#slight roman

[ghost-kitty-cat]

Puppetry demon Headcanons– Pip's Institute file (don't know why but I want to do this..)

Name: ???? (They prefer the name "Pip"),

Age: Unknown

Reason for at institute: Puppetry Demon possession,

Family: Unknown,

Friends: None (Researcher Cyril and Researcher Roman are their friends...)

"From the information we have gathered so far, This "Pip" (as they seem to call themselves...) was the victim of a puppetry demon (more like a toy.. but sure go with "victim".... makes me seem like a villian even though i just wanted to play~) We do not know of the reasons for the possession... it seems this "Pip" does not recall that information.. (So maybe I might have messed up their brain more than I thought how enjoyable~) but by what information this "Pip" has given to us... we can assume this puppetry demon merely wanted a "toy" as this "Pip" claimed though we find that hard to believe... (aww does that mean that they don't believe all the games we played?... hehe well maybe I should show these researchers how it feels to be toyed with..) this "Pip" also claims to have nightmares though they refuse to give further information about them.... ..."Researcher" Roman (ooo it's the time boy...) seems to believe this "Pip" does truly have nightmares but I don't trust a word out of that guy's mouth.... (rude... such a rude researcher, the time boy did nothing wrong to deserve that....I think....) for now this is the most information that we have collected.... so I shall leave it here and this file will updated as so as we get more information (or possibly destroyed...) -Researcher K signing off- (I shall leave as well, but I recommend you watch your backs~)"

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

romangerri + smiles

[joannasteez]

sing, just for me

pairing | roman reigns x black reader warning | explicit content, including descriptions of sex. minors please do not interact. if you count flirting as fluff then sure i guess, theres some of that. supernatural element, so yes, its an AU!!! word count | 5.8k ... quiet nights of quiet stars, quiet chords from my guitar, floating on the silence that surrounds us... lyrics in red (corcovado by stan getz and astrud gilberto)

the strum of a spanish guitar and a sweeping staccato, these quaint bristling eruptions that pulse the room to life with a softened awakening. long aged spirits and slow to sip lips. abstract mosaic tilings glimmering with the paling yellow of lowlights. and through lush rouge lips comes a haunting melody. a song of lovelessness, to stain his spirit with a sorrowed tenderness. easing his bones till he lulls into a deep surrendering. and his fingers prick with warmth, alive with a daring sort of desire to touch and embrace. to console. the gentle silk dressing your skin parting and draping over in reverence of the high slit at your thigh, seemingly for him. to have, to hold, to care for.

but isn't that what every man thinks? that your crooning is for them alone. that when the passion of the melody becomes too great and your fingers begin to roam, nails sharp but feathery and caressing about the air and your own skin, that it is them you're thinking of. and when you shudder, when you hiss, breathy and overcome, isn't it them you imagine? touching and pleasing till that wordless teeming desire is fulfilled? because the allure beyond the burning in their eyes scorches your skin, forcing a craving in your bones. such lustful men, bound by the sin of their own dreams, and the ego that makes them believe all this grace and flare is made pure for them alone. but how can they not think those things? how can he not think these things? when you go on about so sweetly, eyes flitting to theirs, to his. and here he's caught. rapturous and silently pleading that you never look away. 

roman knows you, but not in the common way that a man knows a woman. not by name or by touch, or the familiarity that comes with soft spoken passions and loud terrible expressions. he knows your voice and your sultry little songs. and in some small, hidden, back alley lounge just on the pensacola panhandle, he comes nightly to hear you sing. just as the burn of the sun falls behind the horizon, till the early morning hours, where the sky pulls out from darkness into a paled blue. 

he sips at his dark liquors, tucked partly in the shadows of ill lit corners, bathing in the light of your songs. 

but even in his silence, he shares the depths of his appreciation. flowers to match the rouge of your lips, the petals tender to the touch and blooming prettily. and every other night, they appear, at the foot of your dressing room door, waiting to be swept up in the caress of your fingers. and just before every show, as the audience waits with bated breath for you to take the stage, he sends a shot of liquor your way. 

"courtesy of your admirer. for your nerves", the young bartender gives after pouring. the short glass filled with whiskey. 

and though your nerves cry from the bitterness of it, you take the taste in stride. feeling the warmth of it in your belly, just as high heels click toward center stage. 

stringy flicks of guitar, short clicks of percussion and the gentleness of your vocals smoothen the air once again. an intimate warmth he won't get used to. days, after weeks of a far away admiration and here he is still, drawn in quickly by the mystic of a woman he'd never known. 

but you thought of him too. of the whiskey he drank as his eyes lingered, and whether not the bitterness was as terrible in the glass as it was on his tongue. or maybe it didn't linger so heavily there, undone by warmth and the teasing slips it took over his teeth as your palms caressed over your hips. lips parted, singing wispy, slicing faint into the heavy silence of the room. and how could you sing about such a lovelessness, when his hands— fingers locked in with one another, long and heavy— trouble your imaginations as you go on raspy and impassioned. thinking of where they could roam and what they could do. 

surely his ego would take to a bursting if he knew. 

but it didn't. 

the bristling staccato of the drumming brush rustles the air but your voice fades with the spanish guitar to make way for the brassy float of a saxophone.

and there he is, sipping his whiskey, lulled into the atmosphere. 

your heels clicking over the floor, a surety laid in your bones. slipping easy onto the leather seating beside him. one leg crossed over the other, the high slit in your dress draping to reveal soft tempting skin. and his eyes take to you there leisurely, not overly greedy, but enough to indulge an obvious show of your own play of desire.

his eyes flit to your lips, the rouge color similar to blood. he wondered often, since his first time here, what they might taste like. the pull of them. 

"enjoy the show?"

your voice, this slow slip of honey. 

"it was nice", roman says simply. as if that pitch and tone hadn't stained his every roaming thought and daydream. 

"for all my hard work i figured i'd get higher marks. with how enthralled you are, nice is just a little to plain for my taste", something like a pout forming your lips, not too deep less you have him believe you actually care.

"you have a beautiful voice".

his own. deep. rich. binding to your bones. 

your fingers play with his pour of whiskey. the liquor swirling as your wrist twist the glass. the strength of it hitting your nose. "as beautiful as your taste in liquor, so i guess you hated it".

he grins, clutching the glass to finish his drink. body closer. the brown of his eyes clearer as he comes just under the dim casting down of the yellow lowlight. an arm stretching behind to lay against the top of the leather seat. becoming comfortable. 'thats good', you think. comfortable is good.

"you should know by how often i'm here that i enjoy you very much".

and there is a quiet here, among the soft sing of music. his eyes looking into yours and yours into his. a moment to allow the settling of words, once before a mere silent admiration, now formed whole with letters and persistence to bring about a more complete desire. it is, maybe an invitation. an open palm, waiting for assent, the soft embrace of the other.

"enjoy me more". you stand. reaching out to pull him with you. "no more flowers and hiding in the shadows. dance with me". 

his touch is colder than your imaginings but kind all the same. scent warm and autumn inspired despite the swelter of the summer season. a sweet spice that lulls you closer. a soft slow swaying together, intimate in it's own silence. and beneath stylish expensive feeling fabrics, you can sense the strength of him. lips lined soft and kissable, tempting. and his eyes from here, where you press into and sway with his embrace, are familiar. intense and consuming. a thorough take to your own eyes, as if to remember the little things. the shape of your lips, and the brown apples of your cheeks. the coy look up from under fanning lashes. an easy trailing over him, to note and remember in your own way. 

"your songs", he starts.

you hum. "what about them?"

"they have a... somberness to them". 

he leads your body gently behind a floor to ceiling oak pillar, done up with abstract relief carvings. a corner all to yourselves. you feel his hand maneuver, trailing to a less innocent placement. fingers long as they spread and sweep along the spine, pulling in till you flush softly to him. 

you make no struggle to stop him, to pull away. you lean in even. 

"i sing what i know". 

the intensity of him breaks with a softening. "have you never been in love? has no one ever made you feel love in that way?" 

"if they have, i don't remember". 

pain corrals in him. spills over into his chest and his words. makes the utterance thereof small and aching. "thats a shame". 

"is it?", thinking over what possible shame could come from something never had. "seems burdening to me. i have bills, i have enough things to cry over". 

"things? you mean love?" 

the way you speak so flimsily about it. is there really nothing of your memory? nothing of before? 

"better to have never loved, than to love and have lost". 

he smiles. "i don't think that's how the poem goes". 

"ooohhhh", you tease. "he's well read". 

he spins you. slips his embrace under your arm so that his hand meets the other at your lower back, at that less than innocent placement. 

you take the time to breathe him in again, to smoothen your touch over the ways of his arms till they join lazy about his shoulders. nails roaming his nape in such a teasing fashion that it shivers his already cold skin. he's closer here, just enough to share his breaths. to see the freckles in his cheeks. 

