drunk as hell but this Valentine’s Day I want Roman
I want Roman not even asking you to be his Valentine because it’s a bargain deal. He gets you as a life partner, his little fugglesnuggle, his freak, his partner in crime, so yeah, it should be obvious you’re his Valentine. But he sees some tweet about how guys should always ask, that it’s just so important, so — while you’re in the shower, he comes in. As he usually does. But with your favorite flowers (it doesn’t matter that they’re out-of-season). Oh, and outside he also has some huge box of assorted Ferrero Rocher chocolates he remembers you talking about? And those designer shoes, you know, the ones you saw in Saks Fifth? Yeah, you should wear them tonight.
It’s not really that, though, that makes you all feel-good. It’s more that he kisses your back and shoulders when you get ready. More, more of that — more of, “You’re soft. Do you drink virgin’s blood? Seriously? The lotion I get you cannot be that good.”
He takes you to your favorite cafe for brunch. It reminds you of Paris, with outdoor seating and a delicious toasted marshmallow latte, but today you get a matcha with strawberry cold foam. He makes fun of you, “You’re drinking grass. Grass drinker. It’s not even, like, uhh — a what, cleanser? Just straight urban hippie grass juice. With a little fruity fluff.”
Afterwards, you both attend a nice museum exhibit, which you both enjoy for the first thirty minutes until you realize you’re both self-assigned critics and need a day off. So, movies — which, with Roman’s background in the film industry, is debatably worse. But Annie Hall is playing in his private theater until the late afternoon. It’s nice, it’s sweet, you’re both entangled like one great, big knot.
For dinner, he takes you to an Italian restaurant. It’s one that was once way out of budget when you first started working with him, one that you were honestly scared of walking into when he first brought you after work. Now it’s a second home. He calls it ‘your place’, meaning the place you had your first official-unofficial date. He still gets whiny when you say you didn’t know it was actually a date. You were just under the impression that your boss was trying to be nice so you don’t tattle on him for every little perversion.
He acts like it’s nothing, “Whatever, fuck you, it’s Valentine’s Day. Was I supposed to let you sit all alone and vibrate yourself numb?” He doesn’t expect a ‘thank you’, doesn’t really expect anything. This is just what you do, right? Standard procedure. You’re supposed to at least get your…romantic person (he holds himself back from saying ‘wife’), some chocolate and candy and flowers, and a nice dinner.
You walk for a while after dinner; he likes walking sometimes, usually when he’s drunk or high or upset. He’ll tell his driver to follow, just sort of not stay too far away, for when they actually wanna get home. You buy him flowers on the way back; some street vendor has Osiria roses. Beautiful flowers with dark reds and soft whites striping through the petals. He was fucking humiliated, because what, you’re buying him flowers? Like he’s some flamboyant metrosexual? You can only laugh at how ironically accurate that is. Truth is, he really doesn’t mind. He actually fucking loves it. Can’t stop ‘subtly’ smelling them when you ‘aren’t looking’.
He leans all over you on you while walking to the car. He just drapes himself over you, clings to you. Opens the door to the car for you with a snarky, “M’lady, the penthouse princess.” He nuzzles your shoulder and neck the whole ride, like a stray you’ve just picked up. For just a moment, he picks up your hand and kisses the part where your thumb meets your pointer finger, and then acts like it didn’t happen at all.
He clumsily grabs his roses and — most importantly — your hand as you both walk inside. Nudges you, an excuse to rub up against you as you both step into the private elevator. He quickly gives in, leaning on you and then making some exaggerated snoring sound as if he’s fallen asleep on your shoulder. A moment passes.
“You full? Like it?” He sounds uncertain. It shows, now, as it always will eventually, that he especially wanted you to like it. Paid attention, thought it out.
“When don’t I?” It’s half a scoff and half a laugh. You really have no room to say you don’t like one of your favorite restaurants in Manhattan, if not the world. Especially when he gets you the same pasta you had on your first date, the same tiramisu, with a hazelnut latte. He scoffs in return, face scrunching up as if it’s physically painful for him to imagine that you’re just lying, going with the flow.
When you both get into the penthouse, it’s actually not very late. You’re both full, and he groans as he stretches like an old man. He’s getting stocky, because he actually eats with you around. You notice when he doesn’t.
“You…like, like me, right?” He’s changing when he asks the awkward question, one he feels like should be left unsaid, it should be kind of obvious; you live with him, you work with him, you’re his Valentine. Every time something goes wrong or you’re upset, you call him. Of course you like him, duh, but maybe you don’t, or maybe you’re just playing the game, getting inside his head.
“Rome, come on. It’s us,” your words are supposed to portray just how dumb it sounds to ask you, of all people, that question. You’ve seen this guy cry, sob, you’ve felt him sneak into your bed after a nightmare, he’s told you stories of his fucked-up childhood and you’ve seen him get hit so hard he’s lost a tooth. He has admitted to you, in the privacy of the dark, quiet penthouse, while in the same bed with him playing a game of ‘Truths’, that he pissed the bed as a teen. And you’re still here. You’re always there.
“Fuck you, I know. I know you like me. But, do you?”
“Yes! Jesus, honey, yes, I like you,” you say quickly. It doesn’t take long for you to grab and hold his cheeks, feeling the scruff on them, rubbing circles with your thumb. He leans into the touch, kisses your thumb. His eyes practically twinkle.
“Yeah. Yeah, you do,” his first ‘yeah’ sounded almost whispered, like it soothed some part of his soul, whereas the second ‘yeah’ immediately turned back into typical Roman. That faux suaveness never fails to make him look silly, all sweet and stupid.
“Bed now?”
“Bed now,” you agree. And it isn’t inherently sexual. You’re both tired, and he wants your skin on his. He lays the roses beside your flowers, assuming the maid will put them in water for him.
The two of you brush your teeth together in the en-suite. You do your skincare routine together (although his takes longer). And at the end of both, he comes over to where you sit on the edge of the sink and puckers his lips for you to kiss, and you hop off and head over to the bedroom to change.
He nearly never sleeps without a shirt. Whether he’s wearing an undershirt, or one of your tees, he’s almost always in some shirt and his briefs. He takes his shirt off tonight, and doesn’t put one back on in its place. He’s soft, shaven, and just a little pudgy. Little freckles and moles are dispersed sparsely around his pale skin that has very recently been seeing just a bit more sun from a recent vacation to Italy.
