Roman would follow. He’d hold you close as you choked on your sobs, petting your hair. “You’re safe, you’re okay, kiddo. It’s just me and you,” he’d whisper, holding your trembling hand while he rubbed your palm with his thumb, pressing it into that little pad between your thumb and forefinger to try and soothe you. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. 

Pressure builds up behind Roman’s eyes as he recounts the memory, tears beginning to spill down his cheeks. “Jesus, fuck,” he whispers, wiping them away before they roll down his jaw and onto your forehead. He’s not gonna think about it anymore. He’s gonna go to sleep, holding you close and tight.

-

Hours have since passed. Maybe Roman’s gotten some sleep, but it’s hard to tell. Nothing real, at least. He lies awake, his skin damp from sweat. For someone so cold, you sure don’t absorb warmth very well. You seem to just insulate Roman’s own body heat. Roman scoots away from you to get some space, just a little, but you follow, and drape your thigh across his lap. As you move to get comfortable, you rub Roman’s crotch, his cock hardening in his boxer briefs. 

“Oh, gr- that’s great. Fucking fantastic,” Roman whispers, moving your thigh off of his body. It’s was only seconds and already he’s rock hard, all thanks to you. He presses his palm against his bulge in search of relief, but it only worsens the sensation. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…” 

Roman slips his hand beneath his briefs and pulls out his leaking cock, then spits in his palm and wraps his fingers around his length. He turns his head so that he can see you lying on your side, and hikes up your shirt, exposing your nude body. You’re not wearing any panties.

Roman watches you as he begins sliding his palm up and down, squeezing his fist tighter. Roman bites his lip as he thinks of you, thinks of being inside you. Fucking his hand is a means to an end, if only he could fuck you instead. Your mouth. Your cunt. 

Roman slides his thumb over the tip of his cock, collecting the wet, sticky precum that sits upon his slit as he fucks his fist. He breathes shakily and quietly as he works himself, a little moan slipping out here and there. With Roman’s other hand, he reaches into his briefs and cups his balls, squeezing them gently as he pumps his cock. “Look what you fuckin’ - God, you suck,” Roman grunts, then spits in his hand again. 

You pout, brows pinched together in annoyance as you grumble in your sleep. 

“Shh- be quiet. Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Roman hushes you. He’s gotten a little carried away, and that’s what disturbed your slumber. Roman takes a deep breath and slows down, taking his time as he pumps his fist. It seems that the gentle, rhythmic shaking of the bed as Roman fucks himself rocks you back to a deep sleep. How fucking twisted…

…Yet it makes Roman harder all the same. And he tries, but his fist isn’t cutting it. Roman bends forward to tug his briefs off all the way, tossing them on the ground, then carefully shifts on the bed so that he’s kneeling right by your head. He adjusts you on the pillow, tilting your face just a little so that he can fit the head of his cock between your lips. “You gonna let daddy fuck that pretty mouth? Hm, baby girl?” 

Roman inches his cock into your mouth little by little. 

“You’re sleeping. And in my bed,” he adds. “So it’s not like you have much of a choice, do you?” 

With that, Roman buries his cock in your mouth, sliding it towards the back of your throat. You accept the intrusion so gracefully and with such ease, but a small part of Roman wishes he could watch your eyes widen as you choke on his cock, feel you gag and sputter on him. Roman will just have to make a mess of you himself. 

He pulls himself out of your mouth, his shaft soaked in your saliva and glistening under the soft glow of the moonlight peeking in through the window. He taps your cheek with the tip of his cock, dragging it from cheek to cheek, across your lips. He pushes it back inside, burying himself all the way so that his balls rest against your skin. Roman draws his hips back and forth, fist tangled in your hair as he fucks your mouth gently.  

But it’s not enough. 

He misses the warmth of your body, the feeling of your skin against his. Roman pulls out of your mouth and gently shifts you onto your back, then backs down the bed. He spreads your legs wide and fuck, he can fucking smell you. That sweet, musky arousal between your thighs, that scent Roman’s committed to memory and yet, nothing compares to experiencing it in the present moment. He pushes your knees back toward your chest slowly, little by little, until you’re laid out like a platter for him. You’d be so shy if you were awake right now, fighting against Roman to close your legs. It turns Roman on more, knowing that you have no say in how he sees you, how he fucks you. “I can do fucking whatever I want to you, huh?” he breathes, bending down so he can kiss your inner thighs. “Whatever I want. And you don’t know a thing.” 