"he, is roman". 

spine throbbing as his thumbs caress. his name slipping over your skin till its beneath and staining. and the spill of the saxophone is melodic. pleasant and soothing as he watches the rouge of your lips part. you tell him your name.

"we're on a first name basis now". 

"we are". 

the rumblings under the softness of his voice is divine. disrupts your skin till the hairs stand and nerves rush. memory washed with a familiarity you can't place. 

his tongue peaks to slip over his lips. "can i ask you to do something for me?" 

"what?" 

his cheek presses to yours. and you feel the beginnings of a trembling. something ancient and belonging set into your bones. 

"sing quietly. just for me". 

mirth slips into your lips. the skin of your cheek rubbing against the hairs of his. lips breathy and teasing at his ear. "personal performances are expensive". 

"i'm worth my weight in whatever way that pays you". 

and even the angels, in all their majesty, can not delight nor arrest him so sweetly. with such a devastating gentleness of spirit. for the heaven in them, could not possibly do well to understand the haunting of this solemn summer song. a wispy falsetto, and the plucking of that spanish guitar once more. a soft sweeping melody into his ear. here, the sing of your voice is the tenderness of roses, having died once and remembering the pain of such a silent wilting, rising in spite from the earth again to bloom beautiful but with a familiar weariness. roman lulls, eerily surrendering, with the ease of a taken sailor by the song of the sea. 

his touch is an endearing press into your body. no more of that idleness as they curl. dull and gripping into silk covered skin. 

his eyes shine. taken. raptured. 

your foreheads touch fondly. your nails still doing well to caress his nape. something like nostalgia corrals in your belly. in the rushing of your blood. his touch new but old. 

his breath on your lips. close and sweeping against your face. his nose plays into the soft of yours. this finding of intimacy easy, as if it has existed before.

he hums. hearing the echoing of your singing still. 

"so much like a siren". 

"they're killers". your nails sharp with a slow sinking into his skin. enough the prick. to have him feel the possibility of pain. "of men specifically". 

his own fingers curl inward again. endeared to your warmth. "i guess i'd be susceptible then". 

you smile. thumbs running from his neck to the work of his jaw, where the hair is thick and bristling, till you find your self soothing over his freckles. his own touch soothing just the same into the line of your spine. his lips planting into your palm. into your wrist, lingering to feel the pulse of your blood against his mouth. 

"you're too warm", kissing your wrist once more. "too welcoming to be so cruel", he says. as if he knows you well enough to know such things. 

"and what if that's the act before the inevitable?" you gaze flickering up through your lashes. touch slipping again, along his neck, thumb over the apple of his throat. palms coming down to hold at his arms. feeling the thickness of them beneath his clothes. you smile. "i sink my teeth into you before ripping you apart". 

the music is light. eases your bodies into a swaying still. alone together in this little corner of the lounge. of the world. 

"you make it sound like a good time". 

"depends on what you're into i guess". 

"you seem to like to play with your food". 

your lips grow closer. the seam of them faint and teasing against his. sharing breaths and the thinning control to not act so suddenly on long built desires. 

"a bit of patience makes for a better savoring". 

he grins. wide and daring. "i just like to go for what's mine". 

"whats yours?", you laugh. so typical. you play an eye roll. "who knew men could be so possessive".

he lips take their own gentle trailing. from near your mouth to the supple skin of your cheeks, steady and light, soft at your jaw till they go about your neck. the tip of his nose pressing into your pulse. fingers deepening into your back, urging an arch into your spine as you cling to him gladly. 

your blood thrums harshly. thrilled. he hums, licking his lips, and the slight of his tongue wets your skin. and there he is warm, that much you can feel. 

"as possessive as the day is long. you're not wrong about that". 

"but it's night time now". 

he kisses your pulse. the touch of his mouth sweet. stirring. the mantle in your belly burns. 

"that's when the pursuit is sweetest". 

he spins you again and you take the time to breathe. to gather the restlessness in your body that longs for him to do something undoubtedly amorous. and that same hope dances in him, plays about his nerves and the set of his eyes. 

"where do i know you from?", too troubled by the possibility to ignore it. 

"nowhere". 

"then why is your face so familiar?" 

he grins. "you wouldn't believe how many women have stopped me to tell me the same thing. maybe i just have that face".

'bullshit', you think. the idea laughable. "you're too handsome to be familiar. maybe it's just them easing their way into trying to fuck you. compliments and a sense of familiarity go a long way".

his forehead rests to yours, his throat humming. mulling over your words. guiding your hips through the melody still. 

and when he speaks, the lewd make of his words stick to your lips. 

"do you want to fuck me, angel?"

your breath hitches. lightly trembling again in his arms. in the tightening bind of his fingers. your blood sweetening in his nose, like the first drips of honey. 

"is it not obvious enough? do you have to ask?"

and no he does not make you suffer. does not force the words off your lips, to soothe the width of his ego. it would only sour the warmth in his hands, for a woman such as yourself should not beg. should not reel with an exposing desperation, even amidst the shadows of such ill lit corners. she should be taken as she so coyly wishes, with firm sweeping tongue and the powered grip of an impassioned lover. and roman had no qualms of doing such, of kissing you greedily and forming your body to his. of curling his hands to bruise the silk of your dress, fabric crushing in his fingers till the high slit ran into his palm, leaving your skin bare. whiskey on his tongue, slipping lewd, with much method, to leave you drunk off the wet roaming of it as he buried into your skin else where. 

your back roughs into the oak pillar, carvings kneading into you. the brush drum steady, louder, accompanied by the bright trill of a piano. 

roman moans into your mouth. light and deep. breathing tensely through his nose. your hands take his, searching over skin to guide him. the heat nestled between your thighs coaxing his tongue to lick into your mouth. 

he smiles. your breaths rushed and ragged. a lone finger taking a simple glide till he slips through your slit. and the silk of your heat is something memorable. a soft warmth he's known once before. groaning, mouth open to breathe into you till he's ruffling into your neck. 

your hands cling to him and your hips chase him. whimpers singing from your throat. 

"you'll have to forgive me, but i need you quiet", he gives. feeding the long tease of his touch pass the tight ring of resistance, till he's seated deeply. steeping his finger till satisfaction bruises his nerves. he wonders, after having you tremble again under him, if he'd ever be satisfied. "charge it to my own possessiveness, but i can't have them hear you. hear how pretty you sound". 

he retracts, to join in another finger. a thicker stretching that leaves you to struggle against the breaking of a moan. your face hot and damp. the air thick and his mouth at your pulse urging your blood to rush, as if it knew it was him nestled against it. 

"okay?"

he strokes wet, firm feeling and slow. a patient working in that reverences the wild throbbing you take to it. an uncontrolled, mindless pulsing about his fingers. 

"need you to answer me when i speak to you". 

and his voice grows dark. controlled but undefiled still in the depth it holds to. it sinks into your flesh, commands your lungs to breathe, for words to form. shy and pliant. "okay". 

he moans again, licks into your skin, savoring the salted taste of sweat. and his touch feeds into you, roams into a roughness, the staccato of the brush drum blending seamless with the arousal coating his fingers. a sticky, pitchy mess singing lewd from your pussy as you struggle not to curse brightly into the thick air. but he makes it nearly impossible to breathe, to collect even the smallest sense of control. and his pleasure works over your body in familiar ways, remembrance sullying your bones till they surrender from some odd far away sense of knowing. as if all the skin and bones and nerves that make you have found something long lost, teeming with joy at such a faithful reunion. 

his lips pull into yours once more. your fingers holding over his face, keeping him there, to suffocate under his tongue. a sweet sweeping in, lapping lazy over yours in his own delirium. you suckle over the whiskey taste, thumbing into his cheeks. 

your core tightens. a salacious warning. burdening and hot as his thumb joins in to push against your clit. 

your forehead knocks gently into his cheek. nails sinking into his thick neck. unable to speak by his request but so desperately needing to express the weight nailing over your nerves. 

the tension, unreleased, builds over. pricks your eyes with a glassiness. you tremble still. "roman please", wispy and small. 

his skin delighting with the brush of your breath. desperations of pleasure bleeding into his skin. the ache and the burden of your arousal seeping hot over his fingers. clutching onto the thick of them. needy and mindless. 

his eyes meet yours. breaths stuttered and words ill formed as the heat of his staring pierces. flecks of red revealing before their disappearance. your mind too muddled by pleasure to care. 