“You’re such a fuckin’ perv,” he comments awkwardly at your staring. It sounds confident, funny, but you can tell that he’s sucking in his tummy, flexing his biceps as if he’s some big, strong man.
“I appreciate beautiful things. Don’t you?”
“Oh — smooth, smooooth fucking operator, very nice. I mean, an art exhibit is one thing, but full-frontal is kinda different.”
“Mm,” you come up to him, kissing his back now, kissing his shoulders. “Not with you.” It has two meanings, a double-edged sword: he always finds such weird shit so artistic, and not even in a directly perverse way; he loves the movie Brown Bunny, and genuinely believes that the blowjob was crucial to the plot. On the other hand, he’s also just — different. Even if full-frontal, on average, may not be worthy of the Louvre, it’s Roman. He’s Venus as a boy. He’s something entirely different from the rest.
And he can’t handle that. His face scrunches up again, as if in pain, feels his eyes hot, wet. You’re kissing his back and saying he’s art.
With a quick whine, he’s turned around in your arms and facing you, kissing you the way you’d imagine a woman may kiss her husband after he returns home from The War. It’s silly, it’s almost like he thinks you’ll disappear if he stops, it feels like he’s a kid, like he’s a little kid again with a crush on Sally-May-what’s-her-name aka who-gives-a-fuck. Like he’s never kissed in his life, and he’s wearing noise-cancelling headphones and the only thing playing is how the fabric of your dress moves against his hand as he hold onto it like reigns, and the squeaky noises of lips on lips, and your soft little noise is surprise.
But you don’t push him away. You let him take his fill. And he does, and when he’s done, he licks his spit from your lips with such reverence that it’s hard not to laugh.
“W-fuck, what?”
“No! No, Roro, it’s fine, no, you’re just,” you chuckle breathlessly, partly because you’re trying to hold back a laugh at his actions, tongue slowly tickling and tracing your lips, and partly because you hardly have any breath left after that kiss. “Oh, Romeyrabbit. You’re just silly. Silly, silly boy.”
He’s about to retort, but your hands are in his hair and he allows it. He’s okay with being some fucking stupid ‘Romeyrabbit’ and ‘silly boy’ if you take off this dress. So he crumples, nuzzles into your touch, and tries tugging off your dress.
“Okay, okay,” you respond, paying no mind to his puppy dog eyes the moment you pull away to take off your dress. “You, too!” You demand, and he quickly obeys, unbuckling and unzipping, slacks on the floor in seconds, tugging his socks off along with them.
He watches while still standing. He knows he looks stupid, just standing there and gawking at you, but — Venus of Townley is in his bedroom tugging down her dress and slipping off her shoes.
Taking too-big, clumsy steps, he walks with his bare feet in only his navy blue Calvin Klein briefs to go behind you and take off your bra with clammy hands. He tugs it down your shoulders and lets it fall down your arms. It’s not sexual, it isn’t anything at all; it’s him, it’s you, it’s a quiet, cool bedroom on Valentine’s Day.
Panties are next and then it’s all off. He keeps his briefs on, usually does, though he may take them off at some point through the night. But this is enough. He leans into the crook of your neck from behind, his nose nudging at your ear.
“Mmbed,” he mumbles what seems like a childish demand. “Beddy-bye.”
You hold his hand where it’s wrapped around your tummy, draw it up to your lips, and kiss the back of it. He sways with you in his arms — well, less of swaying, more of yanking you side-to-side with a playful growl. You giggle, let out a ridiculous laugh. You can feel his grin on your skin.
In bed, it’s soft, and the sheets feel as expensive as they are. Your noses touch, and he nudges them together when you start to fall asleep during the ceremonial staring contest ritual that has apparently just begun. But soon, you drift off and he doesn’t nudge you, just lets you. You make little “mmn,” noises in your sleep and his lips quirk up at them. He stares. He watches you sleep, if only for a few minutes. It’s a weird thing to do as is. But he likes it, the two of you entangled and him being able to just love you, watch you, observe you as you are. It is Valentine’s Day, after all. It begs the question of what the whole fucking holiday is about if not just this.
Just this. You and him. How nice is that? How nice can life fucking get?
just started my period after a prolonged ovulation (no one cares mutt) and i decided i missed being horny. written for people with periods that use she/her pronouns.
TW: smut, just about straight from the get-go. typical roman hijinks. somno that seems soft but he has ulterior motives because he loooooves you and your poor period pussy. i can’t tell if this is misogynistic or just romantic being ironic, but believe me, he loves you. PERIOD STUFF! CRUDE LANGUAGE! DUBCON (well…maybe noncon)! praise and degradation but kinda fucked in a sweet way. he finds you cute-slash-as beautiful as a goddess. roman films you without your consent and whispers commentary. rimming, roman eats your ass. breeding at the end.
A/N: technically thus far, nothing on my blog is 100% canon to My Roman Storyline (oh shit gotta actually write that — forgot i had to write my own story). this is just for fun. self-indulgent as fuck; nothing more, nothing less. also no beta. no anything actually i wrote this on my phone mostly in the tumblr app and said yeah that’s good enough send it out. so don’t take this as some sort of literary pièce de résistance of fanfiction, it’s 5k words that i would compare to a tangled ball of yarn. ur welcum
Roman kind of cares that you’re struggling, but not really? Because like, you love him. That’s it. You’ve always been a giver, and yeah, he’s always taken advantage of that, because that makes you feel good — useful, nice, hard to abandon is what Roman thinks you consider yourself. Aren’t you already? He doesn’t think too much into it.
He brings painkillers, he knows exactly what combo to use: three ibuprofen, two tylenol. Makes you some warm blackcurrant tea his mom gave him a long time ago that he keeps stocked up, which to him tastes like warm Ribena. He nuzzles your noggin instead of kissing it, not because he’s weird about menstruation, just because you’re in a ‘no touchy’ mood. Until you’re not. And he thinks that’s all good, fun and games, puts on a movie, Only You from 1994. A nice romcom should — will most certainly — soothe a chick on her period, he takes it as a life hack: a romcom and a warm hand on your tummy.