He kisses your asshole, rimming the tight muscle with his tongue before dipping it inside, pulling it out again so he can kiss his way up your cunt. He nips and sucks at your slick folds, your arousal soaking his face. When his lips attach to your clit and he sucks in just the way he knows that makes you squirm in discomfort, tugging at his hair as you push and pull away from him. You breathe heavily, panting and whimpering in your sleep. “Yeah, you don’t like it when daddy kisses you like that when you’re awake,” he murmurs. “Sensitive fucking thing.” 

Roman licks you a while longer, tracing the beautiful shape of your pussy with his tongue. He presses his nose against your clit, rubbing it around in slow circles. With his fingers, Roman traces your lips, toying with your damp curls. He loves the way your pubic hair tickles his face, the softness of it when you let it grow out a little longer. 

After eating his fill, Roman kisses his way up your torso, taking care to lick and tease your nipples. He slots himself between your thighs, his face buried in your neck as he notches his tip inside your slick entrance. And with one slow slide, he fills you. You’re so fucking warm and wet and pliant, taking him so well. Roman braces himself with one hand above you, the other on your hip as he squeezes the flesh there. “You’re so nice to me when you’re sleeping,” he whispers. “Oh, fuck. You’re so good.” 

Roman sets a pace, softly biting your skin as he rolls his hips into you. Each of his thrusts, every rock of his hips into your warm, wet, cunt has him biting into you harder, bruising you. He kisses your lips as he fucks you, relishing in their softness. 

“Rome,” you whimper, voice thick with sleep. 

“Shh, you’re okay, kiddo” he breathes in between kisses, “Daddy’s here. It’s just me and you. I’m right here.” 

Roman keeps kissing you, leaving your lips a swollen mess as he buries himself over and over inside you. “Fuck - I love, oh, fuck.”

Roman savors the feeling of you beneath him like this, the specific warmth of your body, your skin and his skin together. Roman’s thrusting builds quicker, rolling his hips a little more frantically while still maintaining that gentleness needed to keep you asleep. The pressure’s building in his balls and deep in his gut, his cock achingly hard and rigid. He pulls you flush against himself as he finishes, moaning while painting your insides as he milks himself inside of you, his muscles tensing and relaxing. Roman lets himself fall limp on top of you, his cock still inside you pulsing with every beat of his heart. He commits all of it - all of this - to memory. The private, secret pleasure of being the only one with knowledge of this moment. When Roman’s ready, he pulls out of you, his spend dripping from your hole and onto his bedsheets. He kisses you one last time before settling next to you, pushing you onto your side so he can curl his body around yours. 

When you wake in the morning, Roman’s gone. There’s a faint smell of coffee in the air but it’s quiet, and you can assume Roman’s already left for work. You’re a dripping mess, likely from the dream you had. You don’t remember much - just sensations, the sound of panting, the feeling of pleasure between your thighs and the occasional picture of Roman. You spread your legs and reach for your cunt, tracing your folds. There’s a slight pain there, a feeling of sensitivity. Maybe you were grinding against Roman in your sleep. You waste no time, circling your clit with precision as you pump your own fingers inside your pussy, unknowingly fucking Roman’s come back into yourself as you come once, twice, three times. 

In your bathroom, you turn on your shower. You take off your shirt and in the mirror, catch a glimpse of darkened, damaged skin on your shoulder. You trace the curved mark, the bruise tender under your fingertips. 

-

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[senselessviolets]

LOVE AMIDST THE DEAD.

jericho brown / hollywood forever cemetery sings by father john misty / saw (2004) / hannibal / yves olade

[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.

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<3

[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)

[senselessviolets]

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

[senselessviolets]

Always an angel, never a god.

[senselessviolets]

Hannibal 1.09 Trou Normand

[senselessviolets]

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."

[senselessviolets]

Enfants Riches Deprimes SS25 + The Secretary (2002)

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

[senselessviolets]

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