"have at it", he whispers. thumb rolling over your clit as he deepens the ways of his fingers. "it's yours". 

your mouth presses into his shoulder, to muffle the cry that comes with that wild bursting heat. the pulsing in your skin and the heaviness in your chest. fighting for air as his mouth sweeps to kiss over your lips. fingers reveling in the messiness of your release. playing through your slit, soothing over your clit till he pinches the pearled nub, wringing out the remains of arousal. your hips rutting to chase the sensation, insatiable and wanting still. 

you whisper to him, rushing and grinding your hips still. "i'm renting upstairs. s'not too big, but it's not bad, if you-if you wanted to come up-"

"lead the way". 

and not much goes into the song and dance, of feigning interest about egg shell white apartment walls, and the color of your furniture. or how your place is just a greater carrier of the way your skin smells. comfortingly sweet and all consuming. his eyes not minding the antique lamps and neither does he care too much for the stacks of books and large hung up paintings. because he remembers these things quite clearly —your knack for artistry and your mind for words in books— of the woman he knew before you, the one with a different name but, her, your face all the same. the innocence of your forgetfulness twinging where his heart used to be. because how could he be angry, at the things you fail to remember, when now the peace upon you rests so dearly. years of waring with himself about ancient decisions long forgotten, as he spreads his tongue through the swollen slick parting of your folds. enraptured still, after all this time, by how your taste coats his tongue. arresting even the sharpest parts of him. 

the lay of your body picturesque along the kitchen island counter. and the marble top is not nearly as cold as his skin, but it shivers you all the same. late night, early morning, summer breeze willowing over you. 

the drawling alto of your moaning much different from earlier. something rawer and less refined but angelic all the same. a blend of feathering whimpers and ill controlled swearing, ravishing his ears. coaxing them to burn red as they rest between the heat of your thighs. and when he dips over the swollen nub of your clit, lips kissing messily, his eyes take to the curves of your skin. supple plans of warmth that leave him aching. 

your mouth opens lax, devastated by pleasure. fingers twisting against the hard peaks of your nipples. rutting up against his wet mouth for more of his good torture. his tongue invasive and exacting. thick and stroking against the lush opening of your body. and your moving is mindless, driven by blood lacing lust. the ball of your foot hooking into the broad muscles of his naked back as the other aches idle under the weight of his fingers. pushing into him, holding him hostage. 

the soft sweat dampened slope of your back arching. fingers curling into the edges of the kitchen island. "you're so damn greedy for it", toughing out of your mouth. words cutting through short breaths. 

he moans. dipping his fingers where his tongue had been. eyes casting over the swell of your breast, where your breaths shudder outward. delirium overtaking, slowly, steadily, dulling your eyes and the manner of your nerves. his thumb finding your clit with ease. pressing firm. "can't be a bad thing, not when you're shakin and tightenin up for me like this".

your head rolls straight, to find his eyes dilated. near black even. "you like it".

"no, angel", that delicate term returning to wreck havoc over your skin. "i love it". his lips pursing as he gathers a sticky line of spit, letting it drip to your clit. a man possessed, watching you pulse about his fingers. "real sensitive to my touch". and the kiss he leaves along the mess of your folds is terribly gentle. something like a gift. lips pursing, sweeping with tongue, as if he were taking in your mouth. and there he stayed for sometime, tonguing over the swollen bundle of nerves, nailing into your thighs, and breathing in the essence of your warmth. "y'sound so sweet when i have my tongue on you", going on like a man long starved of touch, passion unsullied by time. and when he parts, mouth and the bristling hair of his beard soaked over, the groaning that draws up from his chest proves to be uninhibited, a bout of impatience slipping in his blood to poison his resolve. 

his vision fights for sharpness, for control over more primal urges. "wanna hear you when i make you come".

you smile. overdone with pleasure. "so many request". 

"request can be denied". his tongue laps lazily, in a means to savor, and he moans till it shakes into laughter. amusement coursing him as your thighs flex in attempt to close against him. "you have yet to deny me". 

and his truths are proven. the spasm seizing your nerves and the drool pooling from your pussy enough to satisfy the surety of his words. the lithe forming together of a speechless pleasure breaking from your throat like feathered little songs. an ensemble of gasping and whimpering brighter than the day sky. and when you fight for air, to reel in the overtaking frenzy, the coarseness there in your throat rumbles beneath your skin, till its a deep resonance slipping into his ears, daring to drip into his blood. an everlasting poison. 

a siren indeed. 

roman plants kisses into your skin, a slow trailing up towards your navel. face planted into the heat of your belly. the scent of your arousal, a sweetened ambrosia. his chilling hands roaming over the aching in your thighs till their kneading reaches your hips. your numbed fingers run into the roots of his hair, circling over his scalp tenderly. 

"c'mere". 

you sigh. blissed and pliant. legs and arms shakily wrapping over him till they cling for fear of letting go. your nose tucked into the thick of his neck as he carries you to the soft leather couch. 

and he just barely overtakes the quaint little furniture, nestling into its corner to spread his leg out as the other bends to hang over comfortably. 

you waste no time. lips molding over his dewy ones, your taste steeping into your tongue as you suckle over his. nimble fingers undoing his pants till his cock is heavy and hard in your palm. his dull nails threatening to bruise your hips as he flushes your pussy over him. breathes undone and stuttering, mindlessly working your still swollen clit over the thick of him. tip pink and aching for something more than the tease of your folds. and a nostalgia takes to his bones, a similarity of passion paining him, memory this boundless flooding. the sinking in of your nails as you kiss his mouth and the heat of your skin, clinging to him for fear of losing him, all too agonizingly familiar. he can feel it beneath his toes, amongst the sensations of bliss, the sand of summer beaches and with the burning at the tips of his ears a bright bursting laughter. far away memory comes to him here, flowing along a breeze. 

a fist takes to his stiffness, the other hand holding up your hips. your lips trembling, one against the other. sharing thick intimate breaths. and amongst the late night silence, he stretches you delicately. a leisure, deft upstroke that waits with patience to feel your warmth. a steady handling of your hips as you attempt to settle him in. 

your jaw opens lax, gasping as the knocking out of wind leaves your words broken. 

"shhhhh", mouth pursing into yours. kissing into your cheek. once and then twice. his hips winding up into you. and the racing of your heart echoes in his ears, forces his tongue into a craving. your blood sweet in his nose still. "take me slowly", palms working your hips to grind into him again. spine throbbing, dazed even as your throat sings with little pleasures, heavy breathed and delirious. "relax into me", a soft command that overtakes the stiffness in your body, coaxing you to settle, molding into the thick mass of him. nearly impossible to tell the beginnings and endings of your bodies. "breathe". and your lungs open, the headiness of him delighting your nose. 

and the tenderness here is similar to gentle rain. the light kissing of lips and the working in of pliant fingers, caressing soft blissed skin. your heart beating with vigor against his chest, strong enough that it feels as though one exist within himself, pulsing about and filling him with life. 

his sharp teeth pull at your bottom lip, edging there just enough for a shiver and a moan. for the quick thoughtless rutting of your hips, squeezing against his cock, steeping him in a wet heat that left a terrible aching in his balls. he wanted to fuck you madly, suffer you to take him in his fullness till neither word nor thought could ever exist long enough to leave you. he wanted to consume you, enough that you would not forget him again. but this intimate savoring was too rich for him to just abandon on the account of wanting to run your pussy ragged. he could possibly do that another time, if you would have him. if you would cradle his head like you do now, letting his tongue lead over your skin till it prodded and sucked over your nipples. growing greedy, palming your breast to adore the sensitive skin. if you would have him, he would treat you with his urges, charm your body with anything you wanted. 

your clit pulses, urges a grinding to knock softly against his hard body. and the insatiable need teeming in your blood is nearly unbelievable. never having felt so wanton and filled with desire. 

his lips gentle still and unchallenging as they meet yours again. unhurried but sure. like he'd kissed you a thousand times. 

your eyes flutter open. forehead resting against his. and when the earthy brown of his stare burns into you, the familiarity of him burdens your spirit so. a deep, undefiled pressure that flutters your heart. 

the grainy sand of a summer beach and bright bursting laughter. 

your thumb caresses the freckles at his cheeks. "i know your face". thumbing over his mouth. "your tongue. your hands. your eyes". 

he sinks further into the couch, lets his head rest against the arm of it. pulls you into him. "where from?"

his inky hair, long undone in the midst of passion, falling about him. his gentle kissing mouth and his hands. his penchant for whiskey drinking and the unforgettable way he feels, filled to the hilt. 

"from dreams". 

he hums, indulging the thought. collects your hips with a covetous touch. torturing the dulling ache in your clit to flare with a renewed sense of life, fingers curling in to work your pussy over him, stroking up to meet you with a tenderness that reddens his cheeks and the tips of his ears. 

his words a gruff escaping. 