You fall asleep with some time. It takes time, he’s okay with that. He’s still in his work clothes, his dark blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms and those kinda stubby, wide fingers. They’re so soft and warm that they almost match your heat. His belt holds up his black slacks and your hand rests on it, like he was the one shedding his uterine lining. Your palms are warmer than his.
Roman’s dick twitches. The vein in his forehead just pops out, his eyes just lock in on you like if he looks away you’ll disappear. You’re warm, and soft, and malleable; you always take good care of Roman, because he needs it, he knows he does. But right now, you’re in pain to the extent that you’re allowing him to take care of you. You’re asleep on his side, halfway lying on him, not even paying attention as the movie finishes up. Your toes twitch and you occasionally make a little “mmn” noise in your sleep. It isn’t sexy by any means, but it’s so you. He thinks he’s sort of addicted to seeing you so intimately, open, vulnerable. You can’t take care of him like this. It’s his turn to baby you and he’s already plotting what he can do now that you’re so pliant.
Fuck, he feels awful. Not that he should, though, right? You’re like, maybe his soulmate. He adores you. He pays for your existence and you love him. And he loves you, in a Beauty and the Beast, trap her in my tower-slash-penthouse sort of way.
His black socks scoot against the bedding and blanket as he reaches for his phone. He goes to his text messages and searches some familiar key words from one day, scrolls until he finds a message from that day and opens it. Yeah, that’s exactly it. Pictures of his own dick hanging out of his fucking Calvin Klein tighty-whities, soft, limp, his untrimmed pubes peeking out.
He doesn’t really get off on his own cock, but he’s enough of a freak to hope you would. To hope your little clit would get all puffy and irritated and fuck — maybe your hole would clench around nothing. Flutter and squeeze like trying to milk a load out of him.
A few minutes after he sent that text, after you just gave a quick heart reaction to the prior, he sent another pic. His balls, full fucking sack on display. His texts after are almost frantic at her lack of verbal response.
Have fun playing out your fascist fantasies and ignoring me. I’ll be waiting here like a good little cuck. Come home whenever you’re done.
Can you just come?
Yes I mean that as a double entendre
You’re a bitch of a wife. When I actually marry you I’m gonna put a shock collar on you because of this
He’s always been supportive of your career. He’d just really like it if you could get it all out of your system sooner or later and become a good girl for him. You know, sucking his dick every morning, getting knocked up and worshipping his nuts to thank him. It’s really not that difficult.
He almost jumps out of his hot, horny skin when you move in your sleep. Just a little adjustment, tightening your leg around his thigh, squeezing it tighter like a pillow. His phone immediately turned closer to him, but slowly, he turns it off and lays it down, still on the bed. He may have use for it. He likes documenting you, likes knowing he has it even if he can’t bear to hear himself on camera. Still feels proud he has it. Maybe he’ll show it to Kendall one day, the folder of pictures and videos of you that you’re scarcely aware of.
His dick is half hard when he gently scoots his hand beneath yours in his belt buckle to unbuckle it, flinching at the sound of his belt clanking. He moves on to unbutton his slacks, unzip them, and palm himself through his too-tight briefs.
You’re there, you’re asleep, your poor, puffy pussy is free bleeding in black shorts, and his dick feels like a bull at a rodeo. Fucking jerking and bobbing at every new thought, which really, is every new opportunity. You’d let him do anything as long as he slipped in some shit you liked, something about how you’re a goooooood girl, or something about him being a daddy, or if you’re really out of it, something about emptying his balls so deep into you that you’ll be waddling in a few months.
Gently, so gently, he moves your leg off of him by the underside your knee, rubbing his soft thumb against the even softer skin of the underside of your calf. He’s surprised it soothes you so easily.
Eyes glued to you and his breath huffy, kind of sharp, he eases his slacks and briefs down to his knees, tugging off his socks as well, tossing those to the floor. No room for anything getting in the way on the supposedly sacred space of your bed.
His dick is flushed, but flagging. You’re on your side as he lays down on his, facing you — his hips where his face should be. His fingers pet your hair, slowly bringing your lips flush with his balls, your nose nuzzling the base of his cock. Like instinct, you shift your face a little. Maybe it’s some evolutionary psychological theory of propagation or maybe it’s just because you’ve done it so much, but you pucker your lips to kiss his balls, nuzzling in closer.
Fucked? Sure. But beautiful? Like Christopher Doyle on steroids. Wong Kar-Wai couldn’t fucking visualize how he feels.
“Uhn-uhn. Open, open up honey,” he says as you try to move away. His voice is quiet and squeaky, and he hopes you think it’s all a dream. Your tongue lolls out on him and you breathe out a pitiful little whine. Sweet girl must be having a good little dream, huh?
“Okay, okay. I know. I’ll do it for you. You just rest,” he says, sticking his thumb in your mouth for you to suck on. You do, and it makes his dick jump against his tummy. Bringing it out, slick with your spit, he rubs it along his cock as best he can. He should use some more, some of his own spit. It’s not wet enough. But he’ll deal with it. He doesn’t want any spit but yours on his dick, and he doesn’t wanna disturb your sleep. Yet.
He pumps his cock a couple times, but by the time he’s hard, he isn’t even sliding his hand up and down his cock. His jaw is clenched and he’s fucking your pussy — his hand mimics your pussy squeezing, trying to milk him, and his thumb occasionally brushing against his tip is a shitty imitation of your cervix.
He likes bending you, feeling his sticky cocktip kiss your cervix as he kisses you, thinks it’s real sweet. He’s kissing you with his lips and his cock, how domestic. Maybe he’ll drool his spit into your mouth as his cock drools cum into your cervix. The memory makes him throb.
He gasps quietly and removes his hand from his cock. Hands push your face further into the pillow as you naturally roll on your belly, tits smushed against the bed through your stupid oversized tee that he’s stolen from you countless times. “Up, up,” he whispers, not expecting you to hear him, but he makes you obey.
Waddling behind you to sit on his knees, arms around your lower abdomen from behind, his chest at your back, he lifts you just a little to remove your shorts. He pulls them all the way down your legs and off your ankles to throw them the floor, the same treatment that his socks got. Situates you so your hips are up, one of your more limp pillows beneath you, barely noticeable.
Fuck. Holy fuck. He spreads your legs with a quick, quiet mumbled whisper of, “Spread ‘em,” and stares at your hole for a while. A while, meaning a solid minute, maybe more. It’s bloody and he knows it’s a little tighter than usual.
You’ve been really struggling, haven’t had much time to take care of your pretty little pussy. Haven’t told him what you need. Poor, pitiful thing. Not that he would’ve helped you.
A glob of his spit drips onto your pucker, down to your pussy and further down to your clit. He leans in close to smell, smell the blood, your pussy. He doesn’t have any particular affinity for your period, but he does have a special interest in your pussy. Not just pretty pussies, just — your pretty pussy. Like Venus de Milo of cunts. Maybe that’s why he took you to see it at the Louvre.
Spreading your pussy lips, he spits directly on your hole. One thick finger pushes the spit in, see-sawing it in and out of your hole until your hole sucks it in to the knuckle. He’s entranced. With your asshole still slick with his spit, he feels the urge to rim you. But oh, you get so embarrassed when he does that, and he wouldn’t wanna make you embarrassed while you’re cramping. A tongue outlining that ring of muscle wouldn’t be very soothing.
So he does it.
Leaning down, scruff tickling your cheeks, he drools on the hole as a second finger just barely presses into your pussy beside the first. He lap at it, swirling, before the tip of his tongue dips in. He sees you squirm.
“Just a li’l taste test,” he assures in a hot breath against the hole, getting the idea to blow cool air on it. He does, watching it clench spastically, making him absolutely fucking delighted. “Calm the fuck down, Jesus. Just my tongue.”
Leaning up from your holes, he slowly tugs his fingers out of your pussy. He sniffs them with a quiet, soft groan before he licks them, basically makes out with them, until they’re clean of you.
His tip is basically fucking purple, not a drop of blood in his brain anymore. He lets his dick lead the way, notching in your hole with accuracy rarely shown. He’s thankful for it; now’s not the time to slip it in the wrong hole. Probably.
Just the tip, and he’s leaning his head back. His eyes squeeze shut and his balls tighten, and he bites his lip but it does nothing to stop the whine from escaping through his closed mouth. “Ah-fuck,” he moans your name, or rather, whimpers it. He’s entranced by your hold the minute he moves. The tip pops in, and out, and in, and half way out until he sees your hips jerk away, and he can’t help but push his dick in a little farther down past the tip out of instinct.
“Ro — Roman, no, Rome,” you say in a shaky voice, the left side of your lower abdomen aching just a bit as the pain meds wear off. “Why the fuck — mmgh,” you squirm, feeling the wetness of his spit on your asshole and his dick a couple inches deep. “Please, out, take it out,” you whine, scared, trying in vain to pull him out by scooting away.
“No — no, no, fuck,” he scrambles to keep you still, pins you down by the back of your neck. “I’m not doing what you think. ‘Kay? I’m not — raping you. I’m making love to you. That’s what I do, remember? Feel that ache? I’m tryna make it go away. See?” He pops the tip of his cock out and rubs it on your clit. Takes it slow, rocks his dick from tip to down near the base, lets you feel the ridges and veins and how his blood pumps through it.
You let out a noise that can only be described as distorted. It’s broken and scared and still sleepy; your body is begging for him to just stick his dick back in and blow his load in you, cunt clenching at every bump, ridge, and vein as he rocks your clit back and forth on his dick.
“Shhhh-sh-sh-shh,” he soothes you. His left hand goes to warm your front again, like a heating pad, as his right goes back to your pussy. His cock is rubbing your clit as he humps, and one finger slips slowly back into your pussy.
“You don’t — y’don’ have to,” you slur out, your speech still sluggish and slow with sleep. It’s uncomfortable, just a little, but his hand on your lower abdomen is so warm, so soft, that it makes you lean into him against your better interests.
“If you — ah — if you want, I c’n just blow you, or,” you trail off, embarrassed by the blood seeping from your pussy. It’s messy, and Roman generally just isn’t the most giving kind. Or maybe you just don’t give him the chance. Yeah, that rings a bell. Wonder why.
Roman knows. Roman sees straight through you the same way you see right through him, but you’d never expect it. He uses it as leverage whereas you use it for — what, love, comfort? Maybe his leverage is sort of like that. Manipulating you into calming down.
“Awww, is someone feeling insecure about their little puss puss?” Roman coos mockingly. “Don’t you worry. She’s doing juuuust perfect. Though I can see why you’d need some reassurance. You have, what, a whole lotta hormones and shit surging through you right now, huh?” He says in a tone where you can practically hear his scrunched-up face, filled with mocking disgust.
He giggles drunkenly, “That’s okay. Isn’t it? I don’t mind if my fleshlight is a little, uhhh…” His left hand on your lower abdomen makes a stupid gesture that goes with this face, both unseen by you but easily predictable by his pause and tone. And if his fingers nudging into you mean anything, that stupid gesture is that typical curl, where he raises it in a sort of confused fashion. “Fucking — bloody? Kinda hot. Like you’re already lubed up.”
He does not fucking help. It’s almost a game, seeing how embarrassed you can get, and he’s impatient to win. Roman likes to think he dabbles in cruelty (whereas he may say you have a PhD in cruelty just for not letting him lay all over you while you work), but he makes sure never to break his favorite toy. Well, not to the extent to which it can’t be fixed, at least.
And you can be fixed. The tears start bubbling over as the pain from before starts subsiding. It’s the worst thing of all, that you’re suddenly liking it.
Your pussy makes squelching noises, literal squelching as he fingers you, cock still under your clit, letting you lube him up by just dripping on him. He sputters out a giggle after you grind on him a couple times.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, definitely not sorry. “It’s just — you’re fucking grinding your clit into a diamond on me and — squeezing me like I’m the King of Cooch. And you were just begging me to stop earlier. Isn’t that a little, I dunno. Ironic? Fuckin’ hilarious?”
You know this game. It isn’t fun.
“Oh — come the fuck on. Don’t gimme that crybaby bullshit,” he jokes with a mix between a chuckle and a scoff. His fingers push deeper and his tone takes on a certain clarity, that mock seriousness, as if he’s in a courtroom, swearing in. “I will not…leave you, like this. M’kay?”
It’s a double-edged sword. Will he not leave you like this, or will he not leave you like this? Is he saying he’s not gonna walk out of your life, or is he saying he’s not gonna leave your pussy full of cum and sore, denied any chance of cumming?