"how can you dream about a man you don't know?" 

the drool of your heat coats him with its own spirit of endearment. dribbles out till its slicking over the tuft of hair just where you meet him. your teeth taking to your lips, a feverish excitement lacing your pleasure still, beautifully undone, and becoming undone still at the splitting stretch of his dick. you slur even in your delirium, assailing the leather of your couch's arm as you bounce against him. knees bent and thighs aching, but still, he opens you fully, feeds into you like he belongs there. 

you stitch words together drunkenly. 

"how can you... how can you kiss a woman, fuckk!..kiss her so lovingly, when you've never met her". your teeth clench. touch playing over the dampness of your skin. a taut nipple caught over your thumb, encouraging the pulsing warmth that greedily clings to him. "why would you want to do that?" 

and if he had a heartbeat, it would burst with a raging. leave a vicious pounding into the ways of his pulse at the utterance of such a question. if only you knew. 

"your dreams are just desires. they'll pass". 

"and when they don't?"

you fight. for answers that don't leave a bitterness on your tongue. for his touch to become this great staining. a deep enough stitching beneath flesh and bone. 

"they will". 

you voice small. near fearful. "i don't believe you". 

roman corrals you. faster than the air can refill your lungs from such an abrupt shifting. laying under him, heavy breathed and trembling, your shoulder blades resting over the arm of the couch. his eyes splitting into your skin, roaming, as always, as if to remember for the sake of forgetting, this soft surgical tearing through till you can feel the influence of him. a stuttering in your heart. fear and excitement one and the same. and when his cock ruts, slipping in wet and nearly unforgiving, you gasp into still thick air. his body hard and fluid, hips working deft, tongue running over the ways of his teeth. 

his palms form over your thighs, pressing in to curl at the pliant flesh. 

his heavy breaths take in the scent of you. sticky arousal and the tempting sweetness of your blood. he groans, fucks into your pussy with a toppling desperation. 

his hair falls over him. raven colored and silky. his stitching together of words slurring. pleasure mounting his bones. taken by the dripping clutch you've suffered him to endure. but he's taken freely. gladly even. 

"what do you want?".

his eyes glazing over. and you reach to nail your fingers over him. over taut tough muscle. a harsh prickling that feels delicious in his skin. 

roman feels alive. like he could do anything. could give you anything.

thrill in your eyes and the heat in your skin, moaning beautiful, and if not for his deadness, it would surely be fatal. your lips now rouge-less, but addictive all the same. he wants to consume you. 

"you". nothing more sure could ever be said. "i want you". 

he grows faint in his control. words near a whisper. 

"you don't know what you're asking for". 

a breeze indulges the room. cuts into the thick air. 

"please". 

your body seizes. bursts hot and wild. and here he growls, dark and unbound from control. 

red flecks spot his eyes, his breath oddly warm as he lowers his lips to kiss yours. tongue sweeping in, rough and rolling over. 

your body preens, hitching and pulsing still. his nose nestling into where he can feel the beating of blood along your neck.

you sigh. content. arching your body into the weight of him. 

a paining tear into your skin. sharp teeth into delicate supple flesh. blood slips over onto already tainted leather and the wide flat licking of his tongue. he moans, drunk, weighted against the abrupt shock of your body. drinking in the fast drip of red as he comes undone.

[rius-cave]

Unfortunately for Lucifer’s self restraint, one of Eden Adam’s favorite games was play-tackling/wrestling

Despite his angelic strength he winds up underneath Adam quite a few times (which I’m sure wasn’t an intentional choice at all /s)

And despite the fact that Adam KNOWS Lucifer is an almost all powerful being for some reason he’s always surprised when Lucifer ends up on top of him, pinning him to the floor

ANON THIS IS LITERALLY JUST MY EDEN ADAMSAPPLE COMIC LMAOOOOOOO

AUUGGHHB I love Eden Adam being a little mischievously playful!! He's innocent, but he's still kind of a shit (endearingly) so he'd play pranks and annoy people on purpose LOL

HEHEHE, of course Lucifer could overpower him easily, but he lets him "beat him" most of the time because it just makes his blood rush and his heart pump HEHEEHEE

[cum-a-calla]

oR sucking romans cock under his desk so he has some mortifyingly weird interaction with someone important and hes humiliated and angry but also that's what gets him off the best

If he really wanted you to stop, he would roll the chair away, plant his palm against your face and push you forcefully off his cock. If he really wanted that, he would act, not whine about it.

"Come on, stop. I gotta take this." His cell buzzes in his hand. He peers under the desk at you and you look up at him, sliding your lips up and off of him with an obscene pop. You lick at the head as he shivers.

"Answer it."

"Answer it." You look directly at him, stroking him a little faster. "Now."

"Wh - no, I... I can't fucking answer it with you all, fucking... slutting it up down there! Jesus." He rants, and you know some of his irritation is real. The way his voice rises, the way he can't string a coherent sentence together to save his life. His flushed cheeks and the crease between his eyebrows. It's cute. "Take ten, sweetheart. I know you don't need my jizz that bad."

Roman's dick jumps in your hand and he whines at the way you lick a wet stripe from balls to slit. He presses the button and before he can press the phone to his ear, you shake your head.

"Speaker," you whisper firmly.

"Uh - yeah? Hello?"

"Oh, fuck you," he whispers back.

"Romulus - where are you right now?"

"I'm, uh, at the office. Er, like - I'm in the building, on a... a treadmill. What's up, Dad?"

It's all too easy to sink down on Roman's cock again, slowly, making sure to gag yourself with him to get him coated in your drool. The wet sucking sounds seem louder than they ever have before, and the way his body tenses up is delicious. A glance upward treats you to the line of his throat, head thrown back, teeth grit together. His free hand is white-knuckling the arm of his chair. It's hard to giggle with a mouthful of Roman, but you manage.

"Are you with someone? Romulus, are you with that fucking personal trainer again? We were raked through the fucking coals to settle -"

"Dad! No, I'm not. God. There's just - other people use the gym, Dad, it's like... fuckin background noise, or whatever."

Roman glares down at you, cheeks burning red, forcing himself to not roll his hips into your insistent rhythm. You know exactly what he likes, how to speed him along. How to slow him down. How to beckon him right to the brink. He acts angry, but you know he likes it; he likes the risk, the humiliation of getting sucked off while Daddy listens. You take him as deep as you can, gagging, moaning so softly that it's more a vibration against his cock than anything else. He throbs. He's harder than usual - this won't take long, not long at all.

They discuss the logistics of a meeting, of some boring documentation for some merger. The political and professional gossip is compelling, but it's not your focus at the moment. Not even close.

"Can you handle all this, Roman? You getting this, or should I hand this over to... hm, maybe Ken? If you're just too goddamn busy on the treadmill..."

"Treadmill?" Roman thrusts a little too hard into your throat and you immediately recoil a little, but he forces you down with his free hand. A punishment, or an admission of excitement? With Roman, you truly get it all, huh? "Ohh, y-yeah, the... right. Listen, fuck Ken. I got this. I've kept my nose clean, unlike that fucking Precious-Moments-looking little ratfucker, okay? Just - trust me."

"Uh huh." There’s a prolonged pause where Roman is looking at you with such a heady mix of hatred and dark, black desire that you could grind on his polished dress shoe til you came. The urge to push your fingers into your underwear is dancing in the back of your mind, but you resist. This is too delicious. His dad sighs on the phone. "Fine. Don't fuck this up, Roman."

"Aw, c'mon, have a little faith, yeah?"

"Hm. Well... you're gunna have to meet with Gerri on it. She wants to see you about things, fill you in on some of the finer details."

The mention of Gerri's name has him squeezing his eyes shut, holding his breath. He's so close it's ridiculous, thighs taut and trembling as he tries to hold it in. Interesting. Very interesting. You pop off only for a moment, keeping friction with your slippery hand.

"Cum for me," you murmur. Would Logan hear you? You could eat Roman alive right now, his pathetic, watery eyes, his entire lithe frame tight with tension. "Cum for mommy, Rome. Be a good boy. Cum for mommy."

"Okay. Okay, I - fuck - fuck, give me a sec," he groans, and he swings the phone up and away from his ear, hips bucking as you take him back between the warm, wet sanctity of your mouth, your tongue, fingers digging into his inner thighs. He shoots his load into your throat, spills over the back of your tongue in pulses.

"Roman?" Logan's voice comes across the waving cell phone, tired and irritated. "Son, are you there?"

"You're such a fucking bitch, I fuckin'... hate you," Roman hisses under his breath. He allows you to drain him, balls emptied, muscles relaxing. Only then does he push your head away, pushing his feet to roll the chair away from you in shame. "Dad? Sorry, I... I lost connection, there. Yeah, just have the ol' girl text me with the when and where, and I'll make it happen."