You whimper. Your cheek is smushed cutely against the pillow and he has just the perfect view of it. He presses down, pushes you into the pillow. His fingers are quick, they push deeper, spread out, wriggle around a little bit, enough to push more pained whines out of you.
"Yeaaaahhh, I know it hurts — but you're the one who went and got yourself all worked up, aren'cha?" Roman says with a teasing lilt in his tone, like a schoolboy tugging at his crush's pigtails and then gaslighting her into thinking it's her fault for wearing them. It’s cruel to blame you for your own business, for not fucking — playing with your pussy enough.
“It’s okay. Daddy’s got you, just fall asleep. You hear me?” Roman says, and it sounds like the words reverberate in the room, like you’re in a cave where only his voice echoes and your cries and whines, your tears falling onto the pillow, are all just background noise.
You nod. It’s like a code word, a trigger that he’d Pavlov’d into you to calm you down. When you’re scared, or can’t sleep, or freaking the fuck out, that ‘daddy’ comes right out. It’s not like he likes it, not like he cares that he’s your ‘daddy’. He just finds himself crooning the word softly. Sometimes feels some weird inverse reaction to the word that makes him feel all nice. His jagged edges being cushioned in real-time.
His fingers pump and curl, wiggle around like he’s taunting you. A (not so) silent ‘I’m in control, boo-hoo, cry me a river’. He adds a third, squeezes it in there to hear you wince and whimper. Sees your blood, dark red on his fingers. You’re creaming on him, he sees it at the base of his knuckles. God, he could cum from this alone.
“Mhm. I know it’s a stretch. Poor little girl,” his cock jumps up against your clit at your broken whine. It sounds like you’re already fucked out. You gush blood, and to some extent, he doesn’t wanna imagine this being ‘actual’ blood; on the other hand, he feels the vampiric urge to sink his teeth in and get as close as he can to you, digest you. Maybe cannibalistic in a non-sexual, ‘I eat you, you eat me’ way; like how he’ll steal and wear your panties to feel close to you.
“Daddy knows. You’re gonna be fine,” he promises with a teasing lilt. It’s a false promise that you can’t help but believe. He pulls his fingers out, nice and slow, as everything has been; it feels like a whirlwind, like your head just can’t keep up, too dizzy, but he’s been so patient, so sweet, so slow. He licks his fingers clean again, letting the bitter iron and sweetness marinate in his mouth, then wipes them off on the back of your shirt.
You don’t see, you’re too busy being caught up in that brain fog, that nice dizziness that makes you feel drunk. You’re too busy letting tears fall down ever so often, feeling your legs twitch, feeling that ache return with a vengeance. Why is he doing this? A sob bubbles up and you let it out before you can catch it.
“Why’d you—?” Roman cuts you off, quickly. His cock lines up, he takes special care with pushing his tip in just a little bit, just enough to give that testing stretch of the elasticity of your pussy. You let out a breath, one you didn’t know you had in you.
“You gotta calm the fuck down,” he leans down, kissing the nape of your neck, one hand going over your eyes. You close them, you obey, even once he removes his hand. “My dick’s gonna help your cramps, but you gotta let him in. Gonna…shit, holy shit, gonna help you sleep.”
It feels good, his dick pushing deeper as you ease up a little. He’s about halfway in, and fuck, he whimpers like he’s the one getting fucked. You’re nice and slick, and his dick is all too eager to cum in you, fuck you nice and raw how he always does. Your cunt is so fucking warm, it makes his balls clench. It’s fucking scalding hot, holy shit.
Unbeknownst to you, Roman’s hand reaches for his phone near where he was lying earlier. He swipes to the camera and leans up, pressing record. He gets a quick shot of your pussy, too tight around his dick, the hole trying to draw him in deeper with every thrust.
“Daddy’s feeling a little neglected,” he pushes all of her buttons, knows she’ll let him do what he wants if he plays the right cards — fuck, even if he doesn’t play the right cards. “Can I kiss you, hm? Kiss-kiss?”
You nod and let out a broken little noise, knowing just what that means. He quickens his pace, pushing deeper, and deeper, until his cocktip nudges your cervix. His tip is fat and sticky and leaking pre against your cervix as he kisses it with his dick. It’s vulgar, and he’s getting it all on video. But he’d just as well get it on an audio recording, knowing your fucking squealing is what makes it.
Roman feels you squirm on his cock, feels you trying to push back. “Oh, good girl, huh? You feel that?” he praises in return. He places the phone beneath your spread legs, getting a view from beneath of your clit pressed into the pillow, humping it as his cock pushes into your hole, the sway and plap of his balls against you, his taint. And you do sound like such a good girl.
Leaning down against your back again, he grinds into you. He’s deep, it feels almost like you’re a bitch in heat who’s been pinned down, a bitch being used. Your cramps feel entirely second to his dick in your hole, varying from gently nudging your cervix with soft kisses to slamming into it brutally. He has no rhythm, and as he was before — he’s letting his dick lead the way.
His hand reaches down to your clit pressed and grinding into the pillow, his other against your lower abdomen, efficiently both pressing down for you to feel his cock even better and acting as a human heating pad once again. His thumb and forefinger pinch your clit gently, your hips jolting as he giggles sluggishly.
“Awhhh, don’t wike dat? Okay, okay. I know. Sweet little fucking…thing, here you go, bitch,” he rubs your clit, feels your pussy flutter around him. “You close already?”
“Mmuh-huh,” you murmur out through the pillow. “Fuck — oh, fuck, mmfuck,” you sob pitifully as he fucks into you harder, initially knocking the breath out of you.
He moves his legs over your hips, slamming his dick deep, balls smacking against you with loud, wet noises, the dark red that has trickled down even onto the pillow beneath you transferring onto them as well. “Gotta catch up,” is his only excuse. He’s seemingly forgotten about the camera beneath them both and any semblance of attractiveness.
His hand warming your lower abdomen angles you up even more, coaxing you into fucking yourself back onto him again despite how hard it is. “Wow. Lazybones. Come on, c’mere, help yourself.” He stops, a complete and full stop, the fingers on your clit pausing their movement.
He chuckles proudly as you pitifully squirm beneath him, unable to really do much of anything with his thighs around your hips and him lying on top of you, but you tried. You think that’s all he wanted, just to watch you try, know you want it.
“Good job. Still lazy, but hey, shark week and all that — I get it. Still love you,” he means it, even if he says it sort of jokingly. And to prove it, he starts pumping his dick into you again, rubbing his fingers on your clit real nice, just how you like it. You squeeze.
“Felt that. Oh-ho-ho, you think I wouldn’t? I’m literally in you,” he taunts. He feels you shaking — too emotional, too on-edge, too fucking close. “Hey — ‘s okay. Remember? It’s aaaaall okay. You can cum. It’s okay if you cum before me. You’re the girl,” he says, the weird misogynistic statement not really registering, just comforting for now, telling you that you can cum.
“That’s it. You can cum — if, if. You lemme give you a creampie,” he says, suddenly making this a condition, creating a conditional offer that you can’t really fully comprehend right now. “…Or, cherry pie? Strawberry? Raspberry? Red and cum-colored. Whatever.”
“Uh-huh, yeah,” you agree, to whatever the fuck he’s saying. You aren’t sure if he’s saying all of this extra bullshit intentionally to confuse you or not, but it’s doing the job.
“Good. Good,” he reassures, close to cumming himself. “‘Cause, y’know, I’m gonna empty my balls in you anyway. It’s just, the difference between ‘the wonderful conception of our firstborn’ and ‘rape’,” he says in a flagrant voice, and it clicks: oh fuck. You aren’t on the pill, he isn’t wearing a condom, and you just told him to cum in you. You’re surprised Roman knew that the whole ‘can’t get pregnant on your period’ myth wasn’t real.
You cum. Fuck, you cream on his dick so hard you can barely breathe. And it takes him maybe one, two, three pumps of his hips to blow his load. Whole time, he’s breathlessly mumbling shit, “Fuck, gotta make sure it takes. Milk it, yeah, milk that shit, suck that load real deep, mama. Fuck you with your fertile fucking — shit.”
He doesn’t pull out. After you cum, and moments after he finishes, he moves his legs down to lay on the outside of yours, pushing his dick deeper in you one last time, plugging his load up. You still drip, leak just a few droplets of pink-ish cream, a mix of his thick load and your own cum, with the tint of your liquidy period blood. He wipes what’s already dribbled out and brings it to his lips as he lays his fully body weight on top of you like a smothering weighted blanket.
“Mmh, cherry cream pie for sure,” he finalizes. “All-American. Taste so good, bring a tear to your eye, right?” he quotes with a grin you can feel against your nape through his scruff, then a kiss to your back through your t-shirt.
“Ho-holy shit, no, nope,” he stutters when he feels you shift, your cunt clenching around his dick on instinct, like some biological imperative to keep his cum inside while his dick’s still there doing that job for you. “No moving for another, like…hour? Whore. I’m too sensitive to just. Fuck you like a fuck train. So wait. Let it…I dunno, seep into your uterus.” Another kiss to your back. “Go to sleep. We’re sleepy, sleepy time.”
Your cramps are subdued throughout the nap. His phone records the visual of his balls against your cunt and the sounds of him snoring softly, for hours.
Offering to shave Roman as a super intimate sweet thing and he's blabbing about how you're gonna sweeney todd him or give him a hitler stache the whole time but like....you refusing to DO it until he stops talking because you DONT want to risk even nicking him makes something scared and curled up inside his chest unfurl a little
sometimes you (i) have to totally scrap my compsci scratch assignment because an ask reaches into you and squeezes your heart and womb. i need this, and i need this in a very, very specific point in time; this being when roman's still soft, not too official, when living with him is a familiar routine but it's a lazy day in, probably after something Big happened. like the whole thing when they outbid him and he says he's going back to LA to jerk off? that brief period of time is when i'm thinking this happens — complaining about the immense amount of money he and his sibs just spent to get PGM (which he obvi doesn't give a fuck about, really) and yet still loving that reeling in his head, the feeling of sheer fucking success, running on that high.
this scene ↓↓
"You're gonna fuck it up so bad," he grins when you grip the razor. He has his citrus-smelling shave oil slathered on beneath a layer of woodsy scented shaving cream brushed on and returned to the bathroom counter behind where you sit.
"Shut u—no I am not! I do this like, every day, so I have more experienced, I'm an experienced shaver," you say, hand trembling a little nonetheless.
"Uh, yeah, experience doesn't mean you're good. Lemme see behind your knees," he teases at a spot you sometimes miss when shaving.
"Fuck youuuu, I'm bound to make mistakes if I do it all the fucking time, it's the law of — something-or-another."
"Mmmhm. You gonna Chaplin me? I'm not sure if I trust you, you got that mischievous look in your eye, I think you're gonna get me cancelled," he squints as he looks in your eyes.
"Yeah, gonna give you a shitstache, heil Roman."
"Don't say that, you're gonna get my dick hard. Cancellable offenses, mmmm yummy-yummy-yum," he exaggeratedly moans, hands drifting to holding your upper thighs beneath the oversized tee you wear. He's in his own white tee, tucked into slacks with his belt hanging off the side of your dresser, still mostly dressed from how he fell asleep last night, just falling into bed after getting off a plane from Manhattan, ready to come back to LA as soon as possible.
"Well, if so, I can give you an obligatory blowie when I finish shaving your furry face," you say with a grin, matching his a little too well. It's weird how much you sort of just keep the banter up, and how you actually enjoy it — and, you have just enough spontaneity (or trust, that he'll make sure you're taken care of no matter how far shit goes?) to go along with his wild fuckery, like coming along with him when he mentioned going to LA, getting out of New York and away from his siblings after the whole Tom fuckery, Dad betraying him, Matsson's — existence.
"Yeahgoodidea—or! I can shave you in return. Shave-for-shave? Or you can keep it, be all — au-naturel, cavewoman," he quickly stumbles through his words, spitting the idea out like it's whatever, half-joking, pitched high and slightly breathy, like he's more anxious than anything.
"Orrrr you can shut up and let me shave you?"
"Yeah, or — you can just go ahead and do it?" he doesn't understand why you don't just fucking do it.
"Um no, because you keep yapping every time I get close and I'm not risking a lawsuit."
"Yeah but I can't sue you — you're un-sueable, like how you can't sue God or some ungovernable thing, like a cat."
"Not really a similar situation but okay—,"
"Kiiiiiinda is," he mumbles, but shuts up when you give him a pointed look.