"Okay. Good." Logan sounds tentatively relieved, and hangs up without so much as a goodbye. Roman tosses his cell onto the desk, where it clatters. He glowers at you as you crawl out, wiping your mouth, eyes glittering and cunt wet.

"You fuckin' bitch," he says without malice. He catches his breath, flushed and gorgeous. He pushes a hand through his mussed hair, sweat beading his hairline. He snaps his fingers and nods curtly at the desk. "Okay. Up. Get up there. Legs open, pussy out. Your turn."

[jaebeomsbitch]

Not Just A Boy (R.R.)

Summary: You've been dating Roman Roy for a while now when one day he decides he's ready to try. Maybe he's mad about something or one of his siblings said something but tonight is the night he's having sex.

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, humiliation kink, degradation, verbal abuse, and Roman feeling guilty/self harm after. Female reader

A/N: I've had this in my notes for weeks. I have so many half written fics right now. Also I don't think you can write smut about Roman without addressing his intimacy issues which is why I included him feeling disgusted after but he's always comforted.

“Woah easy there tiger,” you say, holding Roman’s shoulders from approaching you any closer. His face a couple inches from yours.

“What? Just trying to fuck my girlfriend, isn’t that what you've always wanted?” He says, a certain harshness to his tone but his face looks like he’s joking. 

“A-are you okay? Did something happen?” You ask concerned. He was out of it clearly, I mean he would’ve said if he was ready to try. His brother must’ve said something to him again 

“Oh suddenly I want to fuck and I have a problem? ,” he rolls his eyes. 

“Roman… you never want to. Not that I’m complaining just- what brought this on?” You ask, confused.

“I want to fuck the shit out of you, what’s the fucking problem?” He’s growing more and more annoyed you won’t even let him try. Roman can be very...aggressive when he wants something.

“If that’s what you want…” you feel weary. Knowing he’s probably in an emotionally precarious state. 

“I wanna fuck my girlfriend is that so hard to ask?” He throws his arms out in frustration but he’s got pending nerves stewing away in his gut. Maybe he wanted you to say no but he knew that you never denied him anything. You always gave into his stupid requests even at your own expense.

“Okay, turn off the lights then,” You sigh, knowing he won’t be able to do anything if he sees a shred of his skin. You knew he’d probably wouldn’t go far and he’d get mad at himself but you were willing to try. 

He leans over, turning off the lamp. His grip harsh on your hips as he pulls your shorts to your knees. 

“Calm down,” You try to say but he ignores, his heated hips pressing to yours quickly. Like he doesn’t want you to see. As if you’ll be able to see in a pitch black room but there’s no arguing with Roman. He gets what he wants, he always has. Being the son of a billionaire certainly afforded him that luxury. 

“Just- just let me,” He says breathlessly trying to do it himself but you know he’s near a breaking point. You decide to take charge, you flip him over onto his back. 

“I told you to calm down, can’t you listen?” You say annoyed with his pressing. 

“What the fuck?” He says, his voice coming out with a certain lilt. You keep your eye contact with him, knowing he doesn’t like anyone looking down at his cock. You grab it, watching as his eyes widen at your touch. He’s only ever been used to the pressure of his own hands so this is a big change. 

“Spit,” You command him, holding your hand to his mouth. He just looks at you, his brain foggy as he’s trying to keep up with this change in dynamic. 

“W-what?” His eyebrows pinch

“You want to be disgusting, let’s be fucking disgusting or would you prefer me to take over? Can’t use your cock, gotta have your girlfriend do it for you” you taunt, already upset that he thinks he can do whatever he wants. You've spent countless nights with Roman's insistent hips pressed to your leg, his hands bruising the skin he grabs onto. Enough was enough.

“Okay if you want to stop, I'm stopping” You start pulling away from him but his hands grip onto your forearm. He can’t say it, the embarrassment washing over him as his arousal sets in. He likes seeing you like this, your smart mouth being used to put him in his place. 

“N-no,” He finally says. 

“Look a you, can’t even ask for what you want," You taunt, his big doe eyes looking up at you as he bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from whining. A mewl leaves the back of his throat, his eyes big and desperate.

"You say all those disgusting things to me, send me photos of your dick multiple times a day, and I have to fuck you myself? You’re useless Roman, just a little fucking toy for me aren’t you? That’s what you want?” You sneer, face an inch from his. God he looks so cute like this.

He nods, “Y-yes, m’disgusting,” he says breathlessly. You tease his cock, tapping it at your entrance. 

“Yeah, you’re pathetic. You’re nothing but a filthy little piece of shit,” You say, watching his face. He’s lost in your words, his mind foggy at the way you grip his thigh harshly. That familiar pain creeping in mixed with you pumping him dryly at his insistence.  A bead of precum spilling out as you move to rub the head of it. He hisses at his sensitivity. You decide to relent, giving him just a moment of sweetness that he doesn’t deserve. You lean down, hot spit spilling onto his cock. You pump faster with the new lubrication, small moans spilling from his mouth. 

His chest reddens, Roman could be vocal during phone sex sure but it was always breathless sighs. This was different, the reverberation of his whines pressing into his chest making him feel like a gong. His head pounding with the noise. He tries not to think about it, about this. About how you’ve crossed this line for the first time as more insults spill through your mouth. 

“Never gonna be good enough to be anything but my fuckdoll,” You say, looking at the faint outline of your hand working at the skin. The mixture of spit and precum shining under the moonlit night. He feels that familiar heat in his belly, his stomach twitching as his voice climbs. You pump him faster, the skin between your thumb and index finger running up the vein. His breath is ragged as he shudders.

“Shi-it, yeah.. nothing but your fuck toy,” He whines, his head thrashing on the pillow. The heat growing and growing as he loses himself in the feeling. Just as you feel his hips start to twitch you let go. He whimpers at the loss almost crying as he begs for you to touch him again. 

“Please— please don’t stop,” He mewls, hands coming to grip your forearm again. 

“You take what I fucking give,” You say, your lip curled in disgust as you shake his hands off. 

You let him stew in the loss of his orgasm, his dick is painfully hard and spasming as you remove your shorts. You slide his sleep pants off, moving in between his legs so his thighs crowd your knees. Your hands latch onto the meat of his thighs as you hook the back of his knees to your hips. You grab his cock tapping it against your entrance again. 

“F-fuck, m’ple—“ He chokes, not getting the full word out. 

“Yeah?” You try to make out his face in the darkness, the sound of his head nodding against the pillow mixed with his pants not enough. 

“Y-yeah,” He agrees, his voice smaller than normal. 

“I’ll stop Rome, I’m serious,” You say a little more sternly. 

“Just… fuckin’ put it in already,” He says, embarrassed but whiny at the idea. You give him a second to back down as you line up your hips with the tip of his cock. 

“Please,” Finally slips through his gasping lips. The tension in the room crackling as you slowly push into him. Your walls stretching as he slides into you. His hands grip onto the sheets, head thrashing at the sensation. This was much newer and tighter than his soft fist. 

“Look at you, so pathetic,” You say choking on your spit. It’s been too long since you’ve felt this, you’d sacrificed your pleasure for your relationship with Roman. One that you were semi-happy with, especially now that he’s moaning under you. 

You drag your hips, “Nothing more than a dildo to me,” You say as your hips slap against his ass.  

“Ye- yes,” He nods his head, his eyes scrunched closed. You start moving faster against him, the sound of skin slapping filling Roman’s apartment for the first time. You pound into him using him like the most expensive dildo in the world. His mouth hangs open, broken sounds leaving his pink lips. 

“So fucking eager for me, no one can fuck you like this, huh? So pathetic look at you moaning under me like a fucking slut,” You breathe as you lean over, your hand next to his head as you use him. You move your hips until you feel him hit that familiar part of you, a grunt leaving your lips. 

“Fuck’ disgusting, imagine your dad seeing this. Watching you get fucked, he’d be fucking revolted by you,” You say. 

“If only he knew his youngest son likes being treated like a common whore, just a pathetic little fuck toy,” Your voice lowering at the exertion of your movements. 

“Thank you thank you,” He mumbles, small droplets of tears in his eyes threaten to spill at his overwhelming pleasure. His moans growing louder and louder, that familiar heat building in his stomach again. 

“Please- please don’t stop,” He pleads, a moan hitching at the back of his throat as your hips buck wildly against his ass. The heels of his feet pressing into you to pull you closer. You chase your own release, the familiar fluter of your walls clamping onto him as you grow closer and closer. Grunts spilling from your lips faster, the thought of insulting him flown out the window. 

“So fucking perfect,” You gasp, leaning the rest of the way down to suck on whatever exposed skin you can find trying to quiet yourself. Your teeth grazing at the tendon on his neck, tongue gliding against the prominent vein as he clenches his jaw. His hips twitch, chasing his own release. His mind hazy at the feeling of you pressed all over him. He tries to will himself to focus on your words but when your teeth bite down a little harder he feels his eyes roll back. The threatening of his skin breaking at your mercy bringing him closer and closer to the edge until he’s careening over it. He whines and gasps, his face twisting in pleasure, mouth hung open. He sounds more like a rabid animal as broken sounds leave his lips. 

“Fuuuck” You gasp as you pummel his abused skin. His ass red with your repeated force and his cock already sensitive but his cum provides an easier glide as you use him. Tears spill down his cheeks at the overstimulation until you feel yourself free fall over the edge. Your hips bouncing against him as your thighs shake. Your face digging deeper into his neck, your mouth left open as you press it harder against his clenched muscles. 

You catch your breath before you lower his legs, soothing his aching muscles as he shudders. You try to warm him up, he’s probably not used to subspace. You try to pull him close as you finally lie next to him but he pushes your hands off. The disgust setting deep into his skin until it’s almost consuming him. You recognize that look in his eye, as you forcefully pull him toward the shower. You hand him the loofah, letting him rub his skin until its red and then yank it out of his hand. You’d only ever seen him like this a couple times before, when he decided to touch you on those rare occasions. You fear that this will break your relationship. That maybe you went too far with Roman. You turn around as he dries himself, you hand him a bottle of calming lotion. 

“For your skin, you rubbed it pretty raw,” You whisper afraid he’ll somehow runaway at your voice like a street cat. He tries to protest, “Put it on or I’m turning around and doing it myself,” You instruct. Making him feel like a kid again. 

“Okay buffalo bill,” He grumbles, slathering himself in the lotion as you put on your pajamas. He walks ahead of you fully dressed again, silently climbing into the bed, you lie next to him afraid he’ll try and run away but he does the unexpected. His head joins your pillow, his hand around your waist, as he breathe in your scent. For once in his life he stays held together, just slightly tattered and bruised because he's just a boy and you're just a girl. He sighs contently as you hug him back, your touch makes all the voices go away as he dozes off to sleep.

[twalxx]

more requests from ig

[violetmuses]

Roman Reigns + Female Reader 🖤

Fandom: WWE

Character: Roman Reigns

@episodes-ff @persethegawd @trippinsorrows @blackgurlnhermoods @expert-texpert 🏷

====

2023

“Ooh, somebody's in trouble!” Jey laughed in the tunnel as Roman paced back and forth, outright screwed.

Flirty comments taking place during the broadcast noted your attention right away.

Standing across the hallway, you folded both arms, quietly pissed.

“I'm sorry, baby. Okay?” His strong voice nearly trembled upon sight. You looked so pretty desperate facing anger.

“See you later.” Your voice bid farewell, yet Roman trailed footsteps like a lost puppy regardless.

Before leaving this venue, his damp yet gentle lips meet your touch as you kiss in the parking lot, forgiving each other.

[watermel0ns-dumb-cringe]

They're my roman empire

[easily-distracted-by-fandom]

Head Cannon: Every so often Roman will set up like "a fair day" in the imagination which is just an excuse to win prizes and play games with his friends because none of them can go to any actual fairs or events like that

Aww that’s adorable! My interpretation below!

Janus and Remus probably aren’t allowed for the longest time- so Janus will sometimes steal someone else’s invitation and go instead.

Virgil always gets spider themed plushies if he wins a carnaval game which causes some issues with Patton, who will flinch away from them (esp because Roman blessed the toys with the ability to come to life in the imagination) but he deals for his kiddos

Remus stole this idea, he has much more bloody carnivals on his side of the imagination (he’s tried to convince Janus and Orange to help him kidnap a light side to join multiple times)

Virgil HATED Remus’ carnivals and avoid Romans, assuming they’d be similar for the longest time. He was pleasantly surprised.

Logan is actually the best at the carnival games (because they’re not rigged). He usually gives the things he wins to the other sides (usually Virgil because he knows they help with his anxiety), but he has a few stuffed animals he snuggles for himself. He feels bad for keeping them but they make him feel safer (some of them are fiddle toys that Roman put in there for Virgil, but Logan really likes them)

Patton’s favorite toys are the stuffed puppies, but sometimes he’ll get a stuffed frog, and then wince and look at Roman.

Roman has made a bunch of duplicates of himself to run the circus tent part. He loves doing death-defying acts that would never work (the other sides don’t really show up to it. Janus does if he’s snuck in, and Patton tries to go to encourage his kiddo, but Logan doesn’t see the point in it and it gives Virgil really bad anxiety)

[arnisi-comic-blog]

Prelogue

under cut for blood and slight, non sexual nudity

First / next

[ghost-kitty-cat]

Pip Headcanons! (It's time to revisit our listeners...)

First Headcanon, (this more to do with how I picture Pip in my mind but...) I totally imagine Pip having light blue hair... maybe that's one of the things that drew Roman to them.... (ok my brain just added to this Headcanon and made it even more funny... sooo) nobody knows how Pip can still dye their hair even though they're at the institute... the researchers have tried looking everywhere for the hair dye but no one can find it... (XD)

Second Headcanon, I like to imagine Pip has only met/seen Rival/Dove once and somehow instantly knew that Rival/Dove and Cyril were together despite the fact that Cyril never mentioned anything about Rival/Dove (I don't know why my brain making Pip like this but I'm just rolling with it…)

Third Headcanon, (this is slightly dark.. but..) so we know Pip was kidnapped/taken control of by a puppetry demon and that's why they end up at institute (at least that's what I remember... and everytime I think of puppets, I think of the ones controlled by strings soo...) I imagine Pip has marks on their arms from the strings the puppetry demon used... (and... i'm just gonna move on now... this got dark quick... i need to save this dark energy for when I do the Jacob Headcanons... he's meant to be the spooky boy…)

Fourth Headcanon, (slightly also a Roman Headcanon.. but..) Pip totally has used some of their hair dye to dye a streak in Roman's hair (After Roman gave them permission to of course..)

Fifth Headcanon, ya know despite my previous Headcanons about Pip just knowing random things... I also imagine Pip is the type of person who would probably forget/misplace their own head if it wasn't attached to them... (maybe that's a possible side effect of being a puppetry demon's "puppet")

Sixth Headcanon, (slightly also a Roman Headcanon.. but..) I totally imagine Pip and Roman now cuddle each other to help one another fall asleep... (both of them probably need sleep after what they've been through…)

Seventh Headcanon, Pip definitely has snuck into the institute's library/records to learn about puppetry demons.. (they strangely want to know more about them... even despite what they've been through... it's odd totally normal…)

Eighth Headcanon, (this is slightly dark and more about the side effects of the puppetry demon... but..) I think it was mentioned how Pip has nightmares because of the puppetry demon (though I could be remembering that wrong..) but I imagine the nightmares Pip has somewhat are different each time but one nightmare that they've had multiple times is where Pip is on a stage... they look down and see their body is like that of a wooden puppet attached to a bunch of strings while the laughter of the puppetry demon can be heard all around... (geez... ok... that got dark quick... im just gonna move on!)

Ninth Headcanon, (slightly also a Roman and Cyril Headcanon) but I totally imagine that Roman has let Pip in on a experiment and the experiment went slightly wrong and Roman's lab was a mess and Cyril (or another person) scolded them for it…

Tenth Headcanon, Pip really likes blue orchids... (I think if Pip had access to some blue orchids, they would totally give some to Roman as a gift ^^)

[dotemakesthings]

Family bonding time is mandatory. Yes, Janus, even for you.

Based on this discord conversation with @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors :

[firewolf111]

Might I request a slightly angsty Roloceit confession?

Hello! Sorry I took so long. I blinked and the week was suddenly over, lol. Eh, time is a social construct.

Anyways...

Thanks for the request and hope you enjoy!

........................

Roman: *walking in to see Logan and Janus having a conversation. Stops by the doorway to easedrop*

Logan: And don't get me started on the symbolism of the setting! The sunflower field gives so much depth to the characters and their relationship!

Janus: I agree. At first, it seemed insignificant, but paired with what happens after... it's a cinematic masterpiece!

Roman listens as they continue on and on. At first, he thinks, "I can talk about literature and symbolism too." He nearly enters to join in, but he sees how happy they are. How great they connect. Anytime he tries to have a conversation like this, he'd get blown off. He screws up his words. He wasn't well-spoken and smart like those two. They were a perfect fit. How could he ever fit their dynamic? He was better to the side, admiring from a distance. All he'd achieve was making them explain simple things he wouldn't understand. He'd ruin the conversation and interrult their beautiful flow. They were made for each other. He was just the idiot who would get in their way.