"I'm not gonna cut you with this. Point blank period. So you're gonna have to stop for a minute, shhh-sh-sh-sh," you lean in as he opens his mouth to speak, pressing a little kiss to his nose.
"What, do you think I'm —?" he furrows his brows, looking all over your face. His hands on your upper thighs curl in, fingers in what isn't really a fist but more just like a tight, nervous little position where they have full access to pick at the skin around his nails.
"What?"
"Huh?" he teasingly remarks. "No, seriously, do you think I'm...do you really just not wanna nick me?"
It makes his tummy turn a little and he thinks it's a good tummy turn, maybe, like butterfly nausea instead of insecurity nausea, or maybe a mixture, 60% good tummy turns, 15% bad tummy turns, and 25% ambiguous tummy turns.
"Yeah? I feel like that's what I just said."
He still looks confused. Makes a face that looks sort of like he thinks you're insane, eyes widening for a beat and moving to the side, eyebrows raising in that short moment before one of his hands comes up to run through his hair, a little tug for a moment before he releases.
"Fucking — yeah, man. Yeah, you did, good — fuckin' — memory, genius," he scoffs a little, breathless as he speaks. Should he kiss you? He thinks it's something worthy of a kiss, but you're acting like it's nothing that you just don't wanna hurt him, and you're taking precautions specifically to avoid doing so. Like it's the most natural thing in the world to avoid hurting him entirely, like there's no other option. He feels — gross, a little more gross than he did earlier when he woke up in his slacks in your bed with his face in your tummy, kissing you 'good morning' with his morning breath.
"Are you okay? Did I break you or something, the fuck's going on?" you ask, feet dangling off the counter and reaching to wrap your calves around his thighs to pull him in closer, or perhaps to prevent him from running away, or fainting.
"Nothing! Fuck, nothing, just — go 'head, shave away, I'll — I'll shut my trap," he pauses for a second and kisses you, a little peck, shockingly passionate for the short amount of time it lasted, leaving a little bit of his shaving cream around your mouth for a moment, then wiping it off. "There, okay, now I'm done, shave on."
He gets all soft and twinkly-eyed when you shave him, every single time. Just stares at your face and thinks weird shit like how he could do your makeup — you could do each other's and have a little makeup party, how good it would feel to get butterfly kisses from you, how soft your lashes are, how much he wants to nuzzle his nose against you in a little nose kiss, wonders if one day you'd like to shave a little pornstache or goatee for him, how bad you'd bully him for it — or equally hot, how much you'd like it.
He'll keep his hands on your upper thighs, and back, and waist, and maybe massage your boobs depending on your mood, if he thinks you'll lean into it or get all twitchy. And afterwards, when he washes all his shaving cream and shaving oil off, after he applies aftershave, he'll thank you in his own way. Maybe with a kiss, or making out, or dutifully shaving your legs as well (how he's learned to do so well over time), or maybe just plan to rub his scratchy face all over you when it starts to grow back.
he's such a scruffy puppy i can't STAND HIMMMMMMM GOD
Hi mutt! I adored the tom x puppy!reader you wrote and i was wondering do you have any headcanons for Kendall x puppy!reader? Thank you so much 💕☺️
yesyesyesyesyes!!! i’m so happy to get the kendall community finally coming here since i haven’t really had a lot of kendall fans/kendallgrrrls in my inbox and therefore haven’t really had the chance to give him much love lol….i got a little freakier on this one but if anyone wants more sfw-focused ones lmk!
𐂯 whereas tom is a dog lover in general, i don’t think kendall is the doggiest of guys. he’s not one to immediately coo when you just do something cute — he expects actual training. he still loves you, pets you, plays with you, but he’s a bit more upper-echelon about behavior and your treatment. and honestly, a bit more unashamed of you. a little more nonchalant about the whole situation.
𐂯 he trains you with some simple stuff — coming when he makes a little noise, a whistle or click, and bending over whenever he says, kneeling on command. it becomes a party trick sometimes. you make him proud, you’re sort of a show of strength and power for him. you obey him willingly. doesn’t that sort of mean something?
𐂯 and ughhhgghh, when ken’s using again, i think he’d love to get his puppy involved. making you stick your tits out or buying you a cute push-up bra (maybe paw print — wouldn’t that be so cute!) so he can line some coke up on your cleavage and snort it off. it’s okay, you’re a good puppy, you’ll get your treat. he’d take his belt off lazily and tug his pants down for you to go ahead and take what you earned.
𐂯 while tom coos softly and sweetly when trying to get his puppy to speak — usually with the pup’s face on his inner thigh with pouty lips and puppy dog eyes, being denied a treat — kendall is not so sugar-coated. ken is soft on you, sure, but not in any way that a puppy would think is rolling over or showing weakness. he’s soft in subtle ways, like the fact that you’ll never be without toys or treats, but he also has you under lock and fucking key. you’re an extension of him, and he doesn’t keep you — or any of this — private.
𐂯 kendall is obsessed with obedience. he makes every “good girl” a real reward that you worked for. like ken having people over — lawyers, people drafting documents for him, doing stuff he probably should be overseeing — and giving you a command, seeing if you’ll obey. something private and sensitive that you’d be confused about, like him just quickly saying, “Present,” just to see if you’ll bend over the couch how he usually makes you.
𐂯 if you don’t obey, don’t worry. he’s not too much of a restrictive owner. he may not let you cum for a few days — up to a week — but if you’re good, you can still sleep in his bed at night. and hey, if he really wants to show you off, he may even let you have a little treat despite not obeying; just not the treat you were hoping for.
𐂯 “Lay,” he’ll say, knowing you’ll at least obey that — and you do, quickly laying down on your belly where you were once sitting on the sofa beside him. “What’s that? Come on, nuzzle, show me you’re happy,” he’ll sound like an excited pet owner but he’s just making you rub your cheek against his bulge, getting him hard in public despite being in the comfort of his own home, chastising you if you nudge too hard and seem demanding, or nuzzle too soft and seem hesitant.
𐂯 oh, and just real quick — kendall definitely likes using “speak” when you’re fucking. and fuck, when he’s in one of his moods, i can definitely see him getting frustrated because you’re moaning, not barking, and yanking you by your collar to remind you, “That’s not how dogs speak.”