Janus: *glancing over and seeing him* Oh, hello Roman. What brings you here on this fine evening?

Roman: Oh...I was going to ask Logan for help on a script I'm working on. But if you two are busy...

Janus: Oh nonsense. Come on in. You aren't interrupting anything we can't continue later.

Logan: *adjusting his glasses* Janus is quite right. I'll gladly help if you need it. Solving problems is a priority compared to a co.versation me and Janus can just continue later. Have a seat.

Roman: *takes a seat and discusses, yet feels out of place the whole time, like he is intruding on something he shouldn't be a part of.*

It's a few days later, Logan goes to find Roman, finding him and Janus in the living room. Roman and Janus are dancing together, conversation occurring naturally as they move together fluently.

Roman: *laughing* Are you sure? I much think I'd be more a peony than an oak tree. Though I'm surprised you didn't default to rose.

Janus: *twirling Roman* Oh please. While I can see a peony being an option, oak tree much more fits you. Strong and broad. Powerful and majestic. Supporting those that surround you. I can go on and on. Clearly, it is the plant that describes you best.

Roman: *rolling his eyes as he dips Janus* Whatever you say. I won't doubt your brilliant mind.

Logan watches as the two stand up. The two make eye contact with a smile, a look of understanding. Logan wishes he could have that connection with them. That understanding so deep thay you can speak without words directly. But he wasn't eloquent like that. He spoke in facts and straightforward language. No matter how he tried, he couldn't speak in such beautiful and showy language. And he would never be able to dance with them and keep up. He wasn't elegant or fluid. He was stiff and abrasive. How could he hope to fit in with such beautiful creative hearts. He'd only tie them down.

Janus: *seeing him* Logan. Hello. Are we being too loud?

Logan: No! No. You're fine. I was just looking to ask Roman a question on scheduling.

Roman: Oh! Of course. Ask away, my dear pocket watch.

Logan: It can wait for later if you're busy...

Roman: *sitting down and patting the seat next to him* Nonsense! Come. Ask away! *His smile beams*

Janus takes a seat across from them. Logan asks his question and gets his answer, which somehow devolves back to Janus and Roman's conversation earlier. Logan listens contendly as they talk before excusing himself to leave. As he leaves, Roman calls out.

Roman: Oh, by the way, since I bet you were curious. You would be a carnation. A red one, specifically.

Logan smiles at him and thanks him before leaving. He wishes he understood, but he would never reach the understanding those two have. He could see Janus shoot Roman a look, one of pure understanding when he told Logan what plant he'd be.

It's the next day when Janus walks into Roman and Logan complaining about some plot line that doesn't make sense. He stands in the doorway and watches them with a gentle smile. He listens contendly, thinking to himself, "Those two...so alike yet so different. They are perfect for each other. If only they could see it. They clearly love each other, yet are jealous of each other too. But why would they be jealous-

Ah. He understands. He makes up his mind right then and there. He enters and smiles at them.

Roman: Janus! My lovely slithering friend! What brings you here?

Logan: Hello Janus. Pleasure to see you.

Janus: *rolling his eyes fondly* Alright. Let's cut to the chase. I love both of you.

Roman and Logan: *spluttering in confusion*

Janus: *raising a hand* Let me finish. I love both of you. Both of you love me. And you also love each other. God, you two are so painfully infatuated with each other, and I'm embarrassed how long it took me to realize you were head over heels for me as well. So get your heads on straight, or as straight as you can get them, and quit being so self-deprecating. Your insecurities are so painfully obvious, and you clearly think you don't belong and would only ruin my connection with the other if you join, but you're wrong. I love you both. You both love me. And you love each other. Do the math.

Logan: I-

Roman: Wait, hold up.

Logan: You love us?

Roman: You think Logan loves me?

Logan: *glancing at Roman* Well... I mean...

Roman: You do? You do love me? Oh my god! You and Janus both love me! Me?! Oh my God.

Logan: Well, of course. You are very well spoken and poetic. You're brave and kind. Intelligent. Many things. How could I not?

Roman: I thought the same things about you.

Logan: You did?

Roman: Yeah.

Logan: ...so you love me as well?

Roman: Of course! God, I was so jealous of you and Janus because I thought I was too stupid. Turns out I was, just for a different reason than I thought. I was in love with both of you so bad.

Logan: Oh. Oh. Okay. That's great. ...What do we do now?

Janus: As I said, the math is simple. If we all three are in love with each other, the answer is obvious. The three of us may as well start a relationship. A romantic relationship...if you two want, of course.

Roman: ...How did I forget that's an option?

Logan: I also seem to forget that polyamory is an option that can be considered and discussed.

Roman: Not that...well that too. I meant the whole dating someone instead of just pining for them from a distance.

Janus: You two are hopeless. So is that a yes?

Logan: Yes...if you would be okay with that, Roman?

Roman: Okay with it?! Yes! Of course! Two amazing boyfriends for the price of one? That's a dream come true in more ways than you can believe.

Janus: Glad we finally got that settled...my loves.

[let-me-be-an-egg-toast]

heres comes the bride ahh

For the one and only @emo-wheatley

[jaebeomsbitch]

Puppy (R.R) Smut

Pt.I

Summary: Sending Roman a present turns into a sexy phone call

Warnings: MINORS DNI! Masturbation, degradation, phone sex?, guided masturbation, dom/sub dynamics.

Authors Note: God was so fun to write this. The virgin Eddie fic is like 90% done!

Roman was used to meeting the world with witty quips and that smug smile on his face. He never registered it as awkward as it is. Everyone around him could see how he was shouldering the pain away. Shoving against it like a football player during practice. 

He doesn’t see you again until the day of his fathers funeral. Until you’re getting the police to open up the fence and drag him up off the floor, pulling him into his Escalade and sitting in complete silence as his driver takes you both to his penthouse.

You gently clean up his wounds, undress him, hand him some pain killers and water then tuck him into bed with a kiss to his forehead. He doesn’t understand it. Why would you randomly come back to take care of him like this? You’d just left like it was nothing, it really was nothing. It was some flirting at best but here you were toeing off your heels and digging through his closet for a sleep shirt. 

You knew he’d never have the courage to ask you to stay. So you slip off your dress and put on his shirt sliding into the cool sheets of his bed and pressing him against your chest like a mother would to a child. It’s not long until he’s uncontrollably sobbing in your arms. He babbles incoherently as you rub his back. You hold him for what seems like hours until his tears are dried and the shirt you borrowed is full of snot. The bandaid on his face falling from his face. 

You stand up pulling a bandaid out from your phone case. You’d have it there for emergencies, in case your heels cut up your ankles. He sits there sniffling trying to push your hand away as you place a blue bandaid on him. It’s got a fat puppy all over it, like snoopy but different. 

You let him tucker himself out until he’s passed out on his bed, his fingers clutched to the shirt you’re wearing, red nosed, and puffy eyed. 

When you wake up he acts like nothing happened but he’s dressed differently. He’s no longer adorned with opulent suits but instead in baggy shorts and a T-shirt. He sips his coffee, that same smug smile adorning his face as he asks “ So how’d you sleep last night?”

You smile, seeing past his façade, seeing that scared little boy from last night. “Better with my kitten” you say in an annoying tone slipping back into teasing each other. You hug him tightly, almost spilling his hot coffee onto your arm. He’s trying not to laugh. 

“Well I’m not a kitten, I’m a tiger if anything. I’ll fuckin’ rip you to shreds” he scoffs sipping his bitter drink, pushing you off of him even though he craves the heat of your skin. 

“Fine, you’re my puppy then” you laugh, opening his refrigerator and grabbing an orange juice. He doesn’t say anything, he eyes you wearily. Sipping his drink but internally his heart pounds against his ribs.

You sip your drink watching him as he watches you like you’re in an old western movie ready to draw your guns. You silently finish your juice washing the cup as Roman makes a comment about how only peasants wash their dishes. 

Before he knows it you’re dressed and ready to slip out of his apartment and probably out of his life again. A part of him wants to beg for you to stay but his fragile ego won’t let him. He’d begged Gerri to stay and she threw it in his face. He couldn’t risk being hurt again and yet as you leave reminding him to call a doctor to stitch him up, his heart aches. 

He didn’t get to ask your name again. Miss Business and Pleasure… He wants to know who you are. Even if you’re just some low level employee at Waystar trying to kiss ass to climb the ladder. He sits on his his couch like Bella in Twilight, memories of the funeral, of his fuck up eating away at his soul. Any obligation to follow your orders and eat breakfast is long gone since you left. He feels that ache in his stomach and welcomes it. He deserves the pain for being useless. Everything was bullshit but most of all Roman was bullshit. 

He was always a pawn in a game he could never win. The court jester sent to fuck clients like a common whore despite his inability to get hard. 

Then there’s a package at the front desk. His mind racing, what could it be? Maybe another condolence gift, fuck em. Who cares? His father was dead and he was finally free of the cage and yet he could feel the familiar press of metal against his skin. He can practically see his siblings taunting him for being a weakling, dog bowl full of chow and water ready for him to dig in. 

The Gojo deal goes through he feels empty and free but chained… to what? Who knows. Like he'll never truly be free of the dog cage he grew accustomed to. The package sits in a pile until he finally decides to open them. Most of them have cards obviously written by personal assistants by rich fucks who can’t take the two seconds to write ‘sorry your dad died :/’ followed by bottles of expensive booze. Like that’s cured the crater in his chest. Maybe they wanted him to become an alcoholic. “34 year old Roman Roy found dead, choked on his own vomit,” he could almost imagine it. Taste the bile in his throat and the burn of the liquor in his chest. 

He gets to the last package opening it without a care. He rips through the tissue paper, the unfamiliar feeling on his fingertips before he registers what it is. It’s a blush pink collar. Why would someone send him a dog collar? Wait, this one was bigger and thicker… there’s a golden name plate that hangs from the middle of it, “Puppy” it reads. The metal jingles as he holds it up closer to his face.

“What the fuck?” He mumbles. 

Fingers searching through the packet until his index finger hits a corner of a paper. He pulls it out, a pink letter addressed to Roman well… to Puppy. He rips open the paper. There’s nothing on the paper, well no words it’s a phone number. 

Before he can think he’s dialing the number like he’s just a normal schmuck. He should probably at least Google search it but the phone is ringing and his heart pounds in his throat. He knows who this is from. 

“Romulus, to what do I owe the pleasure?” You say picking up on the third ring. 

“It’s you” he says, taken aback. 

“So it is. I take it you loved the present” you say, smirk on your lips. That familiar smug tone in your voice. 

“You want me to bark and sit on command too?” He asks, joking around with you. 

“I take it you didn’t see the back of the card” you reply. His hands go back to the note flipping it. 

“Sex dwarf by Soft Cell” it reads and then “send me a photo of it on, Puppy” all in your hand writing. 

“As if I’d do what you told me” he scoffs.

You laugh, “Why do I have a feeling you’re already hard imagining yourself on your knees for me? Crawling around your kitchen on all fours all pretty for me” 

“Seems like someone’s got a sick fetish. You’d like to break me down or something? Too bad I’m more emotionally stable that your fucking Psychologist,” Roman says. 

“We’ll see,” You say smugly over the phone before hanging up. Roman’s heart pounds, what the fuck did that mean? Would he see you again? Would he really have to wear the collar?

Weeks go by, his fingers itch to call you again. To hear your voice even over the shitty receiver of his pissed on phone. He doesn’t though, there’s a certain challenge between you going on. Like whoever contacts the other loses and yet, he knew if you reached out first you’d still somehow be winning. It was Roman who had all to lose in your invisible competition. Maybe it was all in his head?

There’s another box brought to him, this one a matching leash to his collar. His body can’t help it. He flushes with color imagining your red bottomed heels digging into his back, pressing his face to his tiled floor as you call him sick names, the leather biting at his skin on his neck. Before he knows it he’s walking over to his bedroom taking out the collar and matching leash and touching himself imagining it. His head tipped back, imagining the curl of your lips, that look of disgust on your face and then he’s coming all over his sheets. The collar and leash dripping with cum. He takes a photo and sends it to you waiting for a response like a puppy waiting for his owner. 

“See, I knew you liked it” you text, and then it's radio silence. Until his phone is ringing through the silent room. His fingers shaking, pants still down his thighs. 

“If it isn’t my owner,” He says sarcastically, fingers smudging the cum into the leather. 

“Put it on Romulus,” You say sternly over the phone. 

“That’s fucking-” He tries to protest. 

“Put the collar on like a good boy or I’ll have to punish you,” You say. 

“Oh I’m fucking trembling, what could you possibly do?” He says sarcastically. 

“I’m not asking again. Put the collar on or you’re never hearing from me again Romulus,” You say with a finality. He gulps, weirdly turned on by your threat despite jerking himself off less than five minutes ago. He puts the phone down, hands grabbing the collar and tightening it on his neck, his cum smearing all over his throat. 

“I’m not doing it,” He says, trying to sound stern, hand already playing with himself as he grabs the phone. You don’t say anything, his hand grabbing his hard cock and stroking himself slowly. 

“Mhm sure you're not,” You say condescendingly. 

“I’m holding it in my hand,” He quips back, fingers teasing the head of his cock before going back to stroke himself. He tries to keep his voice steady and breath even but the collar is doing more to him than he’d like to admit. 

“I know you Puppy. I know you’re touching yourself right now, imagining me telling how fucking disgusting you are. You’re a sick fuck Roman. Touching yourself while wearing my collar, you want to be owned don’t you? Want me to force you to admit how much you like this,” You say seductively. 

You hear him shudder as he hears those words. You hear him moan as he imagines you towering over him. Calling him your filthy and disgusting puppy. 

“Shit” He says, trying to hide the lust in his voice. 

“How’s it feel to touch yourself with your puppy tag bouncing on your throat? You’re my fucking toy to play with Rome. Let me hear how good it feels to fuck your hand while thinking of me,” You say. 

“You’re disgusting,” he says, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s now wearing the collar. You can hear as he tries to hide how much you’re turning him on, his face flushed.  You can hear the jingling of his collar and a puff of breath with his every movement.

“How did you know I was wearing it?” He asks you.

“Cause you want to be called a good boy,” You chuckle. Chills trickle down his spine, his face red as he strokes himself faster, teeth clenched trying to hold back his moans. He can’t hold back for much longer. You know you can just keep driving him further and further and he knows too. He’s at your mercy, has been since the first night you met. 

“You’re right,” he says. His voice is shaky and weak and he’s breathing very heavily.

“You’re disgusting Roman. You’re a sick fuck, God if you’re father knew you were jerking off with a dog collar on he’d smack you in the face,” you say into your phone. You knew he liked degradation from the way his breath hitched over the receiver.

“Let me hear how good your hand is making you feel Puppy,” You command.

“F-Fuck,” He moans, the jingling becoming more aparrent. His moans are mixed with the squelching of his hand on his cock. His precum dripping out, stomach tensing as he feels the burn in his belly. 

His eyes are closed. You can almost hear the blood coursing through your veins as his breaths get heavier. God what you wouldn’t do to see him right now. Cock in his hand, thighs quivering, head tilted upward trying to hold onto a semblance of himself as he fucked his fist as you tell him what to do. 

“Oh God,” is all he can manage to say. “Fuck- Fuck– m’disgusting,” He pants, the tingle at the base of his spine feeling electrifying. 

“That’s it pup, you’re close aren’t you? Let me hear you. Fuck, wish I could see those big puppy eyes begging me to let you cum” You say breathily. The jingle of his collar ringing in your ears.

His orgasm builds and builds until his thighs are trembling like he just ran a marathon, a mixture of moans and curse words spilling out his lips. He’s in pure heaven, hand stroking over himself as he spills onto his thighs, eyes rolling back, mouth open as moans spill out. 

“F-fuuuck” he pants as he relaxes against his bed. His phone pressed to his ear. 

His phone still pressed against his ear, he struggles to catch his breath. He listens to his own heavy breathing. He can feel the chills going down his spine as his chest rises and falls. His breathing is shallow, short and fast as his brain is completely fried. He can’t think about anything other than the pleasure he just felt. 

“Oh God,” he says again, trying to find words to show how he’s feeling. But he can’t say anything else. Not after what you just did to him.

“Good boy, Romey” you coo. 

“Fuck you,” He pants. 

“You wish,” You chuckle. 

“Now, follow your commands and send me a photo,” You say not letting him answer as you hang up immediately. Roman’s brain is complete mush. Fuck you, who did you think you were demanding a photo? A part of him also wanted to comply. The deep rooted feeling of wanting approval gnawing at him. Why did those two words from you send a shiver down his spine? God was he doing this? What if you sent this photo to someone else? 

Nonetheless ten minutes later your phone buzzes with a text. It’s a photo of Roman, his face cropped out but his neck adorned with that pink collar covered in his cum, his torso covered with a dress shirt, slacks down just enough for his cock to be free. He completely ruined his expensive suit, it’s all painted in his cum. 

“Good boy,” You reply. 

Roman had found himself in a completely different dog cage. One without his siblings cackling at him and forcing him to bark on command. Now you were outside the cage, images of your body clad in lingerie, insults passing through your lips, taunting him from outside of his metaphorical cage. Roman was your wholly devoted Puppy even if he wasn’t willing to fully admit it.