Miss Mutt I have been here before and I’ll be here again. Buttttt it’s Mother’s Day and I’m thinking of Roman and his girl who he treats so nice on her special day (a holiday that has nothing to do with her)…mmmmm…
and you’re right! here’s a real, actual…thing, ramble, since this one is a very last-minute, slapped-together schtick.
he definitely sort of acts like meh, it’s alright, because you’ll probably be a mother of his hellion(s) eventually, so might as well just go ahead and celebrate a couple years in advance, right? so he does the stuff, the typical stuff. your favorite flowers in the kitchen by the window you sit at to drink your coffee in the morning, probably a couple notes scattered around. like that one post jazz made a long time ago where kieran scattered love notes around, except instead of something sweet and simple like “hi baby i love you” it’s something more ‘holiday-themed’ — aka, “mommy need her milk?” on your favorite latte from your favorite cafe that he picked up for you (and maybe even made the barista write ‘hot mama’ as the name), or your name inside a heart scribbled onto about ten sticky notes slapped onto the walls along your morning routine path.
and when work’s over, he’s taking you to your place, one of the places you guys went for your first date that you hadn’t been to in a while. because you don’t go for anniversaries or birthdays or all the time anymore, you’ve been venturing out and finding new spots, so he’s got a reservation and is taking you back to the basics. and yeah, he got you a stupid card that he drew a smiley face with boobs on the inside of just to piss you off.
but when you’re hoooomeee….it’s not a joke. he’s all clingy and what once — mere hours ago — was ironic, he’s being serious about, in his own stubborn and defensive, half-mumbled way. he’s being all sappy with the little, “yeah, anything for my little lady,” comments like at dinner, but then actually getting up and asking if you need like, nutella and a giant spoon, or the chocolate-covered strawberries with hearts drawn onto them that cost his accountant’s hourly rate. definitely faceplants into your boobs once you two settle on a movie to mostly just fall asleep to. might offer to give you a quick massage if you’re feeling especially down. which he always starts too softly, but once he gets the groove of it, he’s pretty fucking good at it. leaves little kisses here and there as he works, on sensitive spots he knows you’re weak for.
Yass i so agree with you on Kendall x puppy!reader, i think that he’d show off puppy reader specifically to stewy because I wholeheartedly believe they’re on the same level of freak
oh my GOD i forgot about stewy im so absorbed by the fucking roys and tom……fuuuuuuck stewy coming over and being kinda like ??? cool dog, man. i guess. and ken’s like oh yeah i forgot to tell you about her she’s chill. you can fuck her. like in the tone of you can pet her she won’t bite😭😭UGGGRHRHHRHRHHHHH FUUUUUCK
sucking stewy’s dick while ken uses one of your holes. doesn’t really matter which, does it? and the good thing about ken is, he’s not really very fertile — so no need for condoms, right? no need to take birth control or worry about any of that stuff; whatever happens, happens, because if anything did happen, it’d have to be fate.
hi mutt!!! absolutely adore your work sooo much.... awful awful warning but one thing I think about a lot is being romans twin. I think he'd be so obsessed with someone so connected to him that way. you've been together since the moment you were concieved, why would you need Anyone else??
oh ur in the riiiiight place buddy….you are in the right location.
obviously, tw incest. this is fictional fun everyone keep calm and scroll if u don’t like.
it’d be way more difficult to get any kind of experience, like, at all. he was only a few minutes older, but he makes you call him ‘big brother’ around your friends, people you have a crush on — especially if you date other people in your teens (if being the key word). he’s your big brother, technically, which kind of implies to everyone else that he’s your caretaker, and you’re kind of being watched over by some protective sort of little guy who’s always around.
he’s been your first kiss and your first love, first everything, and you like it that way. he knows you like it that way because he knows you. you haven’t had a real moment alone in your life, never too far from your brother. which means you’ve seen his worst, and he’s seen yours. no one knows him like you and vice versa — there’s no one either of you feel comfortable with like your twin. it just comes naturally to you both.
when he gets sent off to st. andrew’s, you’re the one calling him every week, writing little letters on sheets of paper you used to study geometry whenever dad comes home or kendall’s friends make fun of you. visitations with ro are sweet and clingy, taking you to get ice cream and trying to avoid the fact that he’s not the cool brother. he’s bullied and beaten, bruises on his arms and sides, hoping you’re still okay with being his sister — or whatever you are, more than sister but not quite anything else.
getting a little boyfriend, girlfriend, or partner is practically impossible with roman. he’ll get some little girlfriends along the way, nonsense to keep his dad thinking everything is working out well — just typical male stuff — but he doesn’t really do stuff with her. but he can play pretend with dad, because he knows about it from you. it keeps everything going right, ensures there are no questions or concerns, low risk.
he can’t really disallow you a boy-toy, but he isn’t fucking happy about it either. you’ve always been private, kind of the princess sibling due to how roman has always been the brat — he just made you look like the perfect, sweet and caring sibling by contrast, though that isn’t really the case when you’re with him. you only could be yourself with him for a long time, until you made friends of your own and of course, found some freak to slobber over, likely once you went to college and he went off all the way to uni southcal.
but he plays the guilt trip of course. “You’re fucking — sucking some rando’s dick while I’m having a panic attack on the west coast, how’s that supposed to make me feel?” it makes you feel bad, he’s very successful at doing that, knows what buttons to push. so you visit him more often, and he doesn’t correct the people in his classes that ask if you’re “that girlfriend he talked about having”. you are, and as long as you don’t say your last name, you can almost pretend it’s normal here.
you’re part of each other by being part of the same system — shared fucking nutrients and now sharing each other. roman finds it romantic, thinks it’s some kind of romeo-juliet thing that you have to hide it, probably considers it similar to a ‘childhood friend’ trope. you figured out everything together. you’ve never had anyone know you, your body, what you think, what you like — like your brother does. you don’t think about it explicitly, but whenever you kiss or fuck someone else, you’re comparing it to him. roman does think about it explicitly, and he’s the one who really forces you to acknowledge it — maybe by fucking you in the room near your boyfriend at the time. “He fuck you like this? Or do you just quickie and get it over with. No making loooove for sissy, she’s too cool to show love with anyone but her brother, right? You think you’re such a big girl until you come crawling back to my fuckin’ — bed, in your little pink pajamas. We’ve played this game before, you can’t lie.”
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